Chapter 28 The Waiting
The first day passed in silence.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No explanation.
She couldn’t stop crying. Her body shook endlessly as she relived the scene over and over again — Alessandro on the floor, bleeding, unmoving. She tried to run to him in her mind, to reach him, but the metal bars in front of the window reminded her where she was.
Trapped.
A tray appeared outside the door sometime after noon. Bread. Water. Soup that had gone cold by the time she finally touched it. Isabella didn’t hear the person leave — only the soft scrape of metal against wood as the tray was pushed forward.
She stared at it for a long time before eating.
The room felt smaller than it had the night before. Or maybe she was.
Bars cut the light into thin, uneven lines across the floor. Dust floated lazily in the air, uncaring. The bed was stiff. The sheets smelled clean but unfamiliar — like a place meant to be slept in by people who weren’t allowed to leave.
Isabella sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on her knees, hands knotted together so tightly her fingers ached.
Alessandro would come.
He had to.
The thought anchored her through the long hours. She clung to it like something solid in a place that kept dissolving around her.
He wouldn’t leave her. He loved her. He had looked at her on that terrace like she was the only truth left in the world — like he would burn everything before letting her be taken.
She pressed her forehead to her hands.
He was hurt.
The image of him on the ground slammed into her again — blood in his hair, stillness where there should have been breath. Her chest tightened painfully.
He’s alive, she told herself. He has to be alive.
She whispered his name once into the empty room.
Nothing answered.
Night came quietly.
No one came to check on her.
She cried herself to sleep — a sleep full of nightmares and pain. By the time she woke, she was even more exhausted than the day before.
The second day began the same way.
Food.
Water.
Silence.
Her body ached from tension more than confinement. She paced the room until the steps blurred together. Measured the walls. Counted the bars on the window.
Seven.
She stopped when she heard it.
Crying.
Soft at first. Muffled. Like someone trying very hard not to be heard.
Isabella froze.
Her breath caught painfully in her throat.
“Mom?” she whispered, rushing forward, pressing her ear against the wood.
The sound came again — unmistakable now. Her mother’s voice, broken and pleading.
“Please,” her mother sobbed somewhere beyond the door. “Just let me see her. Just for a moment. She’s my daughter.”
A man murmured something Isabella couldn’t hear.
Then another voice. Firmer. Colder.
Marco.
“No.”
Isabella’s hand flew to the door.
“Mom!” she cried, pounding once, then again. “Mom, I’m here—please—I’m okay—”
Her mother’s sob turned sharp. “Isabella!”
Isabella pressed her forehead to the door, tears streaming freely.
“I’m here,” she sobbed. “I’m here—please don’t leave me—”
The crying was pulled away.
Footsteps retreated.
Her mother’s voice faded into something distant and broken.
Isabella slid down the door slowly until she was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around herself, rocking slightly.
She screamed into her knees until her throat burned.
That night, she didn’t sleep.
She stood by the window instead, staring out at the darkness. He must be coming. Their love would never end. She watched the sunrise, praying she would be in his arms, watching it together.
The third day came with footsteps.
Deliberate ones.
Isabella was standing near the window when the lock turned. The sound was sharp. Final.
The door opened.
Marco stepped inside.
He looked rested.
That was the first thing she noticed.
Clean shirt. Calm expression. No visible cracks — like the past three days hadn’t happened at all.
Isabella rose slowly to her feet, her heart hammering.
“Where is he?” she demanded, her voice raw. “Is he alive?”
Marco closed the door behind him carefully.
“I came to see if you were ready to talk,” he said instead.
Her hands curled into fists.
“You hurt him,” she said, tears spilling again. “You left him bleeding on the ground.”
Marco’s eyes flickered — just for a moment.
Then hardened.
“You think he’s dead?” he asked coldly. “If he were dead, you would already know.”
Isabella’s breath stuttered.
Alive.
Relief crashed into her so hard her knees nearly buckled.
“He’ll come,” she whispered. “He’s hurt, but he’ll come. He wouldn’t leave me.”
Marco studied her like a child clinging to a fantasy.
“You really believe that.”
“Yes,” she snapped. “Because he didn’t know who I was. He didn’t know my name, my family, my blood — and he still chose me.”
Marco took a step closer.
“That’s exactly why he knew,” he said quietly.
The words slid into her chest like ice.
“What?” she whispered.
“You think men like him don’t recognize danger?” Marco continued. “You think he didn’t know who you were the moment you walked into his world?”
Isabella shook her head violently. “You’re lying.”
Marco smiled faintly. Not kindly.
“Our families have known each other forever,” he said. “He knew exactly what touching you meant.”
“No,” she said, her voice shaking. “You’re wrong.”
“And yet,” Marco went on calmly, “where is he?”
Isabella swallowed hard.
“He’s injured,” she said. “He’s recovering.”
“Is he?” Marco asked softly. “Or is he laughing somewhere with his next girl toy, relieved he didn’t have to deal with the consequences of touching a Romano?”
Her breath hitched.
“Don’t you realize,” Marco added, “that if he wanted to come for you, he would have by now? You know what I believe? That in his eyes, you weren’t worth starting a war over.”
The words hit harder than she expected.
Something inside her chest cracked.
“He loved me,” she said desperately. “He stood in front of me.”
“Did he?” Marco replied quietly. “Who was he defending — his honor or you? Think about it. When it became only about you and him, he didn’t follow.”
Silence filled the room.
Heavy. Crushing.
“No one is looking for you,” Marco said gently, cruelly. “No one has called. No one has made a move. Do you know how quiet it’s been?”
Isabella’s throat closed.
She wanted to scream. To deny it.
But the truth pressed in from all sides.
Three days.
No footsteps.
No rescue.
No sign of him.
Her voice came out small. “He was hurt.”
“And still,” Marco said, leaning closer, “you’re here. Alone.”
Her hands trembled.
“I know what this feels like,” Marco continued. “Believing someone chose you. Believing love was enough.”
He straightened.
“I’m giving you time,” he said. “Soon you’ll come to your senses.”
He turned toward the door, then paused.
“You’ll be out soon,” he added. “Once you realize who truly loves you.”
The door closed.
The lock turned.
Isabella stood very still in the center of the room.
The silence pressed in again — but this time, it felt different.
He’ll come, she told herself.
But the words sounded thinner now.
Less certain.
She sat slowly on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands.
Had it all been real?
Or had she been the fool Marco said she was?
She pressed her lips together, fighting the ache in her chest.
And for the first time since the terrace, doubt slipped quietly into her heart.