Chapter 8 Don’t Turn Around
Isabella's pov
This could have been been a great date night but maybe normal lives werent for people like them. Danger creeped in every corner but still that restaurant had felt safe.
That was the mistake.
It was warm and low-lit, the kind of place where conversations stayed close to the table and no one paid attention unless they meant to. Soft music drifted between glasses and plates. The air smelled like wine and bread and something indulgent.
Alessandro sat across from her, relaxed in a way she was still learning to recognize—rare, unguarded, almost disarming. He laughed at something she said, reached for his glass without breaking eye contact, his fingers brushing the stem slowly, casually.
Normal.
For a moment, she had let herself believe she could have this.
Then she felt it.
Not a sound.
Not a movement.
A pressure.
Isabella’s smile stayed in place, but her pulse stumbled hard enough that she had to grip the edge of the table beneath her napkin. She glanced past Alessandro’s shoulder like she was watching the waiter—
And saw them.
Two men near the entrance. Wrong posture. Wrong eyes. Not eating. Not talking. Watching the room like it owed them something.
Romano men.
Her breath locked in her chest.
Not just any men. She knew one of them. Had known him since she was a teenager. He used to avert his eyes when Marco was angry, used to bring her pastries and pretend not to notice when she slipped out of the house at night.
He was looking at her now.
Directly.
Her blood went cold.
She stood too fast.
“I need the bathroom,” she said, already reaching for her bag.
Alessandro frowned. “Are you—”
“I’ll be right back,” she cut in, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack. “I promise.”
She didn’t wait for his answer.
The bathroom door shut behind her with a click that sounded far too loud. She braced her hands against the sink and stared at her reflection, willing herself not to shatter.
Think.
Her hands were shaking. She shoved them under cold water, breathing hard, grounding herself in the sting.
Marco had found her.
Or was about to.
She couldn’t let Alessandro see. Couldn’t let him be here when Marco walked in and saw her sitting across from a man whose stillness screamed power even without context.
She slid down against the wall, pulling her knees to her chest, the tears coming hot and sudden despite her efforts.
Get up. Get up.
The door opened.
Isabella scrambled to her feet, wiping at her face, but the woman who entered stopped short when she saw her.
“Oh—” The woman hesitated, then softened immediately. “Hey. Are you okay?”
Isabella shook her head before she could stop herself.
“No,” she whispered.
The woman crossed the space in two steps and handed her a paper towel. “Hey. It’s fine. Whatever it is—it’s fine.”
Something in her voice broke the dam.
“There’s someone outside,” Isabella said, words tumbling over each other. “Someone I shouldn’t be near. Someone I’m trying to get away from.”
“A creep?” the woman asked instantly, anger flashing in her eyes.
Isabella swallowed. “An ex.”
The lie slid out easily because it wasn’t entirely one.
The woman’s jaw tightened. “Say no more.”
“He saw me,” Isabella continued, panic climbing. “If he realizes who I’m with—if he realizes I’m here—”
“You need to leave,” the woman said firmly. “Right now.”
“Yes,” Isabella breathed. “But I can’t just walk out. He’s watching.”
The woman studied her for half a second, then made a decision.
“What are you wearing?” she asked.
Isabella looked down. “Black dress.”
The woman glanced at her own reflection. Similar height. Similar build. Dark enough hair if she let it down.
“Okay,” she said. “Listen to me. We can fix this.”
“What—”
“Hair,” the woman said, already undoing her bun. “Take yours down.”
They worked fast. Too fast to think.
The woman shook her hair loose and tugged Isabella’s bag into her own hands. Isabella pulled off her jacket. They swapped dresses, shoes, accessories. The woman grimaced at the fit but didn’t complain.
“This is insane,” Isabella whispered.
The woman met her eyes in the mirror. “I’ve been where you are. Go.”
“What about my—” Isabella hesitated. “The man I’m with.”
“Your boyfriend?” the woman asked.
Isabella nodded.
“Text him,” the woman said. “Tell him to take the back kitchen door.. I’ll handle the rest.”
She was already pulling out her own phone.
“I’ll message my partner,” the woman added. “Tell him to come sit with me at the new table no questions asked. If anyone’s watching, they’ll still see a woman with a man.”
Isabella’s fingers flew over the screen, heart hammering so loud she was sure it could be heard outside the bathroom.
'Leave through the back door immediately but as unseen as possible. I’ll explain everything later. Please trust me.
She hit send.
The woman nodded once, already typing. “He’s on his way.”
“Why are you helping me?” Isabella whispered.
The woman smiled sadly. “Because I know that look. And because men like that don’t deserve to take anything else from us.”
Isabella’s throat closed.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
“Go,” the woman said. “Don’t look back.”
Isabella slipped out through the service hallway, heart in her throat, the sounds of the restaurant muffled behind heavy doors. She moved quickly but not running, keeping her head down, every nerve screaming.
She reached the back exit.
Paused.
A voice cut through the hum of the restaurant behind her.
A voice she had known all her life.
A voice that had protected her and caged her and terrified entire rooms into silence.
“Isabella.”
Her name.
Spoken once. Clearly. Unmistakably.
Her body froze.
Every instinct screamed to turn. To look. To confirm what she already knew.
She didn’t.
If she turned now, everything would collapse.
So she pushed the door open.
And kept walking.