Page 14 of Ruthless Scar
She holds my gaze for one more moment. The air between us pulls tight. My own pulse drums in my ears.Damnher.
Then she opens the door and disappears inside.
I stand there. Staring at the closed door.
The hallway is empty, silent except for my own breathing. She’s in the house now. In a room thirty feet from where I sleep.
I turn and walk away.
She didn’t flinch. She looked at me and didn’t flinch. The way people have looked at me for eleven years is full of fear. Respect. Hatred. Not that. Not like she was searching for something underneath.
Like there might be something worth finding.
There’s nothing.
The lie settles wrong in my gut.
This is going to be a problem.
5
ISABELLA
I wake up not knowing where I am.
The sheets are wrong. Too soft. Too clean. They smell like lavender and money, and for three disorienting seconds I forget everything. Then I remember. The Santoro compound. The deal. Lorenzo walking me to this room, the hallway quiet between us, the door closing behind me.
I sit up, taking inventory. Guest room. Second floor, based on the view through the window. East-facing, morning light spilling across a garden below. The chair in the corner is empty. My laptop, my phone, my entire life. All of it still in that cramped apartment I’ll probably never see again.
I came here with nothing but the clothes on my back.
My hands are steady when I check them. That’s something.
Sofia. The name surfaces like it always does, sharp and immediate. Every morning since she vanished, the same first thought. Today. Today I find her. I’m closer now. Closer than I’ve ever been.
And all it cost me was my freedom. Fair trade. If it works.
The bathroom mirror shows me what I expect. Dark circles, hollow cheeks, hair that needs washing. The faded purple at theends looks ridiculous now, a remnant from another life. The girl who dyed her hair on a dare. The girl who thought she had time.
The shower is nicer than any I’ve used since Sofia disappeared. Hot water, actual pressure, soap that smells expensive. I stand under the spray longer than I should, letting it wash away the grime of the past seventy-two hours. When I step out, my skin is pink and my head is clearer.
Someone left clothes in the closet. Gray sweatpants, soft and clean. A white T-shirt that’s too big, the cotton carrying a faint trace of sandalwood. His.
My throat tightens. Sofia’s wearing whatever they let her have.
I pull them on anyway. Look almost human in the mirror now. Still exhausted, still too thin, but present. Ready to face whatever comes next.
The hallways are quieter than I expected. I slip out and stand still, listening. Voices drift up from somewhere below. Not arguing. Laughing.
I follow the sound down a staircase that probably cost more than my parents’ house. Polished wood, paintings worth more than my life. Wealth that whispers instead of shouts.
The kitchen is enormous and already alive with movement. A woman stands at the stove, silver-streaked hair pinned up, stirring something that smells like heaven and chicory. She’s talking to a younger woman at the counter, dark-haired and delicate-featured, nursing a cup of tea. Cassia Santoro. The Don’s wife. I recognize her from the file I built.
“And I told him, I said, Dante Santoro, you can run this whole city but you cannot tell me how to organize my own closet.” The older woman laughs. “That’s my girl. You keep that one humble, cher. Lord knows he needs it.”
They haven’t noticed me yet. I could slip back upstairs. Disappear. I’m good at disappearing.
But the woman at the stove turns, and her eyes find mine like she knew I was there all along.
