Page 75 of Ruthless Scar
I sit across from her. Read the files she sends to my side of the desk. Wait.
Around midnight, her fingers slow. The keystrokes spacing out. Her head dipping forward, catching, dipping again. The crash arriving the way it always does after adrenaline burns through. Her forehead hits the laptop. She jerks up. Blinks at the screen.
“I’m fine.” To nobody. To the air. Her eyes closing again.
I stand. Cross to her side. She doesn’t resist when I close the laptop. Doesn’t resist when I pull the chair back.
“Come on.”
She’s half-conscious. The grief and the fury and the hours of databases have wrung her dry. She stands and her legs fold and I catch her before she falls.
I carry her. Down the hallway. Past her door. To mine. Not a decision. Just the only place that makes sense now.
I set her down and she curls into the pillow and her hand finds my wrist.
“Stay.”
One word. Half asleep.
I stay. Her head finds my lap. Her hand settles over my chest. Over my heart. Holding me in place the way a person holds something they’re afraid will disappear.
I watch her sleep. The tear tracks dried on her cheeks. The tension eased from her jaw. The purple tips of her hair against the dark sheets. Younger in sleep. Unguarded. The woman under the code and the sarcasm and the guilt.
“Ti amo.”I love you. Barely a whisper. She doesn’t hear it. She’s already gone, breathing slow and deep against my chest.
But the words are in the room now. Out loud. Real.
Love. The word arrives without permission. Not a thought. A fact. Present before I named it. Already in my chest before I caught it.
My mother’s face flashes and fades. The last person I loved, I lost. The woman in my lap. The hand on my heart.
I stay.
Light from the early dawn bleeds through the curtains before I clock the shift. Two nights of real sleep and my reflexes are shot.
Marco doesn’t knock. The door hits the wall and he’s in the room before I can reach the Glock on the nightstand. He stopstwo steps inside. Eyes going wide. Isabella in my bed. My hand in her hair. Morning light through the window.
“I—” He blinks. Recalibrates. “Sorry. I didn’t?—”
“Talk.”
He shakes it off. Whatever he was about to say about finding Isabella here dies behind his teeth.
“We just got word.” He’s breathing hard. Still in last night’s clothes. “The Benedettis are moving Sofia. Tonight. Six-hour window before she’s gone.”
Isabella is awake. I missed when it happened. Between Marco’s entrance and the word “Sofia,” she went from unconscious to upright. Eyes clear. The grief from hours ago replaced by steel.
“Where?” Her voice is raw. Steady.
Marco’s eyes find mine. I nod.
“Warehouse compound outside Slidell. Nico’s been squeezing the Benedetti driver we picked up at the port. Guy finally broke an hour ago. Dante’s already mobilizing.”
“Then we go.” She’s on her feet. Ghost. “Now.”
Marco’s eyes flick between us. Isabella in my shirt. My bed.
The scene he walked into that he’s trying very hard not to think about.
