ISABELLE POV
Marco's phone won't stop ringing.
Isabelle watches from the bathroom doorway as he stares at the screen. His father's name flashes like a warning. Like a death sentence.
He doesn't answer.
The ringing stops. Starts again immediately.
"You have to answer it," Isabelle says.
"I know." But he doesn't move. Just sits on the edge of the bathtub with blood seeping through the fresh bandage, looking at his phone like it might explode.
On the third call, he answers.
"Yeah." His voice is flat. Empty.
Isabelle can't hear what his father says, but she watches Marco's face go carefully blank. The mask sliding into place. The transformation from the man who kissed her to the Russo heir who kills on command.
"Tomorrow night," Marco says. "Understood."
He hangs up.
The silence is suffocating.
"What did he say?" Isabelle asks.
"He wants to meet. Wants me to bring you." Marco sets down the phone. "Tomorrow at midnight. A warehouse in Brooklyn."
"For the test."
"For the test."
Isabelle's legs feel weak. She sits on the toilet lid because standing seems impossible. Tomorrow. They have less than twenty-four hours before Marco's father forces him to choose between her and his family.
"You should get some rest," Marco says. "I need to make some calls."
"What kind of calls?"
"The kind that might keep us alive."
He leaves the bathroom. She hears him moving around downstairs. The murmur of his voice on the phone. Words she can't quite make out.
She should go to bed. Should try to sleep while she still can.
Instead, she goes to the kitchen. Needs water. Needs something normal to ground her in reality.
She's reaching for a glass when she notices the microwave is slightly pulled away from the wall.
That's strange. Marco is meticulous about everything. He wouldn't leave something out of place.
Isabelle moves the microwave.
Behind it are two phones she's never seen before. Burner phones. The cheap kind people use when they don't want to be traced.
Her heart starts racing.
She knows she shouldn't look. Knows this is crossing a line.
But her hands are already reaching for the phones before her brain can stop them.
The first phone has recent messages. She scrolls through them with shaking fingers.
Tommy: "Your father suspects something. Be careful."
Marco: "I'm handling it."
Tommy: "Are you? Or are you falling for her?"
Marco: "Does it matter?"
Tommy: "It matters if it gets you killed."
Isabelle's breath catches. She keeps scrolling.
Another conversation. This one older. From weeks ago.
Unknown number: "Status on the Gray girl?"
Marco: "Surveillance continuing. Building profile."
Unknown: "Timeline for elimination?"
Marco: "Working on approach. Will advise."
The words blur. Elimination. Profile. Approach.
This was all planned. Every moment. Every conversation. Every touch.
She's been so stupid.
She scrolls further back. Finds voice messages. Presses play on the most recent one.
Vivian's voice fills the kitchen. Sharp. Mocking.
"You're falling for her, aren't you, little brother? Father is going to be so disappointed. Remember what happened to Uncle Vincent when he chose a woman over the family? Remember how that ended?"
Isabelle's hands shake so hard she almost drops the phone.
She listens to another message. This one from his father.
"Marco, I'm giving you one more chance to prove yourself. Bring the girl to the warehouse. Kill her in front of witnesses. Show me you're still my son. Or I'll kill you both myself."
The casual cruelty in Dominic Russo's voice makes her stomach turn.
She puts the phones back exactly where she found them. Slides the microwave into place. Her movements are mechanical. Automatic.
Her brain is screaming.
Every touch was calculated. Every moment of tenderness was strategy. Every kiss was manipulation.
This is what the Russo family does. They make you love them before they destroy you.
Marco told her that himself.
She's been so incredibly stupid.
Isabelle walks into the living room on legs that don't feel like hers. Marco is on his regular phone, talking to someone in low tones. He sees her and his expression shifts.
"I'll call you back," he says and hangs up.
They stare at each other across the destroyed living room. Broken furniture. Blood on the carpet. Evidence of violence that never really goes away.
"I found your burner phones," Isabelle says. Her voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes before something breaks.
Marco goes very still. "Isabelle—"
"Is this all part of the plan?" She keeps her voice steady even though everything inside her is screaming. "Did you calculate every moment? Every touch? Every word?"
"No."
"Liar." The word comes out sharp. "I heard the messages. I read the texts. I know you've been planning this for weeks. Building my profile. Working on your approach."
Marco stands slowly. "That was before."
"Before what?"
"Before I knew you." He takes a step toward her. "Before you became real."
Isabelle laughs. The sound is broken. "I was always real, Marco. I was always a person. You just didn't see me that way until it became convenient."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" She's shaking now. Anger and fear and betrayal all tangled together. "Your sister was right. You're falling for me. But that's part of the seduction, isn't it? You're supposed to make me fall for you so I trust you completely. So when you take me to your father tomorrow, I go willingly."
"Stop." Marco crosses the space between them. Grabs her shoulders. Not hard. Just enough to make her look at him. "That was the plan. You're right about that. But plans change."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Because I'm choosing you over everything." His voice breaks. "Because tomorrow when my father tells me to kill you, I'm going to tell him no. And that's going to get me killed along with you unless we run. Unless we disappear and never stop running."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I don't expect anything." His hands are shaking on her shoulders. "But I'm telling you the truth. Yes, I was sent to eliminate you. Yes, I built a profile. Yes, every interaction was supposed to be calculated. But somewhere between the surveillance photos and living in this house with you, something changed."
"What changed?"
"I did." Marco's eyes are desperate. Raw. "You changed me. And now I can't go back to being what I was before."
Isabelle wants to believe him. God, she wants to believe him so badly it physically hurts.
But she's learned that wanting something doesn't make it true.
"How do I know this isn't just another layer of manipulation?" she asks. "How do I know you're not playing me right now?"
"You don't." His honesty is brutal. "You don't know anything for certain. I could be lying. This could all be part of the plan. You have absolutely no reason to trust me."
"Then why should I?"
Marco pulls her closer. His forehead touches hers. His breath is warm on her face.
"Because I love you," he says. "And that's the one thing I can't fake."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Isabelle's breath catches. Her heart stops. Everything stops.
"You don't love me," she whispers. "You don't even know me."
"I know you read poetry at 2 AM because you're lonely. I know you cry quietly so no one hears. I know you agreed to testify even though it terrified you because you have a moral compass that won't let you look away from injustice. I know you're the bravest person I've ever met." His voice cracks. "And I know that loving you is going to get me killed, and I don't care."
Isabelle is crying. She doesn't remember when the tears started.
"This is insane," she says.
"I know."
"We're both going to die."
"Probably."
"Your family will hunt us forever."
"Yes."
She looks up at him. At the man who's supposed to be her enemy. At the killer who's choosing her over everything he's ever known.
"Kiss me," she says.
Marco doesn't hesitate. He kisses her like he's drowning and she's air. Like she's the only thing keeping him alive. Like this might be the last time and he needs to make it count.
It's desperate and real and completely honest.
When they break apart, they're both shaking.
"I don't have a plan anymore," Marco says against her mouth. "I just have you and the knowledge that my family is going to destroy everything when they find out what you mean to me."
Isabelle kisses him again. Softer this time. Trying to memorize the feeling.
"Then we better make tonight count," she whispers.
His phone rings again. His father. Checking in. Making sure tomorrow's test is still on schedule.
Marco ignores it.
Instead, he takes Isabelle's hand and leads her upstairs.
Tomorrow they might die.
But tonight, they're going to choose each other.
And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough.