Page 72 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

Whether she likes it or not.

Because I still don’t trust the Greeks. Or her mother.

Chapter forty-three

Isabella

Thedoorslamsshutbehind us with a thud that reverberates through my bones. I lean against it, feeling its solid weight press against my spine, the cool wood seeping through my thin dress. It's real. Tangible. Unlike the surreal nightmare that was dinner.

My heart's pounding, but not in that terrifying, I-might-die-any-second way I got used to in the hospital. This is different. Stronger. Like the moment before a curtain rises, when anything feels possible. I close my eyes, remembering the flutter in my stomach before my first lead performance, the way my skin tingled with anticipation, how the world narrowed to just me and the stage. That's what I need to hold on to—not the little spark of fear that anything could include, you know, death, torture and all that.

I breathe in deeply, catching the scent of my room - a mix of vanilla body lotion and the old books on the shelves.The familiar smell wraps around me like a comforting blanket, grounding me even as my brain tries to catch up with everything that just happened.

My life's been spinning off its axis for years, but this? This is next level. My mom's alive. There are Greek mafia hunks making cryptic promises. And Antonio... What happened in his office... The way he’s following on his promises.

It's like someone's taken my world, tossed it in a blender, and hit chopped.

Naomi's pacing, her designer heels—ones she never wore before—click clacking on the hardwood floor. Her fingers keep twisting in her hair, tugging at it like she's trying to physically yank the thoughts out of her head. When she finally looks at me, her eyes are wide, shiny with unshed tears.

"The fuck, the fuck, the fuck?" she whispers, her voice cracking. Her lip's trembling, and I can see she's barely holding it together. Oh, in the dining room, she was all confidence and comedic timing. But now? Now she’s my best friend who’s strong and resilient, and had her own world pureed in that same Mafia blender.

"I mean: what the fuck?" she continues, words spilling out faster now. "How can you be so calm? How can you not just scream and pinch yourself to make sure this isn't some kind of weird fucking dream?"

I want to tell her I'm not calm, that inside I'm screaming louder than I ever did during my toughest ballet rehearsals. But the words stick in my throat.

"Like, you heard your mother, right? And the three Greek adonis? And you saw the way Alexander looks at you? And Antonio?" Her voice rises, taking on that sharp edge it gets when she's stressed. "And ohmygosh, Antonio has a little girl? I mean, I heard. But seeing him go all Daddy-will-scorch-the-earth-for-my-wife-and-kid? It's kind of hot, right? Like lava in your veins hot?"

I feel my cheeks heat up, because she's not wrong. Even now, I can't help but remember the intensity in Antonio's eyes, the possessive grip of his hand on my thigh. It was like being back on stage, every nerve ending alive and singing.

Naomi takes a deep, shuddering breath, and I see the moment her brave face crumbles. "And my father... Oh my father."

The tears she's been fighting finally spill over, coursing down her cheeks. In that moment, she looks so much like the girl I met years ago, scared and trying to be brave, it makes my chest ache.

As quickly as I can, I push myself away from the heavy door and step across the room, wrapping her in a hug. hits me then – this isn't just about my mom. Naomi's grieving her dad all over again.

"I've got you," I murmur, my own voice thick.

Naomi's fingers dig into my shoulders, holding on tight. It's strange, being the strong one for once. But after everything – the hospital, the auction, Antonio – maybe I'm stronger than I thought.

"We'll figure this out," I tell her, my voice steadier than I feel. "You and me against the world, remember?"

Naomi lets out a watery chuckle against my shoulder. "Just like old times, huh?" She pulls back, wiping her eyes. "Except now, instead of sneaking past your dad's security to get me into your hospital room, we're dealing with... all this."

I nod, feeling a lump in my throat. "Yeah, when your biggest worry was nailing that internship interview, and mine was... well, staying alive long enough to dance again."

"Bella," Naomi whispers, her voice cracking. "How did we get here? It feels like yesterday we were planning our great escape to college, and now..."

"Now we're married to mafia men and my mom's pulled a Lazarus act," I finish for her, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

Naomi's quiet for a moment, then says, "You know what I miss most about my dad? The way he'd tell me to chase my dreams, no matter how wild they seemed. 'The world needs more voices,' he'd say. Now look at us. Silenced by secrets and lies."

I squeeze her hand. "He was right, you know. And that's exactly what we're going to do now. Speak up, fight back."

A spark of the old Naomi flashes in her eyes. "So, what? We take on the mafia with my communications degree and your toe shoes?"

I can't help but laugh. "Hey, don't underestimate the power of well-crafted words and a perfectly timed grand jeté."

Naomi snorts, a mix of laughter and tears. "Alright, Ballerina Badass. You dance, I'll spin the story. We'll bring down empires with grace and killer press releases."

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