Page 67 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

Nikos, on the other hand, is watching Isabella like she's a puzzle he's trying to solve, like he's trying to peer inside her head and pick apart all the pieces. But it's nothing compared to the way Alexandros is looking at her.

Alexandros is staring at my wife like he's privy to all her secrets, like he's heard every gasp and moan that I thought belonged only to me. It makes my blood boil, makes me want to slam my fist into his smug fucking face until he forgets every intimate detail he's stolen.

"You didn't want them to talk alone," I state as Isabella finally moves forward. I can see the tremors in her hands, the way her breath hitches with every step. She's terrified, and it kills me that I can't do a damn thing about it.

Isabella ignores all of us. She lets herself fall on the chair closest to the phone and her eyes find her mother's/ "Why?" Isabella's voice is barely a whisper, but it echoes like a gunshot in the stillness of the room. "I heard the story, but why? And how?"

Her mother's chuckle is a fragile thing. It's like even that simple act is a struggle, like she's fighting tooth and nail just to keep breathing.

"Because your father may have been a mafia man, but I am a mafia woman," she says, her words laced with a steely determination that belies her weakened state. "I knew everything there was to know about him. I knew the ways to stay alive. I wanted to believe in a mafia fairytale, but when it didn't work? I became his biggest opponent because he underestimated me." She pauses, and I can hear the smile in her voice when she adds, "Like he underestimated you. You're my daughter and I want to see you. I want to explain."

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. I can feel the shift in the room's atmosphere, the way everyone seems to be holding their breath, waiting to see how Isabella will react. My own heart is pounding, a steady drumbeat of anxiety and anticipation.

I've seen enough liars in my time to know when someone's holding back. And Isabella's mother? She's got "ulterior motive" written all over her. They all do. The bitter taste of suspicioncoats my tongue, and I can't help but think of Elena, safe in her room with Signora Martha. If this goes south, if Isabella's mother is playing us, I'll burn this whole fucking world down to keep my family safe.

"You can start explaining now," I interrupt, my patience wearing thin. "Why do this here and now? Why not send a video? We have our own encrypted channels. We can use the dark web in ways people don't even dream about."

"You wouldn't have believed us," Alexandros replies, his eyes never leaving Isabella. And his smug look makes me want to introduce his face to the hardwood floor. I can almost hear the satisfying crunch his nose would make under my fist

"I have issues believing you now," I growl, stepping forward, my hand resting on the small of Isabella's back. It's a silent show of support and protection, but also a reminder to these fuckers that she's mine. "Enough games. We've played by your rules, but now it's time for some answers. Real answers. No more secrets, no more lies. If you want our help, if you want our trust, then you need to start talking. Now."

I can feel the tension in the room ratchet up a notch, the air crackling with barely restrained aggression. But I hold my ground, my jaw set, my eyes hard as flint. I've come too far, fought too hard, to let anyone - even Isabella's own mother - jeopardize the fragile peace we've built.

And I'll be damned if I let Isabella walk into another trap, another web of deceit and manipulation.

"So," I say, my voice cold as steel. “What's it going to be?”

Chapter forty-one

Isabella

Whatishedoing?Why is he going on and on like this? Antonio's words are like a jackhammer, shattering the delicate truce I've been trying to maintain.

"Stop," I hiss, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. But it's too late. The fragile peace that seemed to have been forged snaps in two, the pieces scattering like shards of my broken dreams.

The room falls silent, thick with tension. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, waiting, watching. The weight of their gazes is almost suffocating. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a war drum. The taste of fear, metallic and bitter, coats my tongue.

Naomi stands up so quickly her chair kicks back, the screech of wood against the floor making me flinch. "Anyone else tired of this?" she calls out, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "I mean, seriously, I came here for dinner and a show, not a telenovela reunion."

Connor leans back, a half-grin playing on his lips as he watches her. "Careful there, mo ghrá. Your American is showing."

Naomi whirls on him, hands on her hips. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Lucky Charms. Would you prefer I throw some 'begorrah' and 'top o' the mornin' in there? Plus you said the same not long ago."

Connor's eyebrows shoot up, a mix of amusement and mock offense on his face. "Now that's just hurtful. And stereotypical. I'll have you know I prefer Frosted Flakes. Grrr... that's the tiger's noise, right?"

I can't help the snort of laughter that escapes me. It's so absurd, this moment of normalcy in the middle of... whatever this is. Naomi catches my eye and winks—like she wanted this moment to be taken down a notch, to stop this from escalating further, to give me some time to ground myself.

She steps towards Antonio—unafraid—even as Connor's grin falters. He whispers something in Irish, too low for me to catch.

Naomi rolls her eyes. "Relax, Connor. I'm not going to deck the Beast. Well, not unless he really deserves it." She pauses, tilting her head as she considers Antonio. "Though I have to say, the whole brooding, muscle-bound antihero look? It's working for you, Antonio. Very Dark Thor meets Mr. Darcy."

I watch as Antonio's face cycles through confusion, annoyance, and finally settles on a reluctant amusement. The tension in the room noticeably eases, like a valve has been released.

Naomi settles next to me, her fingers brushing against my arm in a show of support. The familiar scent of her perfume—vanilla and jasmine—wraps around me like a comforting blanket.

"Now," she says, her voice softer but no less determined. "How about we cut the cryptic crap and get to the point? I think we've all had our fill of secrets and lies to last several lifetimes."

Her words hang in the air, the brief moment of levity fading as quickly as it came. The weight of why we're really here settles back over us, heavy and inescapable.

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