LIES WRAPPED IN TRUTH
Isabella POV
The rosary burns against my palm like evidence of impossible things while Marco's explanation hangs between us—bought from a pawn shop, thought I'd like it, pure coincidence wrapped in desperation that tastes like silk hiding steel underneath.
I want to believe him. God help me, I want to believe because love makes fools of even the wisest women, and I'm discovering I'm no exception.
"A pawn shop." My voice cracks like prayer in an empty church. "You just happened to find my dead mother's rosary in a pawn shop."
Marco's dark eyes hold storms I want to chase away, but shadows lurk there now—guilt, secrets, the weight of necessary sins I'm only beginning to understand. "Isabella, I know how it looks—"
"How it looks is like you're lying to me." The words slip out in Spanish, my accent thickening the way it always does when fear crawls up my spine. "How it looks is like you've been planning this from the beginning."
But his hands shake when he reaches for me, and liars don't tremble unless the lies are costing them everything. When his fingers brush my cheek, electricity crackles along my skin the same way it did when bullets flew around us, when he covered my body with his and whispered my name like salvation.
"Please." His voice breaks like confession. "Can we go home? Your father will be worried."
Home. The compound where bulletproof windows taste of prison and Papa's love comes with conditions I'm only starting to question. But Marco's right—Vittorio will have half of Chicago searching for me if I don't return soon.
I pocket the rosary, silver beads clicking like tiny accusations. "Fine. But this conversation isn't over."
The drive back unfolds in tense silence broken only by Chicago's morning traffic and the taste of copper pennies on my tongue—the metallic flavor that floods my mouth whenever I'm afraid and trying not to show it. Marco's hands grip the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, his jaw tight enough to crack diamonds.
That's when I notice we're not taking the usual route.
"Where are we going?" I sit straighter, watching unfamiliar streets blur past the windows. "This isn't the way to the compound."
"Shortcut." Marco's voice carries professional calm that costs him everything. "Faster this way."
But I know Chicago's streets like rosary beads—every main thoroughfare, every traffic pattern that determines when I can escape the compound for coffee or gallery visits. This route cuts through industrial areas that don't appear on any GPS, winding between abandoned warehouses and loading docks that smell of rust and forgotten secrets.
More importantly, these streets don't have security cameras.
My pulse hammers against my throat as understanding crawls up my spine like ice water. "How do you know about this route?"
Marco's knuckles go whiter against the steering wheel. "Research. Background preparation for protection assignments."
"Research." I taste the lie like poison. "Background preparation that includes memorizing camera-free routes through parts of Chicago most people don't know exist?"
The silence stretches between us like a chasm I'm not sure love can bridge. Through the windshield, morning light catches off broken glass scattered across asphalt, and I think how even God's illumination looks guilty in places touched by too many secrets.
My stomach clenches as we turn onto another nameless street, this one lined with chain-link fences and buildings that haven't seen legitimate business in decades. The kind of place where people disappear and questions go unanswered.
"Marco." My voice carries three generations of Torrino authority. "Turn around. Take me home now."
But before he can respond, black sedans emerge from shadows like predators who've been waiting for exactly this moment. Four cars, maybe five, surrounding us with practiced precision that speaks of military training and family business conducted in blood.
Papa's men.
"Shit." Marco's calm fractures completely as he slams the brakes, our car skidding to a stop at a red light that feels more like trap than traffic control.
Men in dark suits emerge from the sedans, their movements coordinated with the deadly ballet I've watched from compound windows since childhood. But their guns aren't drawn, their faces hold respect rather than aggression, and I realize this isn't kidnapping.
This is summoning.
Sal approaches the driver's side window, his weathered face carrying apology and authority in equal measure. "Don Torrino wants to see you, Marco. Family business."
My bodyguard—my lover, my protector, my beautiful collection of lies—goes deathly pale. Not surprise pale. Not confusion pale.
Terror pale.
The kind of bone-deep fear that comes from knowing exactly what "family business" means when Don Vittorio Torrino calls unexpected meetings in places without cameras or witnesses.
"Isabella stays in the car," Marco says, but his voice shakes like autumn leaves in hurricane winds.
"Isabella comes home," Sal corrects, opening my door with the courtesy reserved for don's daughters and dangerous explosives. "Now."
The ride back to the compound passes in silence thick with implications I don't want to understand. I sit in the back of Sal's sedan while Marco follows in his own car, surrounded by Papa's men like a funeral procession for trust that died too young.
Through bulletproof windows, Chicago's skyline blurs past, and I press my palm against glass that tastes of prison while questions multiply like cancer cells in my mind. The rosary. The surveillance photos. The camera-free shortcuts through industrial wasteland.
Everything about Marco Santangelo is wrong, and the worst part is how desperately I want to be wrong about being right.
The compound's gates close behind us with finality that sounds like coffin lids, and I watch from my bedroom window as Papa emerges from his study like judge preparing for execution. His weathered hands—once gentle enough to braid my hair, now steady enough to sign death warrants—carry a thick envelope that makes my stomach clench with sudden nausea.
Marco stands in our courtyard like condemned man awaiting verdict, his dark suit perfect as always, his posture straight despite whatever terror is eating him from inside. When Papa approaches, the envelope passes between them with practiced efficiency, and I see my bodyguard's face cycle through emotions too quick to catalog.
But then Papa points toward my bedroom window, and Marco's gaze follows the gesture until his dark eyes find mine through bulletproof glass.
His face goes deathly pale.
Not surprise pale. Not fear pale.
Soul-deep horror pale, like he's seeing ghost of woman he killed with his own hands, like he's staring at consequence he never expected to face.
The envelope disappears into Marco's jacket pocket, and when Papa speaks, his lips form words I can't hear but somehow understand anyway: "Take care of it."
My blood turns to ice water as understanding crashes over me like waves against stone. The envelope. Papa's pointed finger. Marco's terror when he looked at my window.
This isn't protection.
This is contract.
And I'm the target.