Free Web NovelChapter 39: Help it
Without saying another word, Isadora turned around and left, wanting to slam the doors behind her—only to reconsider at the last moment as she gently shut them instead.
She headed straight to her room, walking in before slamming the door closed and falling face-first on her bed with an annoyed expression on her face. She tried to stop the tears that flooded her eyes as she swore under her breath.
"Shit! Shit!" she muttered, aware that it wasn’t her father’s fault that he had gotten tangled up with the mafia, and neither was it her sister’s fault for running off.
"Neither is it my fault for refusing to be sold off to be a slave," she whispered to herself. But that didn’t stop it from hurting—like someone had taken a heated knife to her heart and plunged it straight through.
Slowly, she took off the coat she still had on and tossed it to the floor before crawling under the covers. Pulling the blanket all the way up to the tips of her hair, she wondered how she would ever find the words to tell her father. Her thoughts grew heavy until she slowly drifted into sleep.
When she woke up the next day, she dressed quietly—binding her short black hair into a ponytail and putting on a simple green dress. Only then did she finally find the courage to send a message to her dad, though even then she couldn’t bring herself to include the details.
She went downstairs to have breakfast, not sure when she would next eat properly; she’d barely touched her food the night before. To her surprise, Dante was still in the dining room. She’d expected him to be gone to work by eight, but he sat at the table as if waiting, his plate finished and his posture composed. He’d clearly been there long enough to have time to eat and wait.
Isadora moved closer, greeting him as she took her seat, then began to serve herself. She waved off the servant who stepped forward to help, wanting the small control of doing this one task herself. She ate faster than she meant to, the motion a nervous attempt to fill the hollow inside.
She expected Dante to speak, but he didn’t. Instead, she could feel his gaze on her the entire time she ate, which only made her move faster, eager to finish and leave.
Ten minutes passed like that before Dante finally opened his mouth to speak from where he sat with a cool expression on his face.
"The cameras were checked," he said flatly, "and there’s absolutely no evidence that it was Tiberio. Whosoever did it wiped their tracks clean."
Isadora froze mid-bite, jerking her head up toward him, her voice sharper than she intended.
"But it was him! There’s—there’s absolutely no one else!" she insisted, but Dante only shrugged in response.
Dante shrugged as if the argument was obvious. "Yes, but without evidence you might as well be accusing the wind," he said, and though Isadora understood the point, the words stung. She knew Dante didn’t always play by the rules. He had shown another side—one that didn’t need police reports or clean documentation.
It had been obvious from the beginning: the assistant who had grabbed her throat and threatened her in the storage room; the guards whose moves never matched standard protocol; the unmarked firearms she’d glimpsed. Some men covered themselves in layers so none of their faces could be seen. The whole thing had the shape of a professional’s choreography. freewebnσvel.cøm
"So Tiberio gets away with it?" she asked, her voice breaking on the last words. "He cut off... cut off four of her... her—" She choked on the words, unable to finish.
Dante’s expression didn’t change. "Yes," he replied bluntly. "But our agreement was that I would protect you and your family, not become your hired hand."
Isadora blinked, the heat of outrage and the ache of helplessness warping together. "Ensure your family stays close to their guards at all times," Dante continued, rising as he made his intention to leave plain.
She wanted to beg him to stay, to insist, to make him feel the jaggedness in her chest, but she knew it would be useless. He had a contract with them—a cold, professional arrangement that demanded performance, not pity. She didn’t even try to stop him. His indifference was infuriating, but the thought that she could risk everything by arguing stopped her.
She was painfully aware that he had no emotions toward her or her family, only obligations dictated by the contract they had agreed upon.
"Tomorrow we’ll see my family," he said before leaving, the door closing softly behind him.
Isadora let out a long sigh. She couldn’t bring herself to touch the food again, even as her phone buzzed for the tenth time since she sat down. She had put it on silent, but the constant vibrations made it impossible to ignore.
When she finally glanced down at the cracked screen, she saw message after message—her stepmother on the verge of a panic attack, her father sending short but worried replies, and even her stepbrother, Rossi, who barely ever acknowledged her, had written multiple times.
They were all panicking, and yet, none of them knew the full truth.
Isadora’s eyes lingered on the message she had sent her father earlier:{Elisa got injured. She has been taken to the hospital and she’s fine.}
It was such an understatement for everything that had happened. Still, even that small message had caused an uproar of worry.
Setting her phone back down on the table, Isadora picked up her spoon again and forced herself to eat, thinking grimly,
If they’re already losing their minds now, what will they do when they actually see her?
She knew the answer even before she finished the thought. They’ll take it out on me.
Her grip tightened around the spoon as the realization settled in. They won’t be able to help it.
