Page 12 of Silent Night With Alessio

I’m relieved she said there were other jewelers who might make a dupe, even more relieved that she offered to help find which one of them did this, because it gave her a way out, a thin thread of a lifeline.

And maybe it gave Massimo something too… a reason to keep her alive. The thought of what could have happened to her if she was involved with this sends a cold streak through me… and I don’t even know why… I don’t even know this woman.

I pull up outside her place. The jewelry shop and her house, all in one, a tight setup in this neighborhood that keeps her close to her work. Smart. I kill the engine and turn to her, watching as she glances at the storefront, her eyes darting.

She’s holding herself together, but there’s a tremor there, a hint of fear she’s trying to hide. It makes her look… fragile, almost. And for some reason, I don’t like it. It’s like seeing a rose bent under too much pressure. Something about it makes me want to… I don’t know…protect her?… even if I can’t say why.

“Let’s see that footage,” I say, keeping my voice neutral, professional. I can’t afford to soften up. Not now, anyway.

She nods, unlocking the door and stepping inside. I follow, my eyes scanning the space, and for the first time I allow myself tofully take it in. Her shop’s neat, almost a little too neat, like she’s had years to perfect it.

Glass cases glint under the dim lights, filled with pieces she’s probably worked on for hours, maybe days. I respect the skill; craftsmanship’s something not everyone has. I close the door behind us, making sure it’s locked before we head upstairs to her living space.

The place smells faintly of lavender, clean and warm. It’s cozy but modest…simple furniture, some pictures on the walls, a few worn rugs here and there.

It feels… lived in. Comfortable, even… Homey. I keep my expression hard, though, because I’m not here to appreciate the decor.

Isabella moves to her desk, booting up her laptop, her fingers flying over the keyboard. I stand a few feet back, my hands deep in my pockets, watching her as the screen lights up with the security footage she’d mentioned.

She doesn’t say a word, just pulls up the files and clicks on one from earlier in the day. The video fills the screen, and she glances over her shoulder at me, her face tense.

“I kept everything running,” she says, her voice low. “I didn’t want to take any chances.”

“Good,” I reply, my eyes fixed on the screen.

The footage shows her moving through the shop, her hands carefully working on a piece of jewelry. The ring itself, most likely. She’s meticulous, focused.

I can see the concentration on her face, the way she doesn’t rush, the way her fingers move like she knows every contour, every angle by heart. She’s good at what she does, no question about that.

She skips forward, pulling up a clip from last night, late. I watch as she checks the locks on the doors, her hands moving with a nervous energy, double checking, triple checking.

Then she heads upstairs, flicking off the lights as she goes. She’s not lying; I can see that clearly as day. There’s no sign of any funny business, no slipups, nothing.

She goes through clip after clip, fast forwarding through mundane moments…her working, her cleaning, her locking up for the night.

Then, suddenly, one clip stops me in my tracks. She’s moving around her room, tidying up or something, dressed in nothing but a thin camisole and underwear.

She blushes, her cheeks turning pink, but she doesn’t look away, keeping her face neutral, like she’s trying to pretend it’s no big deal.

Butit isa big deal. To me, anyway. A jolt hits me the moment her image flickers on the screen. Just in that brief glimpse, certain details stand out.

The way her jet-black hair seems to flow behind her, trailing with her every step. The way her figure moves, revealing a fullness I’d somehow missed.

I hadn’t noticed before, not with all the heavy layers we’ve been wearing, huddled against the winter chill. But here, on this grainy security footage, I see it. Every luscious curve.

A pulse, sudden and unwelcome, tensed within me. It’s impossible to ignore, and I feel myself stiffen, bulging… but I shove it down, hard. I’m here to do a job, nothing more. But damn if the sight of her doesn’t make that job a little harder than it should be.

“Keep going,” I say, my voice coming out gruff. I keep my gaze steady, focused on the screen, even as my thoughts threaten to spiral.

She skips forward, to another clip from early this morning. We watch in silence, the minutes ticking by as she finishes preparing the ring, placing it carefully in a box, her hands gentle, reverent.

It’s like she’s holding something sacred, something she respects. That’s what convinces me, more than anything. The way she looked at that ring… she respects what it stands for, even if she’s not part of the family.

Finally, she pulls up the footage from the outside cameras. I watch, my body tense, as the street outside flickers to life on the screen. It’s empty at first, quiet, just the occasional car driving by.

But then, in the very early hours of the morning, there’s movement…a figure lurking in the shadows, close to the door, watching. My jaw tightens. A masked figure. They’re scoping the place out, staying just out of reach of the camera, like they know exactly where its range ends.

“Look at that,” I mutter, my voice low. “Someone was watching you.”

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