Page 91 of Isaia

The light shifts, and before I catch his reaction, the bike surges ahead, Isaia twisting the throttle like it’s all the answer I’m going to get.

Wind tears past, sharp and unforgiving, but the ghost of his touch lingers, its echo a silent promise waiting to be fulfilled.

I cling tighter, my body molding to his as the bike cuts through the city. The engine's hum and the cool night air tangle in my head, every sharp turn sparking something electric. Isaia moves expertly, the bike an extension of him, and I swear it’s like the road bends for him.

The city's lights dim behind us, the air sharper, cleaner. Trees rise on either side, their shadows tall and imposing, rustling faintly as the bike slows. Gravel crunches under the tires as Isaia pulls onto a narrow path, and the vibrations hum one last time before he cuts the engine, and the sudden silence presses against my ears.

I loosen my grip, sitting up with a shaky breath, and my legs tremble, though I can’t tell if it’s from the ride or the tension that’s been simmering since the moment I climbed on.

Isaia steadies the bike, planting his feet firmly before glancing back at me. “You doing okay back there?”

“I’m alive, thank you very much.” I remove the helmet and pull my fingers through my hair. “Where are we?”

“See for yourself.” He nods toward the path ahead, and I slide off the bike and take a few steps to where the trees part just enough to reveal a view of Lake Michigan stretching out endlessly under the moonlight. Its surface glitters like black glass, and the faint sound of waves lapping against the shore carries on the breeze, soft and rhythmic—a striking contrast to the wild ride we’ve just left behind.

Behind me, Isaia’s boots crunch on the gravel, the weight of each step drawing closer until I feel his heat at my back. When his hand brushes my arm, it’s light, tentative, almost like he’s testing himself. Then his fingers slide down, arm wrapping around my waist.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I glance up at him over my shoulder, the moonlight catching on the sharp lines of his jaw, the intensity in his dark eyes making my chest tighten.

For a moment, I forget the lake entirely. It’s not the water that’s breathtaking—it’s him.

“Do you know why I brought you here?”

I lift a brow. “To scare the hell out of me on your bike?”

“No.” His thumb strokes against my hip, the movement slow, almost contemplative. “This is one of the only places that doesn’t feel like a battlefield. Everywhere else,” he continues, his voice carrying a weight that anchors me in place, “it’s war. Even when it’s quiet, even when no one’s shooting or killing, I’m still fighting. Watching. Waiting.”

His grip on my waist tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me I’m his.

“But here—” he turns me around to face him, his gaze holding mine, dark and unyielding, “—here, I almost forget what I am.” He brushes a stray strand of hair from my face, his fingers so tender, it’s like they’re trying to memorize every detail. The touch sends a jolt straight to my chest, knocking the breath from my lungs.

“And what are you?” I whisper.

There’s a long pause, his jaw tightening like the words cost him something to admit. His gaze flickers, a shadow of something unguarded crossing his features.

“A product of everything I was born into. Violence. Power. Conflict. It’s all I’ve ever known, Everly.”

He exhales sharply and turns me toward the lake again, like staring at me while he spoke made him more vulnerable, somehow.

“I was thirteen the first time I shot a gun.”

I shiver at that.

“My dad called it a necessary evil, part of the life. I hated it. Hated guns. Hated violence.” His thumb brushes against my side, a fleeting motion like he’s trying to ground himself. “Butmy brothers? They took to it like they were born for it. Perfectly at ease with blood and brutality. Not me. Which meant I was pushed harder. Told to toughen up. To stop hesitating. Because in our world, hesitating gets you killed—gets everyone around you killed. My father made that clear every chance he got. So, I learned. I fired the gun until my hands stopped shaking, until the sound of it didn’t make me flinch. I did what our family wanted, but it never felt natural. Not like it did for my brothers. They thrived on it—on the power, the chaos. For them, it was second nature. For me, it was survival.”

My chest constricts for him.

“It was like my dad knew I didn’t fit in,” Isaia continues, “and he made it his life’s mission to change that. He wanted to break themisfitso he could rebuild him into the perfect son.”

His words hit me like a punch. I can hear the pain in them, the resentment. The guilt of not being the perfect son to the Don of one of the most powerful Mafia families in Chicago. In the States.

“Isaia,” I whisper, stepping closer, my free hand brushing over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palm. “You’re not just…whatever it is you think you are. Whatever your dad tried to turn you into.”

He huffs a bitter laugh, finally meeting my eyes again. “You think you know me, troublemaker?” The sharp edge of his smirk returns, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve seen pieces of me but not the whole. You don’t want to see the whole.”

“Maybe I do. Maybe that’s why I’m still here—why I haven’t run.”

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