Page 414 of Rosetti Family New York
"Just tired." But she's not tired. She's bracing herself, watching familiar territory disappear in the rearview mirror.
The silence stretches between us, loaded with everything we're not saying. Yesterday she told me the portrait didn't change anything. Yesterday she kissed my cheek and pulled away when I tried to turn it into something more. Yesterday she built her walls higher instead of letting me closer.
Part of me wants to fill the quiet with words, explanations, promises that things will be different once we're settled. But Isabella doesn't need my promises right now. She needs space to find her footing in whatever comes next.
So I flip my coin and drive, giving her the quiet she needs while the highway carries us toward everything complicated.
The Manhattan skyline rises ahead of us, all steel and glass and ambition. Home territory, but it feels different with Isabella beside me. More dangerous. Like bringing something precious into a war zone.
"Nervous?" I ask as we turn onto the Upper East Side.
"Should I be?"
"Dom's not as scary as he looks. Carmela's going to love you. And if anyone gives you shit, they answer to me."
She glances at me, something unreadable in her green eyes. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?"
"It's supposed to be true."
The Rosetti mansion looms at the end of its gated drive, three stories of modernist intimidation surrounded by security cameras and men in black suits. I watch Isabella take it in, cataloging exits and threats the way she's learned to do.
"It looks like a fortress," she says.
"It is a fortress. But it's also home." I kill the engine and turn to face her. "My family's going to want to know you. And you don't have to pretend to be anything other than what you are."
The front door opens before we reach it, Dom stepping onto the portico with his usual commanding presence. My older brother looks tired, stress lines deeper around his eyes, but he straightens when he sees Isabella.
"City's heating up," he says without preamble. "You were right to pull her out."
I catch Isabella's spine straightening at being discussed in third person, but she doesn't comment. Professional courtesy in the face of powerful men, something she's perfected over years of navigating Chase's world.
"Dom, this is Isabella," I say, watching my brother take her measure. "Isabella, my brother Domenico."
"Ms. Callahan." Dom's voice is formal but not unkind. He steps forward, and I see him consciously making himself less intimidating. "Welcome to our home."
"Thank you," Isabella replies, her museum manners surfacing automatically. "I appreciate your hospitality."
"No need for formalities," Dom says, and there's something sharp in his tone that makes me look at him closer. "You're under our protection now. That means something in this city."
The words hang in the air, weighted with implications that make Isabella's breath catch. Dom's not just being polite. He's making a public declaration, extending Rosetti protection whether she wants it or not.
Before she can process that fully, footsteps echo from inside the house, and Carmela appears in the doorway. Our sister takes one look at Isabella and grins, but it's not the sharp, predatory smile I expected. It's genuine warmth mixed with curiosity.
"Well, well," Carmela says, moving past Dom to study Isabella with open interest. "You're the one who's got my baby brother tied up in knots."
"Carmela," I warn, but she waves me off.
"What? It's a compliment. Matteo doesn't usually have the attention span for anything more complicated than a weekend." She turns back to Isabella, her expression gentling. "I'm Carmela. And you look like you could use coffee and a break from testosterone-heavy conversations."
Isabella blinks, clearly not expecting casual warmth from a Rosetti woman. But I catch the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth, the first genuine expression she's worn since we left the safehouse.
"Coffee sounds perfect," she says.
"Excellent." Carmela links her arm through Isabella's, but it's protective rather than possessive. "Fair warning, the espresso machine is Italian and has opinions about everything. But I've learned to sweet-talk it into cooperation."
I watch them disappear into the house, Carmela's chatter filling the marble hallway with unexpected lightness. Isabella's shoulders relax incrementally with each step away from the formal entrance, away from the weight of being evaluated.
"She's not what I expected," Dom says quietly beside me.
