It took nearly an hour for the nightmare to finally end.
By the time I stepped off the jet, my head was pounding, my stomach rolling hard enough that I thought I might vomit or collapse. Maybe both. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if sex itself had started to disgust me.
Then I thought of my husband in all his handsome glory. Of him, waiting in bed, hopefully naked, when I'd finally get home.
The nausea eased almost immediately.
Sandro trailed a step behind as I descended the stairs, practically leaping, and slid into the waiting car in no time. He nodded once to one of his men before taking the front seat, leaving me alone in the back. The vehicle had already been swept thoroughly, so I wasn't concerned about another bomb waiting for me this time.
Dante emerged from the plane just as the engine turned over. He moved toward the car, fast enough that it almost looked intentional.
The driver didn't wait.
The car surged froward, tires biting into the tarmac, leaving Dante behind.
"Never liked that man," the driver muttered. He was one of ours, trusted and loyal.
I smiled as Sandro reached forward and gave him a light pat on the shoulder, chuckling under his breath.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, blissful and intentional. I raised the partition and pulled out my second phone, the one Alex had encrypted for our private exchanges.
There were a few messages waiting for me.
He said he was already in my bedroom. Just like we planned. He also made a point of mentioning how embarrassingly easy it had been to get in, something he clearly intended to remind me of for the foreseeable future.
It made an uncomfortable thought take root.
Either we weren't too careful. Or worse, maybe he was right, we were too weak.
We've dealt with Russians before. Some of them even had military backgrounds, brutal reputations, bodies built for violence. And yet, even they didn't unsettle me the way Alex's men did. There was something different about them. Not just the strength they carry, it was also their precision. Discipline. The kind that seemed like they were...genetically-engineered.
I didn't know where Alex had found them, or how he had trained them.
The car slowed, tires crunching softly as we pulled into the underground garage of my apartment building. Relief loosened something in my spine. Finally, home.
I still couldn't bring myself to move into Dario's place, no matter how it was practically mine now. That penthouse reminded me of the way he had died. How it was my fault. It carried too many ghosts and unresolved guilt. And worse, it carried the very real risk of running into Dante.
Here, at least the walls answered only to me.
Sandro opened the door. "My men have checked everything. It's safe," he said soon as I stepped out of the car.
"What about the files I requested?" I asked. There were things at the company that needed my attention. Things that I hadn't been able to deal with, while I was in Croatia.
"Already on your desk."
I nodded and let them escort me toward the private elevator.
I'd never wanted a penthouse. I didn't like large spaces, not when I was living alone. This building was one of the few that offered regular apartments with private elevators, privacy without excess. Though in my case, it wasn't just about privacy. It was about safety. Too many things had happened in tight, enclosed spaces like these.
Usually involving a gun. And an incurable head wound.
As the elevator began its quiet ascent, my thoughts drifted despite myself. Alex was waiting for me upstairs.
And I still couldn't remember the last time I had my shot.
Fuck.
I did the math in my head, and sure enough, my birth control injection was due. Soon. Or worse, weeks ago, I think. Certainly before he pulled off that stunt at Dario's funeral. And it wasn't like we had been careful all this time, either.
Fuck!
I couldn't have a child right now. Especially when nothing is stable. Alex would've used this to tie me tighter to him. I can't tell him.
"Are you alright, Signorina?" Sandro asked.
I snapped back into the present, smoothing my expression into something neutral. Controlled.
"Why wouldn't I be?" I muttered.
"You look pale," he said, studying me a little too closely.
I should dismiss him soon. Create some distance. Give him less work.
Sandro was getting too observant. Too attuned to my moods and I didn't like it. He seemed far too loyal to be one of Alex's spies either. Which somehow made this worse, not better.
"Just tired," I muttered back, right when the elevator dinged open.
I stepped out, then turned back before any of them could follow. "You're all dismissed. I'd like some time alone to rest. It's late."
And not to mention, whatever I had eaten on the jet was threatening to come back up my throat.
They nodded without argument and dispersed, leaving me alone at last. Only then did I feel like I could breathe properly.
"How was your flight?" Alex's voice came from the kitchen.
The smell hit me first. Pasta, then seafood, rich and pungent. Delicious under normal circumstances. Tonight, it was lethal.
I barely made it to the guest bathroom off the living room before dropping to my knees, retching violently into the toilet.
"Oh God—"
"Isla?" Alex appeared at the doorway, concern sharp in his voice. "What's wrong? Do I need to call the doctor?"
"No," I said hoarsely, swallowing back bile as I gripped the edge of the sink, my stomach still rolling. "I think I'm getting with sick or something. A stomach bug."
Even as I said it, I wasn't sure I believed myself.
"I'll call the doctor," Alex said, already turning away from the door.
I moved without thinking, catching his elbow. "No—don't."
Then I yanked my hand back, suddenly aware that I hadn't even washed it.
He didn't seem to notice. His fingers brushed through my hair as he pulled me closer. "You're either sick," he said quietly, "or..." He stopped, pressing his lips together as if saying it out loud might make it real.
"I'm not," I muttered, shaking my head before the thought could fully form. "I can't be. This isn't the right time."
"It would put a timeline on everything," he said.
"It would," I agreed, even as unease curled tight in my chest.
"I still need to call the doctor," he insisted, already reaching into his pocket. "You're clearly unwell, Isla."
"No." I took the phone from him too fast, my stomach turning violently. "Please," I said, steadying my voice with effort, "just give me time. I can handle this."
My voice dropped, almost pleading. "I've had a long flight. I'll feel better after a warm bath and some sleep. I promise."
Only, I wasn't sure if I was convincing him, or myself.