ISABELLE POV
Isabelle finds him at dawn.
She's been awake all night, staring at her ceiling, listening to every sound in the house below. Waiting for the moment when he'll change his mind and come upstairs to finish what his father sent him to do.
The moment never comes.
Around 6 AM, she can't stay in her room anymore. She needs water. Food. Something to ground her in reality because the last twelve hours feel like a nightmare she can't wake up from.
She moves downstairs quietly, still holding the knife from last night. Her hand is cramped from gripping it so long but she can't let it go. It's the only thing between her and complete helplessness.
The living room is gray with early morning light.
Marco is asleep on the couch.
Isabelle stops in the doorway, frozen by the sight of him.
He looks different in sleep. Younger. The hard edges of his face have softened. His dark hair falls across his forehead. His breathing is even and deep, the kind of sleep that comes from pure exhaustion.
He's just a man.
That thought terrifies her more than thinking of him as a monster.
Monsters are easy. You fear them. You avoid them. You know what they are.
But a man who looks like this, who sleeps like he's as tired as she is, who has shadows under his eyes that match her own? That's complicated. That's dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with violence.
His gun sits on the coffee table. Within reach but not in his hands.
He trusts her enough to sleep.
The realization hits her hard. He's a trained killer. He could have locked her in her room. Could have kept the gun on him at all times. Could have treated this like the hostage situation it actually is.
Instead, he fell asleep on a couch that's too small for him, with his weapon out of reach, trusting that she won't use the knife she's still holding.
Either he's incredibly confident or incredibly reckless.
Isabelle studies his face, trying to see the man from the warehouse. The one who raised a gun without hesitation. The one who pulled the trigger and walked away.
She can't reconcile that image with the person in front of her.
His features are softer in sleep. There's a line between his eyebrows like he frowns even when unconscious. Like whatever he's dreaming about hurts.
She wants to hate him. She should hate him.
But standing here watching him sleep, all she feels is confusion and fear and something else she can't name. Something that makes her chest tight and her hands shake.
She moves to the kitchen before she can talk herself out of it.
Makes coffee.
She doesn't know why. Maybe it's habit from the months in protective custody when the federal agents would drink coffee on their shifts. Maybe it's a peace offering. Maybe it's her way of proving to herself that she's still human, still capable of normal gestures even in the most abnormal situation.
The coffee maker gurgles. The smell fills the kitchen.
In the living room, Marco stirs.
Isabelle watches through the doorway as his body tenses. His hand shoots out toward the coffee table, reaching for the gun before he's even fully awake.
Then he stops.
Remembers where he is.
His hand drops. He sits up slowly, running his fingers through his hair. He looks tired. More than tired. He looks like he's carrying weight that's crushing him.
Their eyes meet across the space.
"You made coffee," he says. His voice is rough from sleep.
"I made coffee," she agrees.
She pours two mugs. Walks into the living room. Holds one out to him.
This is insane. She's serving coffee to the man who's supposed to kill her. She's acting like this is normal. Like they're roommates instead of prisoner and guard.
Marco reaches for the mug. His fingers brush hers for half a second.
The contact sends electricity through her skin.
She pulls back fast. Too fast. Coffee sloshes over the rim.
"Sorry," she says automatically.
"Don't apologize." Marco's eyes are on her face. "You have nothing to apologize for."
She sits in the chair across from him. Not close. But not running away either. The knife is still in her other hand. She sees him notice it.
"You slept with that?" he asks.
"I didn't sleep at all."
Something crosses his expression. Understanding maybe. Or guilt.
"Neither did I," he admits. "Until about an hour ago."
"You trusted me enough to sleep."
"Should I not have?"
Isabelle looks at the knife. Looks at him. "I thought about it."
"Killing me?"
"Running."
"Where would you go?"
"I don't know." She sets the knife down on the side table. Not giving it up. Just putting it aside for this moment. "But I thought about it."
Marco drinks his coffee. Watches her over the rim of the mug. "Why didn't you?"
"Because you're right." The admission costs her something. "The safe house is compromised. If I run, they'll find me. And whoever they send next won't offer me deals."
"So you're staying because you're trapped."
"I'm staying because it's the smart choice." She meets his eyes. "That doesn't mean I trust you."
"Good." Marco sets down his coffee. "You shouldn't trust me."
"Then why are we doing this?"
"Because trust isn't the same as necessity." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You need me to survive. I need you to be the person who proves I'm not completely my father's son. We're using each other. That's honest at least."
The brutal honesty should make her feel better. It doesn't. It makes her feel hollow.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Marco says quietly. "I know you don't believe that. But it's true."
"How can I know that's true?"
"You can't." He holds her gaze. "But I've had a dozen chances to hurt you since I walked in here. I haven't taken any of them."
"Yet."
"Yet," he agrees. "But doesn't that count for something?"
Isabelle wants to say no. Wants to maintain the wall between them. Wants to keep seeing him as the enemy because enemies are simple.
But the wall is cracking.
She saw him vulnerable in sleep. She heard him admit he doesn't know why he's protecting her. She felt the electricity when their fingers touched over a coffee mug.
This is how it happens, she realizes. This is how he gets inside her defenses. Not with threats or violence. With moments like this. With honesty that feels real. With exhaustion that mirrors her own.
"Why are you really here?" she asks. "Not the version you tell your father. The real reason."
Marco looks at his coffee like it might have answers written in the steam.
"I don't know," he says finally. "I've been asking myself that since I got the assignment six months ago."
"Six months?"
"They've been watching you for six months. Planning. Strategizing. My father wanted to make sure the approach was perfect." He looks up at her. "I've read your entire life story. I know about your mother. I know you eat cereal for dinner when you're stressed. I know you read poetry at 2 AM when you can't sleep."
The invasion of privacy should make her angry. Instead, it makes her feel seen in a way that's terrifying.
"That's creepy," she whispers.
"I know." No apology in his voice. Just fact. "But that's what the Russo family does. We learn everything about our targets before we move."
"I'm not a target. I'm a person."
"You're both." Marco stands. Moves to the window. "And that's the problem. When you're just a file, you're easy to eliminate. When you're a person who reads poetry and cries quietly so nobody hears, you become something else."
"What do I become?"
He turns to face her. The morning light catches his features. Makes him look almost gentle.
"You become the reason I can't do what I'm supposed to do."
The words hang between them like a confession.
Isabelle's heart races. This is the moment where everything shifts. Where she stops being just his assignment and becomes something that matters.
She should run. Should grab the knife and lock herself in her room and refuse to come out until federal agents arrive.
But she doesn't move.
"Marco," she says. His name feels strange on her tongue. Intimate. "What happens when your father realizes you're not going to kill me?"
His expression goes dark. "He already knows something's wrong. He called this morning. Gave me four days."
The air leaves her lungs. "Four days until what?"
"Until he sends my sister to finish this."
"Your sister?"
"Vivian. She's been waiting for me to fail. Waiting for proof that I'm weak. This is her chance." He runs a hand through his hair. The gesture looks painful. "Four days. That's all we have."
Isabelle stands on shaking legs. "Four days to do what?"
"To figure out how to keep you alive." Marco's eyes meet hers. "And to decide if I'm willing to destroy my entire family to do it."
The weight of that statement crashes over her.
He's not just protecting her from his father. He's choosing between her and everyone he's ever known.
"Why?" she asks. The question comes out broken. "Why would you do that for me?"
Marco crosses the space between them. Stops close enough that she can feel the heat from his body. Close enough to be dangerous.
"I haven't figured that out yet," he says softly. "But when I do, I'll let you know."
His phone buzzes. He glances at it. His face goes pale.
"What?" Isabelle asks. "What is it?"
"My sister." He shows her the screen. A text message with a photo attached.
The photo is of the safe house. Taken from outside. This morning.
The message reads: "Tick tock, brother. Time's running out."