ISABELLE POV
Isabelle stops pretending on the fourth morning.
She wakes up and realizes she's been lying to herself. She's been telling herself this is temporary. That she's just surviving. That the moment she gets a chance to escape, she'll take it.
But when she walks downstairs and finds Marco making coffee like it's the most natural thing in the world, she knows the truth.
She's not trying to escape anymore.
She's not even sure she wants to.
The realization should terrify her. Instead, it settles over her like resignation. Like the moment you stop fighting the current and let the river take you.
"Morning," Marco says without turning around. He's learned her footsteps. Knows when she's coming before she enters the room.
"Morning," she replies.
He hands her a mug. Their routine now. His fingers brush hers and neither of them pulls away as fast as they used to.
This is dangerous. This casual intimacy. This feeling of normal when nothing about this situation is normal.
"I'll make breakfast," she says.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know." But she does it anyway because cooking gives her something to do with her hands. Gives her a purpose beyond being the target.
They eat scrambled eggs in silence. Comfortable silence. The kind that happens when two people have run out of things to say but don't need to fill the space with words.
After breakfast, Marco works on his laptop. She reads. They exist in the same room without talking and somehow that feels more intimate than conversation.
The fear hasn't disappeared. It's just changed shape. She's not afraid he'll kill her anymore. She's afraid of what it means that she trusts him not to.
Around noon, she decides to ask the question that's been burning in her mind since yesterday.
"Tell me about your mother."
Marco looks up from his laptop. Surprise flickers across his face. "Why?"
"Because you mentioned her once. Because I told you about mine. Because we have two days left and I want to know who you were before you became this."
He closes the laptop slowly. Leans back against the couch. His expression is careful, like he's deciding how much truth to give her.
"She died when I was nine," he says finally. "Cancer. Six months from diagnosis to funeral."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't kill her." His voice is flat. Emotionless. The way people sound when they've practiced not feeling. "My father didn't let me cry at the funeral. Said it was weakness. Said Russos don't show emotion."
Isabelle sets down her book. "You were nine years old."
"Old enough to learn the rules." Marco stares at the wall like he's seeing something she can't. "After she died, everything changed. My father decided that love was the thing that made her vulnerable. That if she hadn't loved us, she wouldn't have fought so hard to stay alive and suffer. So he taught me that love is weakness. That attachment gets you killed."
"That's horrible."
"That's the Russo family." He looks at her. "You asked who I was before I became this. The truth is, I don't remember. I've been this for so long that the other version doesn't exist anymore."
"I don't believe that."
"Why not?"
"Because if you were just what your father made you, I'd be dead already." Isabelle moves to sit on the other end of the couch. Not close. But closer than she's been. "You're choosing something different. That means some part of you remembers being human."
Marco's expression shifts. Something vulnerable breaks through his mask.
"My mother used to read to me," he says quietly. "Poetry. She loved poetry. After she died, I couldn't look at a poetry book for years because it hurt too much."
Isabelle's chest tightens. "Is that why you noticed I read poetry?"
"Maybe." He almost smiles. "Or maybe I just pay attention to things I'm not supposed to care about."
The conversation shifts after that. Becomes easier. They talk about small things. Favorite foods. Movies they've seen. The kind of mundane details that make up a life.
She learns that Marco hates coffee but drinks it anyway because he needs the caffeine. She learns that he wanted to be a teacher when he was young, before his father crushed that dream. She learns that his insomnia started the night his mother died and never stopped.
He learns that she reads poetry because her mother used to quote it. He learns that she's been lonely her entire life, even before witness protection. He learns that she's terrified of being forgotten, of disappearing from the world without leaving a mark.
The hours pass. Afternoon bleeds into evening.
Marco cooks dinner. Pasta with a sauce he makes from scratch, moving through the kitchen with the precision of someone who's been trained to be perfect at everything.
"You cook better than I expected," Isabelle says.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Takeout. Frozen dinners. Not this."
Marco plates the food carefully. "My father believed in excellence in all things. Including cooking. He said you never know when you'll need to charm someone over a meal before you kill them."
The casual mention of murder should shock her. It doesn't anymore. She's getting used to the way violence is woven into every part of his life.
They eat at the table. Talk about nothing and everything. The physical distance between them keeps shrinking. He sits closer. She doesn't move away.
After dinner, they end up on the couch watching a movie neither of them is really paying attention to. Some action thriller that's all explosions and car chases.
Isabelle feels her eyelids getting heavy. She should go upstairs. Should maintain the distance. Should remember that in two days, his father is going to test whether Marco will kill her.
But she's so tired of being afraid.
She lets her head drop. Just for a moment. Just to rest.
Her temple touches Marco's shoulder.
He doesn't move away.
She should pull back. Should remember all the reasons this is dangerous.
Instead, she lets herself sink into the warmth of him.
His arm comes around her shoulders. Gentle. Careful. Like he's afraid she'll run if he moves too fast.
She doesn't run.
The movie plays on. His heartbeat is steady under her ear. His body is warm and solid and real.
This is the most dangerous thing she's ever done.
Not because he might hurt her. But because this feeling, this moment of safety in the arms of someone who's supposed to be the enemy, is more addictive than any drug.
She closes her eyes and lets herself feel it. The rise and fall of his breathing. The way his fingers rest lightly on her shoulder. The impossible rightness of being held by someone who should terrify her.
Somewhere in the background, the movie ends. The screen goes dark. The house falls quiet.
Isabelle drifts in that space between sleep and waking where everything feels soft and possible.
Marco's voice is quiet above her. "Isabelle."
"Mm?"
"We should talk about what happens in two days."
"Not yet." She burrows closer. "Just let me have this. Just for tonight."
His arm tightens around her. "Okay."
She falls asleep there, wrapped in the arms of a killer who's become the only person in the world who makes her feel safe.
When she wakes, it's dark. The TV is off. The house is silent except for the sound of their breathing.
She's still on the couch. Still in Marco's arms.
Her head is on his shoulder. His cheek rests against her hair. They've shifted in sleep, tangled together like they belong this way.
Isabelle goes completely still.
This is wrong. This is dangerous. This is everything she swore she wouldn't do.
But God help her, she doesn't want to move.
Marco's arm is around her waist. His other hand rests on her hip. They're pressed together from shoulder to knee, and every point of contact burns.
She should pull away. Should run upstairs and lock her door and remember that this man is a killer whose family wants her dead.
But she doesn't move.
Because somewhere in the last four days, something shifted. The fear transformed into something else. Something that makes her heart race for entirely different reasons.
She lifts her head slowly. Marco is still asleep. His face is peaceful. Vulnerable. Beautiful in the darkness.
This is the moment she realizes the truth.
She doesn't just trust him.
She wants him.
The realization hits like a freight train.
She wants Marco Russo. The man who killed someone in front of her. The man whose father wants her dead. The man who's supposed to eliminate her in two days.
She wants him with an intensity that terrifies her more than any threat of violence ever could.
Because wanting him means she's already lost.
His eyes open. For a moment, they just stare at each other in the darkness.
"Hi," he whispers.
"Hi," she whispers back.
Neither of them moves. The space between their faces is inches. She can feel his breath. Can see the way his eyes drop to her mouth.
This is the moment where everything changes.
Where she stops being the victim and becomes something else entirely.
Marco's hand comes up to cup her face. His thumb brushes her cheek.
"Tell me to stop," he says quietly. "Tell me this is a mistake and I'll let you go."
She should say it. Should save them both from the disaster this will become.
Instead, she closes the distance and kisses him.