MARCO POV
The kiss lasts three seconds before the glass shatters.
Marco's body reacts before his brain processes what's happening. He shoves Isabelle behind him and reaches for his gun in one fluid motion.
Someone is in the house.
The back door splinters open. Heavy footsteps in the kitchen. The sound of a weapon being drawn.
"Stay behind me," Marco orders. His voice is ice cold. The warmth from the kiss is gone, replaced by the killer his father trained him to be.
A man steps into the living room. Tall. Built like a tank. Holding a knife that catches the moonlight.
Dante Moretti. One of his father's most trusted soldiers. Marco's known him since they were kids running through the Russo estate, playing games that always ended in blood.
"Hey, Marco," Dante says. His smile is all teeth. "Your old man sent me to check on your progress."
Isabelle makes a sound behind him. Fear or recognition or both.
Marco keeps his gun trained on Dante's chest. "I told him I'm handling it."
"Yeah, you did. But he wants proof." Dante twirls the knife casually. "He wants to make sure you haven't gone soft. That you remember who you work for."
"I remember."
"Do you?" Dante's eyes flick to Isabelle. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been playing house with the target instead of completing the job."
Marco's finger tightens on the trigger. One shot. That's all it would take. Dante would be dead and this problem would be solved.
Except it wouldn't be solved. His father would know. Would send more soldiers. Would escalate until Marco had no choice but to surrender Isabelle or die trying to protect her.
"Put down the knife," Marco says.
"Can't do that." Dante moves closer. "I've got orders. Test the heir. See if he's still loyal. And if he's not, well, then I get to finish what he couldn't."
Everything happens fast.
Dante lunges. Marco fires. The bullet catches Dante in the shoulder but doesn't stop him. He keeps coming, knife raised.
Marco shoves Isabelle toward the stairs. "Run!"
She doesn't run. She freezes, which is exactly what he knew she'd do because she's not trained for this kind of violence.
Dante swings the knife. Marco blocks with his forearm. Pain explodes through his arm but he ignores it. Grabs Dante's wrist. Twists hard enough to hear bone crack.
Dante headbutts him. Marco's vision goes white. He tastes blood.
They crash into the coffee table. Wood splinters. Glass breaks. Marco gets his hands around Dante's throat and squeezes.
Dante brings the knife down.
Marco rolls. The blade slices across his ribs instead of his heart. Fire burns through his side. Hot blood soaks through his shirt.
But he can't stop. Stopping means Isabelle dies.
He slams Dante's head into the floor once, twice, three times. Dante goes limp.
Marco drags himself up, breathing hard. Blood drips onto the carpet. His side feels like it's on fire.
Dante groans. Still alive. Good. If he dies, his father will know Marco chose to kill rather than just defend.
"Tell my father I'm still loyal," Marco says through gritted teeth. "Tell him the girl is secure and the timeline is on track. Tell him I'll deliver her when he's ready."
Dante spits blood. "He's going to test you harder than this."
"I know."
"And when he does, you're going to fail." Dante struggles to his feet, holding his broken wrist. "Because you've already failed, brother. I can see it in your eyes. You care about her."
Marco doesn't deny it. Can't deny it. The truth is written all over his face.
Dante limps toward the broken door. Pauses. "You've got maybe a day before he comes for both of you. Make it count."
Then he's gone. Disappearing into the night like a ghost.
Marco stands in the destroyed living room, bleeding and trying to remember how to breathe.
"Marco." Isabelle's voice is shaking. She's at the bottom of the stairs, staring at him like she's never seen him before.
Maybe she hasn't. Maybe she's finally seeing what he really is. A man who lives in violence. Who solves problems with his fists and his gun. Who just beat someone unconscious in her living room.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry you had to see that."
She crosses the space between them. Her hands reach for his bloody shirt. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding everywhere. That's not fine." She pulls at his shirt. "Let me see."
"Isabelle, I need to secure the house. Need to make sure there aren't more of them."
"Let. Me. See." Her voice is steel wrapped in fear.
He lifts his shirt. The knife wound across his ribs is deep. Not fatal, but bad enough that he's losing blood fast.
Isabelle goes pale. "Oh God."
"It looks worse than it is."
"You're lying." She grabs his arm. "Bathroom. Now."
He lets her lead him upstairs because arguing takes energy he doesn't have. The bathroom is small. White tile. A first aid kit under the sink that federal agents left behind.
Isabelle makes him sit on the edge of the bathtub. She washes her hands with the kind of precise care that tells him she's trying not to fall apart.
"This is going to hurt," she says.
"I know."
She cleans the wound with alcohol. Marco hisses through his teeth but doesn't move. He's had worse. Much worse. But having Isabelle's hands on him, gentle and terrified and trying so hard to help, hurts more than the knife did.
"Why did you do that?" she asks. Her voice breaks. "Why did you fight him? You could have just let him take me. Let this be over."
"No, I couldn't."
"Why not?"
Marco looks at her. Really looks at her. At the woman who's supposed to be his assignment. His target. The problem he was sent to eliminate.
Except somewhere between surveillance photos and living in this house, she stopped being a problem. She became the only thing that matters.
"Because you're not just an assignment anymore," he says quietly.
Her hands still on the bandage. "What am I then?"
"You're the reason I'm willing to betray everything I've ever known."
The words hang in the air between them.
Isabelle finishes bandaging his ribs with shaking hands. She's crying silently, tears running down her face that she doesn't bother to wipe away.
"That man said we have a day," she whispers. "One day before your father comes."
"I know."
"And then what? What happens when he decides the test is over? When he tells you to kill me in front of witnesses?" She's wrapping gauze around his torso, and her voice is small and terrified. "What are you going to do?"
Marco catches her hands. Stops her movement. Makes her look at him.
"I'm going to choose you," he says. "I'm going to choose you over my father, over my family, over everything I've ever been. And when I do, there's no going back. I become a traitor. A dead man walking. Someone the entire Russo empire will hunt until one of us is gone."
"Marco—"
"But I don't care." He pulls her closer. "I don't care about any of it anymore. Because the alternative is watching you die, and I can't do that. I won't."
Isabelle's face crumbles. "You'll die protecting me."
"Maybe."
"That's not a plan. That's suicide."
"It's the only plan I have." He touches her face. "Unless you have a better idea."
She looks at him with eyes full of tears and something that might be love or might be terror or might be both twisted together until they're the same thing.
"We run," she says. "We run and we never stop running."
"They'll find us."
"Maybe. But at least we'll be together when they do."
Marco pulls her into his arms. She fits against him like she was made for this spot. Her head on his uninjured shoulder. Her hands gripping his shirt. Her breath warm against his neck.
This is insane. This is the worst decision he's ever made. This is choosing love over survival, and every instinct he has screams that it's wrong.
But holding Isabelle feels more right than anything he's ever done.
"One day," he says into her hair. "We have one day to figure out how to survive this."
"And if we can't?"
"Then we go down fighting."
She pulls back just enough to look at him. Her eyes are red from crying. Her face is blotchy. She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"I'm scared," she whispers.
"Me too."
"But I trust you."
Those four words break him completely.
She trusts him. After everything. After watching him beat a man unconscious. After learning that his entire family wants her dead. After knowing that tomorrow might be their last day alive.
She trusts him.
Marco kisses her. Soft. Careful of his injuries. Trying to pour everything he can't say into that one moment.
When they break apart, his phone is ringing.
His father.
Calling to deliver the final test.