Chapter 3 - The Eighth Woman
Isabella refused to leave.
“I can go.”
“No.”
“You don't trust me.”
“I don't trust anyone.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
I looked at her.
“You should be afraid of me.”
She smiled.
“I was.”
“And now?”
“Now I'm afraid for you.”
Nobody had ever said that to me.
Not without wanting something.
Not without expecting money.
Not without fear.
Just concern.
It unsettled me.
That night, she slept in the guest room.
I stayed awake.
At 3:00 a.m., I heard footsteps.
I grabbed my weapon.
The door opened.
Isabella stood there.
“Luca?”
I lowered the gun.
“What happened?”
“I heard something.”
I listened.
Nothing.
Then I heard it.
A faint metallic click.
I pulled her behind me.
The window exploded.
A bullet struck the wall.
I fired toward the window.
Marcus's men rushed in.
“Get down!”
We moved into the hallway.
One of the guards shouted,
“Sniper!”
I looked at Isabella.
“Stay here.”
She grabbed my arm.
“No.”
“I need to go outside.”
“You'll be killed.”
“So will you.”
I stared at her.
She didn't let go.
“I don't want another woman to leave your life because someone frightened her.”
For a second, I couldn't speak.
Then Marcus entered.
“Sniper's gone.”
I looked at Isabella.
She slowly released my arm.
Later that morning, I asked her something.
“Why aren't you afraid anymore?”
She looked at me.
“I am.”
“Then why stay?”
“Because I'm starting to think you need someone who isn't paid to run.”
I smiled despite myself.
“That's a dangerous thing to say to me.”
“Probably.”
She looked at my face.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever actually hurt anyone?”
“No.”
“Did any doctor ever confirm the condition?”
“No.”
“Then why did you believe it?”
I stared through the window.
“Because I was seventeen.”
I told her about that night.
My father had died.
Vincent had taken me to Dr. Cross.
The doctor had spoken in complicated medical language.
He told me relationships would be dangerous.
That intimacy could cause serious complications.
That I should avoid marriage until more research was available.
I believed him.
Then women started rejecting me.
Eventually, rejection became proof.
Isabella listened quietly.
“Luca?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe the diagnosis wasn't about your body.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe it was about your mind.”
I looked at her.
“Someone convinced you that you were dangerous.”
Her words stayed with me.
That afternoon, Marcus brought me something.
An old medical file.
Dr. Cross's original diagnosis.
The signature at the bottom was forged.
I stared.
“Who signed this?”
Marcus pointed to the authorization.
“Vincent.”
My blood went cold.
“Find Dr. Cross.”
“We already did.”
“Where?”
“Dead.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
I looked at the file.
Then I noticed a photograph attached to the back.
It showed Dr. Cross beside my father.
And a woman.
I knew her.
She had been my mother's closest friend.
She had died when I was eighteen.
But the handwriting beneath the photograph said:
She knows what happened the night your father died.
I looked at Marcus.
“Find her.”
Marcus hesitated.
“We can't.”
May you like
“Why?”
“Because she's not dead.”
