Chapter 27 - The Woman Who Was Always Alive
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"I couldn't sleep," Lorenzo said softly, setting the collar back into the archival box.
Isabella walked across the room, her bare feet making no sound against the rug. She stepped up behind his chair, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her chin on his shoulder.
"You're thinking about the case again," she observed gently.
"I'm thinking about how close we came to losing," Lorenzo admitted, turning his head slightly to kiss her cheek. "If Vincent’s men had moved you to another safehouse twenty-four hours earlier... if Emma had been sick that morning and missed her walk... if I had simply ordered my secretary to show her out..."
Isabella tightened her hold on his shoulders.
"Lorenzo," she said, her voice carrying a quiet authority. "Look at me."
Lorenzo turned in his seat to face her.
"We didn't lose," Isabella stated clearly, her green eyes fierce in the moonlight. "We are here. Claire’s memory is honored. Vincent died in a federal prison cell. The company is clean. And Emma is an incredible, accomplished woman."
"I know," Lorenzo sighed. "It's just... the weight of what almost happened still catches my breath sometimes."
"That's not memory, Lorenzo," Isabella whispered, kneeling down beside his chair and taking both of his large, weathered hands in hers. "That's love. Love makes us realize how thin the glass is between safety and disaster."
Lorenzo looked down at their joined hands, seeing the bent silver ring sparkling on her finger—a replica she had commissioned years ago to match Bruno’s collar, a permanent symbol of her survival.
"I buried a casket with your name on it, Isabella," Lorenzo repeated quietly. "Every time I look at you sitting in the sun, part of my brain still can't comprehend that you're breathing."
Isabella gave his hands a firm, affectionate squeeze.
"Then let me remind you," she smiled warmly. "I am breathing. I am stubborn. I am completely real. And I am never going anywhere without telling you first."
Lorenzo let out a long, quiet breath, the residual tension melting out of his chest. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers, closing his eyes.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?"
"For coming back to me."
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"I didn't come back to you, Lorenzo," she murmured softly against his lips. "I was always waiting for you to find me."
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