*Isabella's POV*
He leaned back, his lips hovering just a breath away from mine, his eyes dark with a promise that made my stomach clench. But I wasn't ready for that. Not now. Not with the ghost of Jacob's pain and the weight of my own secrets hanging between us.
I felt his hand moving lower, a warm, possessive weight on my hip before he squeezed my ass. "A kiss is all you'll get," I said, my voice a little breathless, trying to sound more in control than I felt.
He just laughed in response, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest and into mine.
"We need to be at the hospital," I said, pushing lightly against his chest, creating some much-needed space. It was a flimsy excuse, but it was all I had.
"Alright, I'll get ready," he said, his voice laced with amusement. He climbed out of bed, giving me a glorious, unobstructed view of his bare back and ass as he walked towards the bag on the chair.
I watched him for a second, my heart doing this stupid, painful little flutter. Love? The thought hit me like a splash of cold water. This is not the time to get open and mushy, Damien. Not when I plan to dump you both as soon as this is over.
The words were sharp, cruel, and utterly necessary. They were a lifeline, a reminder of the promise I'd made to myself on that plane. But even as the thought solidified in my mind, I felt my heart ache at the prospect. It was a physical pain, a dull, throbbing ache that spread through my chest and made it hard to breathe.
I pushed the feeling down, burying it deep under a layer of resolve. I got up, showered, and got dressed, my movements mechanical, a way to distract myself from the fucking emotional war raging inside me.
The ride to the hospital was thick with a tension that neither of us bothered to cut. The city blurred past the windows, but all I could see was the image of Jacob lying in that hospital bed. When we arrived, the familiar, sterile smell of antiseptic hit me. We were walking down the same corridor as last night, but this time, it felt different. Heavier.
As we approached Jacob's private room, the door swung open. Two men in suits walked out, their faces grim, the kind of no-nonsense expressions that screamed 'law enforcement'. My stomach clenched into a tight knot.
"Damien, are those policemen?" I asked, my voice a nervous whisper.
"Yep," he said, not even breaking his stride. "Welcome to the world of Jacob 'Fun' Lancaster." He sighed, a sound heavy with years of this kind of shit.
We entered the room, and my eyes immediately found him. He looked better, colour had returned to his cheeks, but he was still pale. I went straight to his side, needing to be close, to see for myself that he was truly okay.
"Are you okay, Jacob?" I asked, my hand instinctively reaching for his.
A slow, familiar smirk spread across his face. "Well, now that you're here, I'm way better, sweetheart," he said, his voice still a little rough but laced with his usual cocky charm.
"Were the police here?" I asked, my gaze flicking to the door they had just left through.
"Yep," Jacob replied, his smirk fading slightly. "They asked about the shooting, the kid's father."
"We heard about it," Damien said, his voice flat from his position by the wall.
Jacob's eyes took on a distant look. "He was mad. He saw me and just started crying and yelling: 'Fucking murderer, you killed my son'." He recounted it with a strange detachment, as if it had happened to someone else.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was all so fucked up. "Jacob," I started, my voice barely audible. "Can I ask if... if this is part of your business?" I asked nervously, the words feeling clumsy and loud in the quiet room.
I saw the shock register on his face immediately. His eyes widened, the playful smirk vanishing completely. "What? No, of course not," he said, his voice sharp with a genuine surprise that kinda hurt to see.
"The whole thing started... before I went to Raleigh, I guess," he continued, trying to explain. "But it blew up while I was there."
"Jacob is not involved in this, Isabella. Rest assured," Damien said, stepping forward. "He's just an idiot."
"Speak for yourself," Jacob countered, a flash of his old fire returning.
"No, she needs to know," Damien said, glaring at Jacob, his expression dead serious. The air in the room suddenly felt electric, charged with a new, unspoken tension.
"Know what?" I asked, my heart now pounding for a completely different reason.
Damien's words hung in the sterile air, heavy and fucking terrifying. He wasn't just angry; he was resigned, like he knew this day would come.
"When he told me he wanted to open a club in Manhattan, I knew," Damien said, his voice low and grave, his eyes fixed on his brother. "I knew he was just an idiot with money. He had all the means to do it, but it's not that simple. The mafia controls all of New York. I'm surprised they haven't threatened him or tried to do business with him before."
"They have," Jacob chimed in from the bed, a fucking infuriating, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I just avoided everything gracefully."
My blood ran cold. Gracefully? He talked about avoiding the fucking mob like he was dodging an unwanted advance at a bar. I felt the world tilt on its axis, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together to form a picture so much darker and more dangerous than I could have ever imagined.
"So let me get this shit straight," I said, my voice dangerously quiet, the anger starting to bubble up from a place deep inside me. "The mafia, or mob, slash drug lords, took over the club while you were in Raleigh flirting with me?" I asked, the accusation hanging in the air between us.
"Sweetheart, that's not what we said," Jacob countered, his smile faltering slightly as he finally registered the fury on my face.
"It is what happened though," I retorted, my voice rising. I wasn't asking anymore; I was telling him. I was piecing together his fucking attitude, the secrets, the danger. It all led back to this.
"It's not anyone's fault," Jacob said, trying to sound reasonable, but it just came off as patronising. "A kid took more than he could handle, died, and his father thought I was guilty, so he tried to kill me. No biggie." He actually fucking chuckled. A small, dismissive chuckle, like he was talking about a fist fight he won, and not a bullet that had torn through his flesh.
And that's when I snapped. "And you have the fucking audacity to joke about it?" I countered, my voice shaking with a rage so pure it scared me. The sheer arrogance of it, the casual dismissal of his own life, of the terror I had felt... it was too much.