I’m asking for real. I know I framed it as a rhetorical question, but I really want to know if I have any leg to stand on.
Bree studies me for a moment, hesitating. “I’m not sure I should say anything, but—”
“Bree, please. If there’s anything at all that might fix things with Izzy, I’m all ears.”
Again, she pauses. Then she steps closer and lowers her voice. “Did Izzy mention how her baby brother died?”
“What? No, I don’t think so.” I scroll back through the conversation. She was sobbing so hard by that point in the story that I didn’t press her. “She must have been babysitting when something happened?”
“Yes, but it’s not like there was some sort of accident. As far as I understand, she just put him down for a nap.”
Realization floods me, chilly and sharp. “SIDS?”
“Exactly. I mean, I don’t think they use that term in Dovlano, but she said something about how she shouldn’t have laid him on his side or put a teddy bear in his crib. Obviously, she blames herself.”
Another wave of awareness washes over the others. “Her own family blames her, too.” I’m not sure she said this directly, but I can read between the lines in hindsight. “It’s common for families to seek a scapegoat when a baby dies, but it couldn’t be her fault.”
“That’s what I told her.”
“There’s not a ton of research on SIDS, but most experts believe it’s a result of the brain failing to properly control breathing and heart rate. Not something caused by human actions.”
“Maybe she knows that on a factual level,” Bree says. “She’s smart as hell. But guilt has a way of twisting people’s brains into balloon animals.”
Something in her eyes tells me she knows this firsthand. I don’t know Bree’s backstory, but I’m sure none of the Bracelyn siblings had the easiest childhood. It had to be tough growing up with a serial philanderer for a father and a silver spoon wedged far enough down their throats to tickle their upper esophageal sphincter.
She continues like I’m not standing here naming parts of the digestive tract as a way to stop myself from thinking about Izzy.
“I get the feeling her family’s been twisting that knife for years,” she says.
“I had the same impression.” Is it disloyal to talk this much about Iz when she’s not here? But maybe talking about it might help somehow. “It can’t be easy to break free when you’ve got people clawing at your ankles and arms, insisting that you owe them something. That you need to atone for your sins.”
“Exactly.” Bree studies me curiously. “You love her?”
The bluntness of the question should startle me, but it doesn’t. Neither does my answer. “Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I do.”
“I thought so.” She pauses like she wants to say something else.
She’s still deciding when James comes up beside her. “Can I talk to you a minute? There’s a potential…situation.”
“Oh?” Bree glances to where the rest of the siblings are clustered in a concerned-looking knot. Even Jon has joined the group, looking oddly tense for a guy who just married the woman of his dreams.
“I’ll be right there.” Bree touches my arm. “Don’t give up on her, okay?”
I’m not sure what she means, but I desperately want to know. “You think I should fight for her? Plan some grand gesture or sweep her off her feet or something?”
Bree’s eyes hold mine for a moment. Then she shakes her head slowly. “I think what Izzy needs is to stand on her own feet.” She pauses. “But maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be ready to prop her up if she wobbles.”
She squeezes my arm, then turns to follow her brother across the room.
Well that was…interesting.
I go back to scanning the room, frowning when I still fail to spot Izzy. Shouldn’t she be here by now?
Screw it. I’m going to look for her.
I’ve just taken a step toward the door when my phone buzzes. Heart racing, I slide it from my pocket expecting to see her name.
It’s not Izzy’s name on the screen. It’s a name I programmed in and forgot about weeks ago.
Dan.
Dante.
What the—
As I scan the words, my blood goes cold.
Might need your skills, Deadeye.
Gripping the phone in a fist, I turn and run for the door.
Chapter 15
Isabella
“Who are you?” I force myself to stare down the stranger pointing a gun at me in Dante’s cabin. I’m using my best haughty duchess voice, but it comes out shaky. “Put down your weapon and identify yourself.”
The man in the black skullcap snorts, which reminds me of Kevin. My pig is nowhere to be seen, and my chest squeezes painfully at the thought of what that might mean.
Skullcap steps forward, never taking his eyes off me. “Isn’t this a pleasant surprise.” He adjusts his grip on the firearm as his gaze sweeps over my body. “I wanted a word with our boy, Dante, but this is even better.”
“Who are you?” I throw more force behind the demand this time, though we both know it’s fruitless. He could shoot me right between the eyes if he wanted. “Why are you here?”
“I’m asking the questions here, princess.”
My hands ball into fists, and I blurt a retort before thinking. “I am not a goddamn princess. Don’t call me that.”
Don’t ask me why I’m splitting hairs, but I’m tired of having royal titles hurled at me like insults.
Skullcap keeps his gun trained on my head. “Maybe not a princess yet, but isn’t that the plan?” The smile he gives me is small and mean. “After you marry Stefano and the King kicks the bucket, you’re next in line, yes?”
I stare at him as the blood drains from my face. “I—that’s not—”
How does he know this?
“Oh, I know everything about you.” His smarmy smile suggests he sees right through me as he takes a step closer. “Daughter of the Duchess and Duke of Dovlano, though there’s some question about your paternal lines. We’d hoped that would be enough to prevent your ascension to the throne, but your mother’s enviable bloodline works in your favor.”
“Who are you?” The dryness of my mouth makes the words fall like dusty pebbles.
He’s not answering, but I know this for sure: Skullcap isn’t here for some run-of-the-mill burglary. Fear ripples up my arms, icy and sharp.
Where’s Dante? Or Kevin?
“Have a seat right over there.” He jerks the gun toward the sofa. “I need a sec to figure out what to do with you.”
“What are you—”
“Just do it!”
The bark of his voice tells me it’s time to shut up and do as he says while I assess my options. I carry myself to the far end of the sofa with as much composure as I can muster, lifting my dress to keep it from twisting around my ankles. As I seat myself on the edge of the leather cushion, something to the left catches my eye.