Page 22 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

"It's alright, cara," Signora Martha reassures me with a warm smile, but instead of leading me to my usual quarters, she guides me towards the left, in the direction of Antonio's wing. Panic flutters in my chest, urging me to turn and flee. The thought of re-entering that space, after everything, feels like a step too far. Is that his new plan to torture me?

I remember his touch, the way my body responded to him, the way he took care of me to make sure I lost all control. Or rather I gave him control over me. Willingly. Again and again. The feel of his hands on my skin, of his lips finding a spot that had me arching my back, of his body on mine, of him stretching me... It'stoo much, when the very next day, he threw me away like a used toy he no longer needed, not because he broke it into millions of pieces but because breaking me was the point.

"I need to go back to my room," I find myself whispering, voice barely there, as Cerberus greets me with his familiar enthusiasm, sniffing around as if trying to piece together where I've been.

But Signora Martha opens the door next to Antonio's room, a place I've never stepped foot in. The moment I cross the threshold, my breath catches. This room is something out of a dream I didn't dare to dream. There, through the door ajar, I catch a glimpse of a bathroom boasting a bathtub with an unobstructed view of the ocean, promising solace in solitude. The room itself, bathed in light from the towering windows, feels like a breath of fresh air, a sharp departure from the moldy space I've grown accustomed to. It's meticulously clean, the air hinting at a recent polish, and there, dominating the space, is a bed so vast I wonder what it must feel like to sleep in it.

And next to it? My eyes widen and my heart skips.

The shard I kept hidden beneath the mattress stands against the lamp on the nightstand. What does this mean? My confusion must be as transparent as glass because as I swiftly tuck away the shard, ensuring it's out of Elena's curious reach, Signora Martha's smile tries to reassure me. "This is your room now," she says, and there's a softness in her voice that almost makes the room feel like a promise, instead of a threat.

But I know better.

Elena's joyous clapping cuts through my haze of thoughts. "So close now," she chirps, her happiness echoing around the vast room.

Antonio, whom I hadn't noticed entering, leans against the doorframe. "This way, I can keep a better eye on you," he says, nodding towards the side door. "It's a connecting door."

Great. Fantastic.

Definitely not what the doctor ordered.

Chapter thirteen

Antonio

"Runitbymeone last time," I snap, forcing my hands to unclench by sheer will.

The scar on my face pulls tight with the tension, a constant reminder of everything that's been stolen from me. In the wake of Isabella's heart episode, her claims about someone lurking outside her door, and her move to the room connecting to mine, my mind's a fucking battlefield.

I've tasked Franco with digging around, checking if any of my men had the bright idea to spook Isabella or worse. So far, nothing's turned up. Which means either she's lying, or someone's covering their tracks well.

Trust, especially where Isabella's concerned, is like navigating a minefield with a blindfold. If I went with my instincts alone, I'd take her word. But when it comes to her, my gut's betraying me, tangled up in honeysuckle and the memory of her skin against mine.

I can't fucking trust it. Can't trust myself around her.

"We can't afford any slip-ups at this dinner," I grit out, trying to steer my focus back to business before I spiral into thoughts of her again. "The contract depends on this. Everything does."

"Understood, Boss," Franco answers, scrolling through our guest list once more on the tablet. "We've confirmed most of our guests, except the Greeks."

The Greeks. Fucking wild cards in a deck already stacked against us. We've worked out who they're sending, and it's basically a who's who of the Greek underworld. Their mob politics make our Italian drama look like a children's puppet show, with countless families all clawing for the same blood-soaked throne. They've got an obsession with nightclubs. So do we. Common ground, at least.

"The Gabris are sending Nikos—their golden boy—along with three cousins," Franco continues. "Dimitri confirmed."

"My priority is keeping this dinner blood-free," I state flatly, the memory of our wedding massacre still fresh and stinging. "The last thing we need is another international incident on our hands, especially not in our own fortress."

"We're on it. Been beefing up the parameters and vetting all serving staff three times over."

"All right." I nod at Franco's update, rolling my shoulders to release some of the tension. "We also need eyes on what's happening stateside. Isabella's father's been too quiet, and that never bodes well."

My men's move against his operations was a hit, but there's been no real pushback, no signs of him reeling from the impact. This morning's intel says he's mingling in Chicago, pushing some construction gig, and even cozying up with the fucking Bratva over a nightclub. It looks more like a strategic alliance than a takeover.

This dinner on Saturday just got a whole lot heavier. And much more necessary. Because if that bastard manages to rebuild his alliance and show everyone we barely scratched his surface...

Oaths matter. The contract matters. The safety of everyone depending on me matters.

He hasn't accepted me as successor. Finding loopholes in the contract like the snake he is. But he's got to do more than his grandiloquent speeches if he wants to keep people attached to him.

I can't be the only one planning his demise.

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