Page 30 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

Or is she offering the comfort I don't know how to give?

"Boss?" Franco prompts, and this time there's no mistaking the worry in his tone.

I drag a hand over my face, forcing myself to focus on business instead of the storm of want and suspicion raging inside me. "The club's been bleeding problems for months. We put Stefano in charge, but if he can't handle it, put Adelina at the helm."

"A woman?" Franco's eyebrow lifts, not in judgment but surprise at the shift in tactics.

I turn from the window, letting ice replace the heat in my veins. "Yes, a fucking woman. She was raised in places like that, survived to build something from it. She's got steel where it counts and isn't afraid to call bullshit when she sees it." My jawtightens as I think of Stefano's methods. "She'll diagnose the real problem instead of just putting bullets in it. Stefano's kill-first approach is attracting too much attention, putting us deeper in debt to the polizia. There's always a risk one of them grows a conscience or gets a better offer." I slam my palm on the desk, decision crystallizing. "Actually, put her in charge now. Today."

Franco whistles low but nods. "Done."

He gathers the papers, hesitating before adding, "About the dinner. Do you want me to prep Isabella? She needs context about why this matters. For you. For her."

I roll my neck, the tension making my muscles crack. Elena's laughter has faded, leaving a silence that feels wrong. "I'll think about it," I mutter, then add more firmly, "Now get me Dean." I pause, letting the Beast's threat color my next words. "Unless you want to keep telling me how to use my fucking time."

Franco sighs but knows when to back down. "I'll get Dean. You want me to stay for it?"

"No." He's got enough on his plate, and implementing what I just ordered takes precedence. "If Stefano gives you any shit, let me know. I'll handle him personally." The promise of violence feels like the only true thing in this moment.

"Yes, Boss." He moves toward the door, and I'm already turning back to the window, drawn to the sight of Isabella like a criminal returning to the scene.

"Franco?" I call after him, the idea forming before I can question it. "Get Isabella too. She might be able to help."

"You got it." The hint of approval in his voice should irritate me, but I'm too focused on what comes next to care.

As soon as the door closes, I inhale deeply, but the breath does nothing to relieve the pressure building inside me. My shoulders feel carved from stone, my spine rigid with tension I can't shake. The tightness in my chest intensifies with each heartbeat, thoughts racing back to her like bullets finding their target.

My wife. La mia moglie. Mine to hate. Mine to want. Mine to break. If I repeat it enough time, maybe I’ll fucking remember it.

Spending more time with her is like putting a blade to my own throat. Like she did last night. Dangerous and possibly fatal. But she might catch what I've missed. She might hear something in Dean's words that I've failed to notice through years of rage.

I've spent nearly a decade plotting revenge based on what I thought I knew. Yet I didn't even realize my mother planned to take Isabella with us. What other truths lie buried beneath the ashes of what burned?

The knowledge sits like acid in my gut. I've been standing in darkness thinking I held all the cards, when really, I was just another piece on someone else's board.

Isabella believes in hope.

I'll show her why that's the most dangerous poison of all.

Chapter sixteen

Isabella

Theweightofhisgaze burns through me from the window of his office like a physical thing. Antonio watches us—no, not watches,studies—like a predator tracking prey, those thunderous eyes making my skin prickle with awareness despite the distance between us. I can feel him even when I'm not looking.

My treacherous heart performs its own dangerous dance, skipping beats it can't afford to lose. And there it is again, that stupid flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with my SVT and everything to do with the memories from last night that refuse to stay buried: his mouth on my body, his fingers mapping territory he has no right to claim anymore, the way he tasted me like I was the last meal he'd ever have.

No. No no no.

I force my attention back to the roses in front of me, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck.

"T-this is a rose," I manage, kneeling beside Elena in the garden. My voice catches embarrassingly, and I clear my throat. "Una rosa," I add, my feeble attempt at Italian still making me sound like I'm gargling marbles. We're doing some impromptu English-Italian lesson—another fragile bridge between worlds that shouldn't meet but somehow do.

Elena smiles up at me, her face lighting with understanding. "Rose." Then, proudly, "Beautiful rose."

I nod encouragingly. "Yes."

"Bella rosa," she continues, switching effortlessly between languages in the way only children can, making me feel like the student rather than the teacher.

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