Page 14 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

It's about Elena. That's what I tell myself. Nothing more.

"Planning another visit to the small ballroom?" Franco's tone is carefully neutral, but I know him too well to miss the concern beneath it. His brow creases in that familiar way—the look he's been giving me each time I find myself drawn back to where Isabella and Elena spend their afternoons.

"I am." My voice carries an edge of challenge, daring him to say what he's thinking.

"Just be careful, okay?" The caution in his voice draws a dark laugh from me.

"Careful?" I scoff, feeling the scar on my face pull tight as I smirk. "Wasn't it last week you were telling me I was being too harsh, too cruel to her?"

"I know," he cuts me off, his voice dropping lower. "But the crew... they're watching. Some still hold a grudge against Isabella."

"For my mother's death?" My shoulders tense. If anyone tries to claim my revenge as their own...

Franco shakes his head, his expression grim. "No. For the wedding."

My attention sharpens. "What do you mean?"

"They're calling it 'il matrimonio rosso,'" he explains, the Italian phrase hanging heavy between us. "There are whispers about betrayal, about what she might have known beforehand. They're mourning our losses, but some want more than grief. They want blood."

His eyes lock with mine, unwavering. "Revenge can't build what we're trying to create here. You know that. And eventually..." He pauses, weighing his next words carefully. "Eventually, forgiveness might need to become part of our vocabulary."

I close the distance between us, every muscle coiled tight. But Franco doesn't back down. It's why he's my right hand, why I trust him more than anyone still breathing. "We're moving forward. Cleaning up the messes her father created. Isabella had nothing to do with the bloodshed at our wedding." My voice drops to something closer to a growl, the Beast slipping through my carefully maintained control. "And if anyone—anyone—so much as thinks about touching her..."

The threat remains unspoken, but Franco knows me well enough to read the promise of violence in my eyes. No one harms what's mine. Not even if I'm the one who locked her away.

Franco's eyebrow arches, his mouth quirking in what might be amusement. "More revenge? That's your strategy?" He tilts his head, studying me like he's seeing something I'm not ready to acknowledge. "Maybe you're not as far gone as you pretend to be. Maybe there's still hope for—"

"We'll continue this later," I cut him off, already turning toward the door. The Beast doesn't need hope. The Beast needs control.

But as I approach the small ballroom, it's not Elena's giggles I hear. It's Isabella's voice, edged with panic: "You need to leave."

Every muscle in my body tenses, ready for violence. My hand finds the gun tucked at my back without conscious thought. The scar on my face pulls tight as my jaw clenches.

No one—absolutely no one—is allowed to terrorize my wife.

That privilege belongs only to me.

Chapter nine

Antonio

Differentscenarios—eachonebloodierthan the last—hammer through my mind like bullets through flesh.

It's been months since this kind of primal panic had me frozen, muscles locked, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

My tactical training kicks in, assessing options. Barging in could get them killed. What if some bastard has a blade against Isabella's throat? What if my daughter is staring down the barrel of a gun? My fingers twitch toward the weapon at my back, the cold metal a familiar comfort against my palm.

Swallowing feels like forcing broken glass down my throat.

No time to signal Franco or rally my men. The Beast doesn't wait for backup.

Not knowing what's on the other side of that door is worse than Henrik's blade slicing through my flesh. Fear claws at myinsides, a sensation I haven't felt since flames rewrote my face. One wrong move could destroy the only two people who matter. But whoever's inside has forgotten something crucial: I'm the fucking Beast of Naples. I don't just survive hell—I rule it.

"I said you need to leave. Now." Isabella's voice rises, that steel I recognize threading through her words.

Time to move. Now.

The element of surprise is my only advantage. The hidden entrance behind the old suit of armor is my best option. I push against the ornate lamp fixture mounted on the stone wall, making sure each step is silent as death. The bookshelf slides without a sound, one of Franco's modifications that's saved my life more than once. I slip through the opening, weapon ready, finger hovering near the trigger, muscles coiled to strike.

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