Page 14 of Isabella

Ever again.

12

NICCOLÒ

Leave it to my dad to tell me to meet him in his office at a precise time to then be late. According to the gold roman numerals on the cherry oak grandfather clock, he’s already seven minutes behind.

It’s been a week since Dad stormed into Cartelli’s and threatened Matteo DiMaggio, which means it’s been a week since I saw Isabella for the first time in over three years.

My sweet Isabella.

Seeing her again took my breath away. She somehow looks even more beautiful than I remember. Her long chestnut-brown hair with matching eyes. Those high cheekbones and pouty lips against her olive skin. An absolute fucking vision as I had always remembered.

Her presence at that table drew emotions to the surface I’d tried to bury deep these past few years. They bubbled up with red-hot fury and vengeance as soon as I saw her, and I haven’t gotten her out of my head since.

When I was sent to Sicily, I told myself that ignoring Isabella, cutting off ties completely, was what was best for her. My plan was to always come back for her, but I had to protect her until that point.

Yet here I am.

Back in New York City.

Hating that she barely even looked at me when this is the exact reaction I should’ve expected. The only time she did look at me, there was only anger in her eyes.

Hatred.

Loathing.

She wants nothing to do with me.

Those were the first words I’ve spoken to her in over three years, and there was nothing but an empty wall behind her eyes. Her silence hit me like a ton of bricks—knocking the wind out of me—and all I could do was turn around and walk away.

“Ahh, Niccolò, how good of you to meet me this morning,” my dad’s voice sounds from behind me.

“Of course, Dad,” I say, doing my best not to show my irritation. He takes his seat across from me, behind his desk.

“What’re you wearing?” he asks, turning his nose up at my casual attire. I glance down at my black tee and jeans before taking in his charcoal-gray three-piece suit with a deep-red tie.

“What have I told you about presentation, Niccolò? No one will take you seriously when you’re running around looking like a schoolboy.”

My dad has never liked the way I dress. Casual was never his style. He believes if you want to be taken seriously, then you have to dress the part, and according to him, that consists of a suit and tie only.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” I mumble even though I have zero plans of doing that.

My dad leans forward, placing his arms on his desk. “I’ve come up with a solution to thisproblemwe have.”

I sit back in my seat, intrigued to hear how he thinks we’ll get Matteo DiMaggio to give us access to his ports. There’s nothing we have that he would want. And why does he care about them so fucking much? We can do just fine without the ports if my dad would take his head out of his ass for a second and listen to me about expanding our distribution without them.

“That DiMaggio girl,” he continues.

“Isabella,” I grit out, not liking the way he brushes her off and doesn’t give her the respect she deserves by speaking her name.

Waving me off, he says, “Yes, yes.Isabella. I want you to court her.”

I nearly choke on his words. “Courther? I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me. I want you to get with the DiMaggio girl.”

“Isabella,”I repeat, trying to keep my tone neutral, not wanting my dad to sense she’s anything to me. I didn’t cut ties with the woman I love for him to catch on now to what caused him to send me away.

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