Page 2 of Isabella

Liana chokes on her drink from beside me, surely from the cheesy and gross line this guy just fed me.

“That’s nice, but I’m really not interested,” I state, giving him a tight smile.

A new track comes over the speakers, and Liana grabs my hand and squeals. “Oh my gosh, I love this song. Let’s go dance!”

Before she’s able to pull me to the dance floor, the guy grabs my arm and says, “Don’t forget your drink.” His calloused hand grasping my bare skin makes me wince internally. He’s not being rough, but there’s something uneasy about his touch that has me wanting to shrink away from him.

Then a deep, yet velvety smooth voice interrupts us. “I highly recommend youdoforget that drink.” My eyes drift over the mass of blond hair in front of me to the source of the voice. I have to drag my gaze up—which is saying something since I’m five foot ten—to make eye contact with a dark-haired man who has a set of familiar whiskey-brown eyes.

He aggressively throws his arm around the guy who has finally let go of my arm, and says, “Why don’t you tell her what you did to her drink while she was busy on her phone.”

The blond’s eyes widen and several beads of sweat form on his forehead, glistening each time the flashing club lights hit them. “I… I…”

What the hell did he do to my drink?

“Cat got your tongue?” the one with the perfectly styled hair that’s shorter on the sides and long and whisked back on top says. “Let me help you then,” he adds before turning his attention back to me.

With his hand clamped around the nape of the blond’s neck, he causes a pathetic whimper to fall from his mouth. “This one decided to slip something into your drink while you were on your phone.” He points to my left, which is occupied by another student trying to get the bartender’s attention. “He had his eye on you from there ever since you slid up to the bar.”

My eyes widen as I turn back to look at my drink that appears untouched.

“Don’t feel bad. He’s very good at what he does. Extremely subtle,” he says before turning his attention to two other guys who seem to be with him. They have the same dark-brown hair and are around the same height as he is, except one is more burly looking while the other is muscular with a leaner frame.

“Show this asshole out. Maybe teach him a lesson that no one’s seemed to have taught him before.”

The blond holds up his hands and drops his jaw to defend himself, but before he can get a word out, the other two guys throw their arms around his shoulders as if they’re friends and start walking him out of the club.

I side-eye Liana, wondering if she knows this guy. She widens her eyes and tilts her head toward him, as if I should know exactly who he is.

I swear I’ve seen him before; I just can’t place him.

He reaches around me and grabs my drink off the bar. The fresh scent of his cologne infiltrates my nose, and I lean in a tad closer, wanting to relish in it. He swiftly gets a bartender’s attention and tells her to throw it out before looking back at me.

“Were there really drugs in that drink?” I ask him, still surprised and disappointed in myself for missing that.

“Yes, that’s not something I would lie about,” he says, and I believe him.

“What’re your friends going to do with him?”

He offers me a small shrug, but his eyes are sharp on mine. “That’s not something you need to worry about.”

His olive skin tone, inked skin, and the slight hint of danger in the air tell me all I need to know about him. I might be stereotyping, but I know a made man when I see one.

“You can’t hurt him,” I say, which causes his sharp brows to raise to his perfect hairline.

Tilting his head at me, he says, “He’s just the bastard of a politician, so I’ll do whatever I want with him. And since he has no issues being a rapist, I’m going to do the female population of CU a favor and get rid of him now.”

The authority in his voice is unwavering, and I do nothing but nod as if he didn’t just tell me he’s going to kill a man.

“Who are you?” I ask, intrigued to find out the name of the guy who saved me from a potentially disastrous situation. A guy who apparently has no shame in getting what he wants done, no matter who witnesses it.

He offers a light chuckle. “And here I thought I had a memorable face, Isabella.”

My spine straightens at my name rolling off his lips. The butterflies fluttering in my stomach should be more like a sinking feeling in my gut, yet I’m even more intrigued by who he is. And a little flattered.

“My name’s Niccolò. Niccolò Silvestri. But you, Isabella DiMaggio, can call me Nicco.”

2

---