Page 17 of Shattered Engagement

The way he says “incidents” makes my skin crawl. As if I’m a liability rather than his daughter. But then again, in the De Angelis household, that’s exactly what I am—an asset to be protected until the transfer of ownership.

“Don Calviño personally selected Mr. Gravano,” my mother adds, her eyes assessing my reaction over the rim of her cup. “He comes highly recommended. The best in the business, apparently.”

Of course, he does. The universe couldn’t have been content with a forgettable one-night stand. No, it had to deliver Alessio—the man who had me moaning his name against bathroom tiles—as my shadow for the next nine days.

“I’ve already shown him the house layout yesterday,” I say, pushing my untouched croissant away. “He’s very... thorough.”

My mother’s eyebrow arches slightly. “You don’t seem pleased with the arrangement.”

I force a smile. “I’m just not used to having someone follow me everywhere.”

“You’ll hardly notice him,” my father says dismissively. “These men are trained to be invisible.”

That’s the problem. Alessio Gravano is anything but invisible to me. Even now, knowing he’s stationed somewhere outside the dining room, my body thrums with awareness of his proximity. As if my skin remembers the heat of his touch, the pressure of his hands.

“I have a fitting at eleven,” I say, rising from the table. “I assume my new shadow will be joining me.”

My father nods. “He’ll drive you.”

“I have my own car.”

“Not anymore.” His tone softens, a rare concession. “It’s just until the wedding, Isadora. A precaution.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. It’s not the security detail that bothers me—it’s the man behind it. The man who knows exactly how I sound when I come apart, who has tasted every inch of me, now pretending to be a stranger in service to my fiancé’s family.

I find Alessio waiting in the foyer, his broad frame silhouetted against the morning light streaming through the windows. He’s dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit, sunglasses tucked into his breast pocket. The picture of professional detachment.

“Miss De Angelis,” he greets me, hands clasped behind his back. “I understand you have an appointment at eleven.”

“A wedding dress fitting,” I say, watching his expression carefully. “I hope you’re comfortable with lace and tulle, Mr. Gravano.”

Something flashes in his amber eyes—too quick to identify before it’s hidden away. “I adapt to all environments, Miss De Angelis.”

“Call me Isadora,” I say, moving past him toward the door. “If you’re going to follow me into fitting rooms and bathrooms, we might as well dispense with formalities.”

He falls into step beside me, close enough that I catch his scent—sandalwood and something darker, uniquely him. The same scent that had clung to my skin that night.

“As you wish,” he says, his voice neutral. “Though I’ll remain outside fitting rooms, not within them.”

I glance at him as we reach the car—a sleek black Audi with tinted windows. “Pity. You’ve had such intimate opinions on what I wear before.”

His jaw tightens as he opens the passenger door for me. “We agreed that night doesn’t exist, Isadora.”

The sound of my name on his lips sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. I slide into the seat, using the moment to compose myself. This is a dangerous game, poking at the tension between us. But danger is the only thing that makes me feel alive these days.

The drive to the bridal salon is silent, thick with unspoken words. I watch the city blur past, aware of his hands on the steering wheel—hands that had gripped my hips, tangled in my hair, traced every curve of my body. Now they’re steady, controlled, those capable fingers guiding the wheel with precision.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking away from the road.

“I’m assessing,” I correct him. “Trying to reconcile the man from the club with Don Calviño’s chosenCapo.”

His mouth quirks slightly. “And what have you concluded?”

“That you’re a man of many faces, Alessio Gravano. I wonder which one is real.”

He pulls into a parking space across from the bridal salon and finally turns to look at me. The intensity in his gaze steals my breath.

“In this business, reality is a luxury few can afford,” he says quietly. “You should know that better than most,principessa.”

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