Page 19 of Shattered Engagement

Silence stretches across the connection before Luca laughs, the sound cold and brittle. “Don’t start this again, Isadora. Our arrangement isn’t up for negotiation.”

Before I can respond, Alessio reaches across the table and takes the phone from my hand. I’m too stunned to protest.

“Mr. Calviño,” he says, voice smooth and deferential in a way that doesn’t match the steel in his eyes. “Alessio Gravano. I apologize for the interruption, but we’ve arrived at a location with poor reception. Miss De Angelis will call you this evening from a secure line.”

He pauses, listening, his expression revealing nothing of Luca’s response.

“Of course, sir. Your fiancée’s safety is my only priority until your return.” Another pause. “Yes, sir. Understood.”

He ends the call and slides the phone back to me, his fingers brushing mine in the process. The contact sends a jolt of electricity up my arm.

“You had no right,” I say, though there’s no real anger in my voice.

“Actually, I do. Ensuring your stress levels remain manageable falls under my security responsibilities.” His tone is professional, but there’s something else beneath it—concern, perhaps. Or possessiveness. “That wasn’t a healthy conversation.”

“That’s my life, Alessio. What you witnessed is the man I’m marrying in ten—no, nine—days.” I laugh without humor. “Did you expect romance?”

“I expected basic respect,” he says quietly. “Even in our world.”

His words hang between us— “our world”—a reminder of the dark reality we both inhabit. The mafia princess and the enforcer, playing roles assigned by family legacy and blood oaths.

“Why do you care?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He studies me for a long moment, as if deciding how much truth to reveal. “Let’s just say I recognize the signs of a man who views women as property.”

Something in his tone makes me look closer, searching those amber eyes for clues to the mystery that is Alessio Gravano. “Your mother?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it?” I press. “You’re in my space, controlling my movements, intercepting my calls. Yet, somehow it feels different from when Luca does the same things. Why is that, Alessio?”

“Perhaps because my motivation is your protection, not your submission,” he answers, his gaze intense. “There’s a difference between guarding something valuable and owning it.”

The weight of his words settles over me, stirring something dangerous—hope. Hope that someone sees me as more than a transaction, a bargaining chip, a pretty possession.

“Don’t,” I whisper, suddenly terrified of where this conversation is heading. “Don’t make me believe there are choices when we both know there aren’t.”

His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “There are always choices, Isadora. Even in cages of our own making.”

“Some cages have consequences for escape that are worse than captivity,” I counter, thinking of my father’s connections, the power of the Calviño family, the business interests secured by my marriage.

Alessio leans back, professional distance restored. “Then we understand each other.”

But as our eyes lock across the table, I’m not sure we do. Because understanding Alessio Gravano would require knowing who he really is beneath the enforcer facade. And I’m beginning to suspect that the man assigned to guard me carries secrets far more dangerous than our forbidden night together.

The realization should make me pull away. Instead, it draws me closer, like a moth to a flame, knowing the burn might be worth the momentary brilliance.

Nine days until my wedding. Nine days with this man who awakens parts of me I’ve tried to bury. Nine days to discover the truth behind those amber eyes that see too much.

Nine days that could change everything.

7

Alessio

Her scent lingers in the car. Floral with an undertone of something distinctly her—something that calls to mind tangled limbs and heated skin against cold bathroom tiles. I grip the steering wheel tighter, forcing the memory away as I drive through the gates of the Calviño estate.

Twenty years of planning, of building an identity brick by blood-soaked brick, and now my focus threatens to shatter because of a woman. Not just any woman—the one promised to my half-brother. The irony would be amusing if it weren’t so dangerous.

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