Page 15 of Shattered Engagement

I have been working my knuckles off for the past two decades in this organization, and have risen in ranks by sheer will. Yet, it is the lady I thought I would never see again that gives me direct access to Calviño. For a flitting moment, the thought of putting a bullet through the old man’s head had crossed my mind, but this is not how I want my revenge. I will have him on his knees pleading for his pathetic life when the time comes, and he will realize that the walls he has spent decades building are not high enough to keep him safe.

The De Angelis estate is smaller than Calviño’s, but what it lacks in size, it makes up for in opulence. Old Italian aristocracy bleeds from every carefully curated detail, from the manicured Italian cypress trees flanking the driveway to the Renaissance art adorning the walls.

Antonio De Angelis meets me in the grand foyer, a man in his mid-fifties with silver at his temples and the calculated charm of someone who’s built an empire on others’ fear.

“Gravano,” he says, extending his hand. “Giancarlo speaks highly of you.”

“I appreciate the opportunity to ensure your daughter’s safety,” I reply, the lie slipping easily from my tongue.

“Yes, well, she’s not particularly happy about the increased security, but with the wedding so close...” He gestures for me to follow him. “She’s in the garden. I’ll introduce you.”

I follow him through the house, cataloging exits, security measures, staff positions—professional habits I can’t switch off even as my mind races with the implications of what’s happening. Of all the women in New York, I had to fuck the one being handed to my half-brother on a silver platter. The cosmic joke isn’t lost on me.

We step onto a stone terrace overlooking an Italian-style garden. And there she is.

Isadora sits on a marble bench near a fountain, a book open in her lap, though she’s not reading. In daylight, she’s even more striking than she was in the dim club lighting—her olive skin glowing in the afternoon sun, dark hair pulled back in an elegant twist that’s nothing like the wild waves I’d tangled my fingers in.

She looks up as we approach, and for a moment, I see only the stranger from the club—the woman who called herself Chiara, who’d whispered filthy desires against my neck as I buried myself inside her.

Then her eyes widen in recognition, and the blood drains from her face.

“Isadora,” her father says, oblivious to the current passing between us, “this is Alessio Gravano. He’ll be heading your security detail until the wedding. Mr. Gravano, my daughter, Isadora.”

Her composure is remarkable. After that initial shock, her expression smooths into polite interest as she extends her hand. “Mr. Gravano. A pleasure.”

When our hands touch, electricity arcs between us. Her fingers tremble slightly, but her gaze is steady, challenging. What are you going to do now? her eyes seem to ask.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss De Angelis,” I respond, my voice giving nothing away. “I look forward to ensuring your safety.”

Antonio nods, satisfied with the introduction. “I’ll leave you to discuss the security arrangements. Isadora, dinner is at seven.”

As her father walks away, tension crackles in the air between us. She waits until he’s out of earshot before speaking, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What kind of sick game is this?”

“No game,” I reply quietly, maintaining a professional distance. “This is as unexpected for me as it is for you.”

Her green eyes flash with anger, fear, and something else—the same heat that drew us together at the club. “You expect me to believe that? You just happen to be assigned as my bodyguard days after we—” She cuts herself off, glancing around to ensure no one is listening.

“I work for the Calviño family,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “I had no idea who you were that night. Just as you apparently had no idea who I was.”

Her laugh is short, bitter. “We’re quite the pair of liars, aren’t we?”

“It seems we are.” I step closer, lowering my voice further. “We need to talk privately. Is there somewhere we won’t be overheard?”

She hesitates, then nods. “The greenhouse. This way.”

I follow her through the garden to a glass structure tucked behind a high hedge. Inside, the air is warm and humid, filled with the scent of exotic flowers. She locks the door behind us and turns to face me, arms crossed defensively across her chest.

“Explain,” she demands.

“What do you want me to say? That I orchestrated meeting you that night? That I knew you were engaged to Luca Calviño? I didn’t.”

She studies me, calculating something behind those intelligent eyes. “You really didn’t know who I was?”

“No. Did you know who I was?”

“Of course not.” She turns away, pacing between potted plants. “This is a disaster.”

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