Page 21 of Shattered Engagement

“We both know the real threat,” I say finally. “Expectations. Obligations. The cages we’re born into.”

She turns to face me fully now. “Poetic for a hired gun.”

“I am made up of multiple facades,principessa.”

“Stop calling me that.” But there’s less heat in her objection than before.

We arrive at the Plaza Hotel, the gilded entrance glittering with promise. I guide her through the lobby with a hand hovering near the small of her back—close enough to feel her heat without actually touching it. The event coordinator meets us in the grand ballroom, already transformed halfway to a fantasy of cream and gold—a stage set for the merging of two mafia dynasties.

I position myself near the entrance, scanning for threats out of habit while Isadora discusses floral arrangements and lighting designs. Her voice carries across the space, confident and clear. She plays her part perfectly—the excited bride-to-be, the dutiful daughter. Only I seem to notice the tightness around her eyes, the way her hands clench and unclench at her sides.

The meeting drags on for nearly an hour before the coordinator excuses herself to retrieve revised seating charts. Isadora wanders toward the tall windows overlooking the city, shoulders sagging slightly now that she’s temporarily freed from performing.

“Two hundred and fifty guests,” she says, her voice barely audible across the room. “Most of whom neither Luca nor I actually care about.”

I move closer, drawn to her like a shadow to its source. “Politics.”

“Politics,” she echoes, tracing a pattern on the cold glass. “Do you know what Luca said when I asked if I could invite my childhood friend from boarding school? ‘If they’re not useful, they’re not welcome.’“

Something protective and possessive surges in my chest. “Luca isn’t known for his sentimentality.”

“Is anyone in our world?” She turns to face me, the moonlight casting her features in silver and shadow. “Are you?”

Before I can answer, glass shatters above us. Instinct takes over—I lunge forward, wrapping my arms around Isadora and pulling her down behind a heavy table as more glass rains into the ballroom.

“Stay down,” I command, drawing my gun from its shoulder holster.

Her breathing comes in short gasps against my neck, her body pressed tight against mine as I shield her. The position triggers a flash of memory—not of our night together, but earlier. Much earlier.

Rain pattering on a car roof. The scent of gunpowder. Maria’s arms around me, her body covering mine as bullets shattered the windows around us.

“Alessio,” Isadora’s voice pulls me back to the present. “What’s happening?”

I scan the room, noting the broken chandelier above us, and the glass scattered across the marble floor. It’s not gunfire, but rather an equipment failure. Still, my body remains coiled tight, heart hammering, gun steady in my hand.

“False alarm,” I say, not yet relaxing my protective hold. “Stay here while I check.”

I rise slowly, surveying the damage. The massive crystal chandelier has partially collapsed, sending shards across the ballroom floor. If Isadora had been standing beneath it...

“Are you hurt?” I ask, turning back to her.

She shakes her head, but I see a thin line of blood on her forearm. Without thinking, I kneel beside her, gently taking her arm to examine the cut.

“It’s nothing,” she insists, but doesn’t pull away.

My thumb brushes across her skin, just below the wound. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch. “Nothing is never nothing with you, Isadora.”

Her eyes meet mine, dilated in the dim light. For a suspended moment, there’s nothing else—no vendetta, no arranged marriage, no blood debts between families. Just her breath mingling with mine, the heat of her skin beneath my fingers, the gravitational pull that’s been there since that first night.

The event coordinator’s horrified gasp from the doorway breaks the spell. I pull away, helping Isadora to her feet with professional detachment, though my skin burns where hers touched it.

“Miss De Angelis! Are you alright?” The woman rushes forward, face pale with panic.

“I’m fine,” Isadora answers, her composure returning so quickly it’s as if our moment never happened. “But I think we’re done for tonight.”

In the car, silence stretches between us again, but charged differently now. Her scent—floral perfume mixed with adrenaline—fills the enclosed space. I can feel her watching me, questioning.

“You moved fast,” she says finally. “Like you were expecting something worse than a falling chandelier.”

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