Page 357 of Rosetti Family New York
"I get results," I correct, voice dropping to something more dangerous. "Whether they're beautiful or not is just... a bonus I plan to enjoy."
Rafe frowns, leaning back in his chair. "Taking a civilian is messy, Matt. Especially one with her profile. The art world will notice if she disappears."
"Not if it's done right." I flip the coin again, catching it without looking. "Quick, clean, contained. She takes a few days off work, maybe a long weekend. People will assume she's visiting family."
"What about security?" Leo asks.
"Minimal. A doorman, keycard access. No bodyguards, no real protection. She's never made enemies because she's never been part of the game."
Dom studies me for a long moment, green eyes calculating. "This isn't a seduction, Matteo. This is leverage. Keep that in mind."
"Understood." My fingers tighten on the folder despite my casual tone. "Business first, complications later."
But even as I say it, I know there's something different about this assignment. Lindsay Lonnigan was forgotten before I left her bed this morning, but Isabella Callahan has been occupying valuable real estate in my head since last night. It's not like me to fixate, especially on a woman I haven't even met. Haven't even touched.
Yet.
"Timeline?" I ask.
"Soon." Dom's voice carries the weight of inevitability. "Intelligence suggests Chase is planning a major strike within the month. Better to have leverage in place before he moves."
The room falls quiet again. Outside, the July heat makes the city shimmer like a mirage, all glass and steel and dangerous possibility. I think about Isabella walking through that heat, completely unaware that her ordinary life is about to end. Completely unaware that I'm about to become the most important thing in her world.
The thought sends a dark thrill through my chest.
"Consider it done," I say, standing with fluid grace. "I'll handle the acquisition personally."
My brothers exchange glances as I move toward the door, but none of them object. They know I'm the best choice for this kind of work—smooth, charming, capable of making the impossible seem inevitable.
I pause at the threshold, folder tucked under my arm, silver coin warm in my palm.
"One more thing," I say without turning around. "When this is over, when Chase understands the cost of threatening family, of threatening our sister, I want to be the one who delivers the message personally."
"Noted," Dom replies. "Just make sure the girl stays unharmed. We need cooperation, not trauma."
I nod and step into the hallway, but my mind is already racing through logistics and timing. Isabella Callahan doesn't know it yet, but her carefully ordered life is about to become mine to orchestrate. Mine to control.
Mine to enjoy.
The elevator doors close with a soft whisper, carrying me down toward the street where the real work begins. In my pocket, the coin tumbles between my fingers, faster now, a nervoushabit that only surfaces when I'm contemplating something particularly dangerous.
Or particularly tempting.
The hunt begins now.
2
Isabella
The portrait stares back at me with those fierce dark eyes, and for a moment I almost believe she's listening. I've been here since seven this morning, tucked away in the European Decorative Arts storage wing where the tourists never venture, nursing my second cup of coffee and the headache that comes from another sleepless night.
"Who were you?" I whisper to the painted woman. The modest canvas, barely eighteen inches square, shows a young woman from the 1760s with dark hair and an expression that refuses to apologize for taking up space. The placard reads "Portrait of an Unknown Woman, French School, circa 1760-1770," but I've been researching her for months, following paper trails through auction houses and private collections.
The ultramarine in her dress cost a fortune in her day. Someone thought she was worth the expensive pigments. Someone wanted to capture that defiant tilt of her chin, that refusal to lower her gaze for the viewer.
I spread my research notes across the small viewing table, photographs of similar portraits and auction records datingback centuries. The letter I found in the Bibliothèque Nationale archives mentions a painter's model who became notorious for refusing to marry the men who commissioned her portraits. A woman who chose herself over security.
My phone buzzes against the marble surface, the sound sharp in the quiet alcove. Chase's office. Of course.
