Page 371 of Rosetti Family New York
The safehouse is built for sound control as much as security. Thick walls, reinforced glass, enough space between rooms that secrets stay buried. Tonight I'm grateful for the isolation, because what I'm thinking about doing would get me killed if my family knew.
Isabella is three doors down. I know because I've been listening to her breathe through the monitors, watching the rise and fall of her chest in the dim blue light of the security feed. Her sleep has been restless since we returned from the restaurant. Broken. Haunted.
The first nightmare hit around midnight. Soft whimpers that turned to desperate gasps, sheets tangling around her legs as she fought something I couldn't see. I watched her thrash through the camera feed, my hands clenched into fists as every instinct I've spent years burying screamed at me to go to her.
I didn't. Smart men don't get involved in other people's dreams.
The second nightmare came an hour later. Worse this time. Her whole body went rigid, back arching off the mattress, and she cried out a name I couldn't make out. The sound hit me like a physical punch, made something twist in my gut that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the need to fix whatever was hurting her.
I turned off the monitor that time. Told myself I had better things to do than watch a woman sleep.
But I couldn't stop listening for her voice through the walls.
That instinct is the problem. It feels too much like caring, and caring has always been the fastest way to get yourself killed in my world.
I learned that lesson young. Eight years old, watching my father's business partner bleed out on our kitchen floor because Dad caught him skimming money. The man begged for mercy, talked about his daughter's medical bills, his wife's cancer treatments. All the soft, human things that made him vulnerable.
Sal put the gun to his head anyway.
"Emotion is leverage, boy," he told me while the body cooled between us. "The moment someone knows what you care about, they can destroy you."
Smart advice. The kind that's kept me alive for twenty-nine years.
So why am I standing in this hallway at three in the morning, listening for the sound of a woman's distress?
A soft cry drifts down the hallway, muffled but unmistakable. The third nightmare of the night.
This time I don't hesitate.
Isabella's door is locked, but I have the override codes for every room in this place. The lock disengages with a quiet beep, and I step inside without announcing myself. The scent hits me first: something floral and clean that makes my mouth water. Then I see her.
She's tangled in white sheets, honey-blonde hair spilled across the pillow in waves. My gray sweatpants hang loose on her frame, the matching hoodie twisted around her torso. Even in sleep, she looks elegant. Refined. Nothing like the women who usually warm my bed.
Nothing like anyone who should be here, in my world, in my head.
She whimpers again, and the sound goes straight through me. Her face is turned toward the window, moonlight catching the tear tracks on her cheeks. Her fingers clutch the sheets like she's holding on for her life. Whatever she's dreaming about has teeth.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, careful not to wake her. This close, I can see everything: the way her lashes flutter against her cheeks, the rapid pulse at her throat, the vulnerable curve of her neck. She looks younger like this. Softer. Like someone who's never seen blood spilled over dinner.
"Shhh, bella," I murmur, my voice barely a whisper. "It's just a dream."
My hand moves without permission, brushing damp hair away from her forehead. Her skin is warm, unmarked by the violence that shaped my world. She settles at the touch, her breathing slowing, and I feel something dangerous shift in my chest.
This is insane. I should leave. Should walk back to my room and pretend this never happened. Should maintain the distance that keeps us both alive.
Instead, I keep stroking her hair and talking softly in Italian. Words my mother used to whisper when I was small enough to believe in safety, before I learned that comfort was just another form of weakness.
"Sleep now," I tell her. "Nothing can hurt you here."
The lie burns on my tongue. Everything can hurt her here. I'm the biggest threat of all.
But she doesn't know that. She just sighs and melts deeper into the sheets, her face peaceful for the first time since I brought her to this place. I watch her breathe, count the steady rise and fall of her chest, and realize I'm sitting in the dark at three in the morning comforting a woman who should mean nothing to me.
A woman who's supposed to be a tool, not a temptation.
I stay longer than I should. Long enough to memorize the sound of her breathing, the way moonlight turns her skin to pearl, the trust she's showing me without even knowing it. When I finally force myself to leave, I close the door softly behind me and lean against the hallway wall.
My hands are shaking.
