Page 355 of Rosetti Family New York
The coin spins faster between my fingers as I watch Emilio twirl Mara across the dance floor, both of them shining with the joy of choosing each other over everything else. Love wins, challenges conquered, a perfect partnership made through effort and desire.
But some things require taking, not earning. Some women need to be claimed before they can willingly surrender. And sometimes, the most dangerous game starts not with chasing, but with capturing.
Isabella Callahan is about to find out exactly what it means to catch a Rosetti's eye. The hunt begins tomorrow.
Twisted Bond
Pia Sinclair
1
Matteo
The silk sheets whisper against my skin as I slide out without a sound. Years of practice have taught me the art of the seamless exit: dress in the dark, shoes in hand, no lingering.
Beside me, Lindsay Lonnigan shifts in her sleep, blonde hair fanned across the Egyptian cotton pillowcase. Last night, she was all breathless whispers and Chanel No. 5, the kind of Park Avenue princess who thinks a Rosetti makes an interesting trophy. This morning, she's just another conquest cooling in sheets that smell like expensive perfume and regret.
I'm halfway into my pants when she stirs.
"Matteo?" Her voice carries that hopeful note women get when they think one night might turn into something more. "Are you leaving already?"
"Early meeting," I murmur, buttoning my shirt. The cotton still holds the faint scent of her perfume. "Business doesn't sleep."
She props herself up on one elbow, sheet sliding down to reveal the kind of body that graces magazine covers. A couple ofyears ago, that might have been enough to pull me back to bed. Today, I'm already mentally checking out.
"Will I see you again?" she asks, trying to sound casual and failing.
I lean down to kiss her forehead, a gesture that feels tender but commits to nothing. My lips brush skin that's still warm from sleep. "I'll call you."
We both know I won't.
My phone buzzes as I'm lacing up my Italian leather shoes. A text from an unknown number. I delete it without reading and grab my jacket from the chair where I threw it last night, when taking it off seemed urgent.
The elevator ride down from her penthouse is silent except for the soft jazz playing through hidden speakers. My reflection stares back from the polished steel doors: auburn hair messed from her fingers, shirt wrinkled despite my best efforts, the satisfied expression of a man who got exactly what he wanted and nothing he didn't.
Twenty minutes later, I'm pulling into the underground garage beneath our Midtown tower. The Aston Martin's engine echoes off concrete walls as I find my reserved spot, the sound sharp and hungry. Everything in my life is sharp and hungry: my suits, my cars, my exits, my appetites.
My phone buzzes again. Another unknown number. Some women take longer to get the message than others.
I slip the phone back into my pocket without looking then pause, glancing down at the wrinkled shirt I've been wearing since yesterday afternoon. Can't meet Domenico looking like I just rolled out of someone's bed. I retrieve a fresh white button-down from the emergency stash in my trunk—a collection that's saved my reputation more times than I care to admit. I change quickly between parked cars, the cool underground air raising goosebumps on my skin.
In the elevator, I straighten my collar and watch the numbers climb. Forty floors to prepare my face, to shift from Matteo the playboy to Matteo the businessman. The transition is easier than most people would believe—both roles require calculated charm and a willingness to go for the kill.
The doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing a hallway of polished marble and subdued lighting. My brother's domain. I flip my lucky silver coin between my fingers, the familiar weight centering me as I stride toward the double doors at the end of the hall. Whatever Domenico wants, it's not a social call. Not at this hour, not with that tone in his text.
Time to find out what kind of fire needs putting out today.
Manhattan sprawls below the conference room, a concrete empire baking in the summer morning, heat waves shimmering off glass and steel. Coffee percolates somewhere nearby, filling the air with a rich, dark scent, but my attention stays fixed on the folder spread across the glass table.
Isabella Callahan.
One night. That's all it took for her photograph to lodge itself in places it has no business being, ever since Dom handed it to me at Emilio's wedding reception. Less than twelve hours since I first saw that face, and I woke up this morning with her honey-blonde hair tangled in my sheets, in my dreams, at least. The kind of vivid, explicit dream that left me hard and frustrated despite the sexy woman in the sheets beside me.
It's been a long time since any woman invaded my sleep without permission. Usually, I'm the one doing the invading. Usually, I'm the one leaving them wanting more.
"Matteo."
Dom's voice cuts through my distraction. My eldest brother stands at the head of the table, hands braced against the glass surface, green eyes hard with the kind of focus that built this empire. His dark brown hair is perfectly styled despite theearly hour, his charcoal suit pressed to perfection. Always the professional, always in control.
