Page 363 of Rosetti Family New York
My stomach lurches, but I force myself to keep moving. Keep thinking. Keep planning.
I examine the air vent in the bathroom ceiling. Too small, and probably monitored anyway. Back in the bedroom, I test the lamp cords, looking for anything that could be useful. The drawer pulls on the bedside table are solid brass, heavy enough to do damage if necessary.
Years of being around Chase taught me to gather information, to look for advantages even when everything seems hopeless. Especially then.
I'm still cataloguing potential weapons when I hear footsteps in the hallway. Measured and confident. He doesn't knock. The lock disengages with a soft beep, and Matteo Rosetti steps into my beautiful cage carrying a coffee mug and wearing the expression of a man who owns everything he sees.
Including me.
"Good morning," he says, like this is a hotel and I'm a welcomed guest.
I straighten my spine, smoothing my blouse with hands that want to shake but won't. Not in front of him. "I want to leave."
"I know." He closes the door behind him with deliberate care. The lock engages again automatically. "Coffee?"
The mug he extends smells rich and perfect, exactly how I like it. The fact that he knows this makes my skin crawl.
"I don't want anything from you."
"Except your freedom." His lips curve in something that might be a smile on anyone else's face. On his, it looks dangerous. "Unfortunately, that's not on the table."
I cross my arms over my chest, needing the barrier between us. "What do you want?"
"Right now? For you to sit down and drink some coffee while we talk like civilized people."
"Civilized people don't kidnap art historians."
"They do when art historians have uncles who threaten their families." His voice carries no heat, just matter-of-fact certainty that makes this somehow worse. "I solve problems."
"I'm not a problem. I'm a person."
"You're leverage." But something flickers across his face as he says it, gone too quickly for me to interpret. "And right now, leverage is exactly what my family needs."
I walk to the windows, needing space between us. The forest stretches endlessly in every direction, thick and green and utterly silent. No neighbors, no road, no escape. Just trees and sky and the man behind me whose presence seems to fill every corner of the room.
"What do you want from me?"
"Cooperation." The word is simple, but I hear layers underneath it. "This doesn't have to be unpleasant, Isabella. I'm not going to hurt you."
I turn to face him. "You already have."
For just a moment, his confident mask slips. Something almost like regret passes across his features before he recovers, but I caught it. Good. Maybe he's not as untouchable as he pretends to be.
"You're safe here," he says quietly. "Safer than you've ever been, probably."
"I was safe in my own home."
"Were you?" He tilts his head, studying me with those sharp green eyes. "Living in Chase Callahan's shadow, performing for his associates, pretending to be something you're not every single day? That's not safety, sweetheart. That's survival."
The words slice deeper than they should because there's truth in them. But I've spent years building walls against that kind of truth, and I'm not about to let Matteo Rosetti tear them down.
"You don't know anything about my life."
"I know more than you think." He pushes off from the doorframe, moving closer with that predatory grace that makes my pulse jump. Each step brings his scent closer, something clean and masculine that makes my traitorous body want to lean toward him instead of away. "I know you haven't taken a real vacation in three years. I know you eat dinner alone six nights a week."
My hands clench into fists at my sides. He's reciting my life like reading a grocery list, reducing everything I am to surveillance data.
"I know you go to sleep every night in that pristine loft and wake up every morning putting on a mask."
