Page 364 of Rosetti Family New York
The words slice through my carefully maintained composure. My breathing quickens, the familiar tightness building in my chest that comes when someone sees too much.
"Stop." The word comes out sharper than I intended, but he doesn't stop. He never stops.
"I know your uncle uses you as window dressing for his business deals." His voice drops lower, more intimate, as if we're lovers sharing secrets instead of captor and prisoner. "I know you've never had a relationship that lasted longer than three months because you can't let anyone see past the performance."
My throat constricts. Three months. The exact amount of time it takes for someone to start asking why I never talk about my real feelings, why I flinch when they suggest meeting my family, why I always have somewhere else to be when things get too close.
"Stop." But my voice cracks on the word, betraying everything I'm trying to hide.
"I know you're lonely, Isabella." He's close enough now that I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "And I know you're tired of pretending you're not."
The truth slams into me. All those perfectly ordered days, all those carefully managed interactions, all those nights staring at the ceiling wondering if this is all there is. He sees it. He sees through every defense I've spent years building.
The rage comes swift and white-hot, born from exposure I never gave permission for. My hand moves without conscious thought, grabbing the coffee mug and hurling it at his head with all the fury I can't otherwise express. He catches it easily, liquid splashing across his shirt, coffee droplets scattering across the hardwood floor. But his eyes never leave mine, and something in them makes my breath catch. Not anger at being attacked, but fascination. Like he's just discovered something precious.
The silence stretches between us, thick with tension I can taste on my tongue. My chest rises and falls with harsh breaths I can't control. My hands shake with rage and something else, something that feels dangerously close to relief at finally letting the mask slip.
"Feel better?" he asks, his voice rough around the edges.
"No." The word comes out as barely a whisper.
"Want to try again?"
The question catches me off guard. There's no anger in his voice, no threat. Just genuine curiosity, as if he's actually interested in my answer. As if he wants me to keep fighting him.
"I want to go home."
"I know." He pulls a cloth from his pocket and wipes coffee from his forearms. "But that's not an option right now."
"Because you won't let me."
"Because letting you go gets my sister killed." The casual charm drops from his voice, revealing something harder underneath. "And that's not an option either."
Sister. Carmela Rosetti. I know that name from the art world, though we've never met directly. She's made waves in contemporary galleries, has a reputation for being brilliant and untouchable. If Chase threatened her...
"This is about her?"
"This is about family." He tosses the cloth aside and looks at me directly. "Something your uncle apparently doesn't understand the value of."
"Chase loves me."
"Chase uses you." There's no heat in the statement, just cold certainty. "The same way he uses everyone. The difference is, I'm not going to pretend otherwise."
I want to argue, to defend the man who raised me after my parents died. But the words stick in my throat because deep down, in places I don't let myself examine too closely, I know Matteo is right.
"What happens now?" I ask instead.
"Now, I'm going to explain how this works." He leans against the dresser, the picture of casual control, but I catch the way his fingers find that silver coin again. The nervous tell I'm already learning to read. "Think of them as guidelines for making this easier on both of us."
Guidelines. As if there's anything easy about being kidnapped.
"First rule." The coin flips once, twice. "No escape attempts. The doors are locked, the windows don't open wide enough, and there are security measures you can't see. All you'll accomplish is making this more restrictive than it needs to be."
I cross my arms over my chest, a barrier against his words and the way he's looking at me. Like he's memorizing every detail of my face, cataloguing my reactions for future use.
The thought sends an unwelcome thrill down my spine.
"Second, meals will be shared. I'm not running a hotel service, and I'm not your servant." His voice takes on an edge that makes me think of steel wrapped in velvet. "We eat together, we clean up together, we maintain some semblance of civilized behavior."
