Page 373 of Rosetti Family New York
The words hang in the air between us. She's right, of course. Business would have been a quiet conversation, maybe a subtle threat. Business wouldn't have involved Nico's blood decorating the tablecloth.
"You're mine. I made that clear."
"That's not the part that scared me."
Her honesty catches me off guard. I set down my fork, studying her face for traces of deception. Finding none. Just raw truth that makes my chest tight.
"Good," I tell her, my voice quieter than before. "Fear keeps you alive."
But even as I say it, I know it's another lie. Fear won't keep her alive when Dom decides she's too dangerous to leave breathing. Fear won't protect her when this house of cards comes tumbling down.
Fear won't keep her alive when Dom or Sal decides she's too dangerous to leave breathing. Fear won't protect her when this house of cards comes tumbling down.
The smart move would be to get what I want from her first. To break down those careful walls and have her exactly where I've been imagining since the moment I saw her photograph, pinned beneath my body and screaming my name. Once I've satisfiedthis hunger, once I've had her completely, then I can think clearly about next steps.
Then I can make rational decisions instead of sitting here like some lovesick fool watching her eat breakfast.
I watch her walk out of the kitchen, my coffee growing cold in my hands, and think: Time's running out.
For Chase. For the war. For whatever game I'm playing with the beautiful woman sleeping down the hall.
It’s just physical. Just wanting to possess something perfect before it gets destroyed.
Something that could get us both killed if I'm not careful.
8
Isabella
My hands shake as I make my way down the hardwood stairs, each step echoing in the silence like a countdown. The message was simple, delivered through the house's intercom system in that deceptively calm voice: "Library. Now."
I know why he's summoned me. The office door I tried this morning. The one that was supposed to be locked, but wasn't. The one I slipped inside for exactly thirty-seven seconds before the alarm system betrayed me with its soft, accusatory chime.
Thirty-seven seconds. Long enough to see the monitors, the files spread across his desk, the weapons cabinet in the corner. Long enough to understand exactly what kind of man is keeping me here. Not long enough to find anything useful.
Long enough to get caught.
My pulse hammers against my throat as I reach the bottom of the stairs. Five days. Five days since Matteo Rosetti turned my carefully ordered world upside down, and I've just handed him the perfect excuse to make things worse. The smart play would be to apologize, to play the contrite captive and hope for mercy.
But I'm done being smart. I'm done being perfect.
The late afternoon light slants through the library windows in golden bars, painting stripes across the hardwood floor. My palms are damp with nervous sweat, and I wipe them against his oversized sweatpants that hang loose on my frame. I'm still wearing his clothes, still surrounded by his scent, still playing the role of the compliant prisoner.
Except I'm not compliant. Not anymore.
I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene before me, my heart sinking at what I see. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line every wall, leather-bound volumes creating a warm cocoon that feels more like a trap than comfort. The air smells faintly of woodsmoke and paper, with an underlying hint of his cologne that makes my pulse quicken despite everything. A grandfather clock ticks steadily in the corner, each sound like a judge's gavel marking my fate.
Matteo sits behind the massive oak desk he's moved into the center of the room, and everything about his posture screams controlled fury. His auburn hair is perfectly styled now, not the casual mess I've grown used to. His white dress shirt is crisp, sleeves rolled with military precision. His hands rest flat on the desk surface, completely still.
He doesn't look up when I enter, but I can feel his awareness of me like electricity in the air. His tablet displays what looks like security footage, and my stomach drops as I recognize my own image on the screen, frozen in the act of reaching for his office door handle.
"Sit." The word is quiet, calm, and absolutely terrifying.
I'm wearing his clothes again: gray sweatpants rolled at the waist and an oversized black hoodie that swallows my frame completely. The fabric smells like him, clean and masculine, a constant reminder of who controls every aspect of my existence here. Nothing in this place is mine except the space I'm allowed to occupy.
I remain standing, my chin lifting in defiance even as my knees threaten to give out. "I need to talk to you about something first."
Now he does look up, and those amber eyes are arctic cold. His hands remain motionless on the desk. "First? You think you're in a position to set the agenda here, Isabella?"
