Page 403 of Rosetti Family New York
He follows me over, his release tearing through him with an intensity that leaves him shaking. My name falls from his lips like a prayer, like a confession, like something sacred.
After, when we're both breathing hard and my body is boneless with satisfaction, he pulls me against his chest. Hishand strokes my hair, the same gentle touch that's been comforting me through nightmares I didn't even know he was witnessing.
"You keep fixing me," I whisper against his skin. "And I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"You don't have to be ready," he says quietly. "Just don't run."
"Don't leave me alone after," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
"Never," he promises, his arms tightening around me. "You're mine, Isabella. And I take care of what's mine."
And for the first time since he took me, I believe him completely.
17
Matteo
The afterglow should be enough. Should be everything.
We've barely left this bed all day. Just tangled sheets and whispered demands, Isabella's body underneath mine, over mine, pressed against me like she can't get close enough. We managed food at some point, feeding each other strawberries and champagne like we're on our own private honeymoon instead of hiding from the world.
Then I had her again on the kitchen counter, her legs wrapped around my waist while she begged for more. And again in the shower, water streaming down our bodies while she cried out my name.
Now I lie here in the darkness, watching Isabella sleep beside me, her honey-blonde hair spilled across my chest like silk. The room still holds the scent of sex and sweat, the salt taste of her skin lingering on my lips. Her breathing is deep and even, no nightmares tonight. Just peace.
My peace.
This wasn't the plan. She was never supposed to mean anything.
The silver coin rests on the nightstand, catching moonlight through the windows. I've been flipping it between my fingers since I was twelve, a nervous habit that surfaces when I'm thinking about dangerous things. Tonight I can't bring myself to touch it. My hands are too busy memorizing the curve of her spine, the way her pulse flutters at her throat.
Three weeks ago, Isabella Callahan was a photograph in a folder. A means to an end. Chase's weakness wrapped in elegant packaging.
Now she's the woman who cries my name when she comes. Who trusts me enough to fall apart in my arms. Who looks at me like I'm worth saving instead of something to survive.
The realization sits heavy in my chest, dangerous and addictive. I've spent my whole life perfecting the art of not caring, of keeping everyone at arm's length where they can't hurt me. But Isabella slipped past every defense I built, made herself essential when I wasn't looking.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand, the vibration sharp in the quiet room. Isabella stirs but doesn't wake, her hand curling against my chest. I should ignore it. Should stay here in this perfect moment where nothing exists except the warmth of her skin and the steady rhythm of her breathing.
But the phone keeps buzzing. Insistent. Urgent.
I slip out of bed carefully, grabbing the phone and my jeans. Isabella murmurs something in her sleep, reaching for the warmth I left behind. The sight makes my chest tight with something I don't want to examine.
The hallway is dark, all shadows and silence. I check the caller ID: Emilio. My twin brother doesn't call at three in the morning unless something's gone very wrong. Especially not from his honeymoon in Tuscany.
"What is it?" I keep my voice low, moving toward the office at the end of the hall.
"We need to talk. Now." Emilio's voice is sharp, all business. Gone is the easy humor, the casual arrogance. This is the voice of the man who built an empire from code and surveillance. "Encrypted video call. Five minutes."
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone, dread pooling in my stomach. Whatever Emilio found, it's bad enough to pull him away from his honeymoon with Mara.
The office is cold, all glass and steel and the kind of modern furniture that looks impressive but feels like sitting on ice. I boot up the secure laptop, the screen casting blue light across my face. Outside, wind moves through the trees, branches scraping against the windows.
Emilio's face appears on the screen, pixelated but clear enough to see the grim set of his mouth. Behind him, I catch a glimpse of Italian countryside through hotel windows. He's sitting at a desk, his dark hair disheveled like he's been running his hands through it.
"Tell me," I say.
"We found proof." Emilio's voice is steady, controlled. The way it gets when he's delivering death sentences. "About Isabella's parents."
