Page 408 of Rosetti Family New York
Matteo
The storm building outside matches the violence churning in my chest. Isabella has been sleepwalking through the house all day since yesterday's revelations about her parents, and I can't reach her through the walls she's rebuilt.
But I can give her something back.
I find her in the library, curled in the leather chair by the window. She's not reading, just staring at pages like they might hold answers to questions she's afraid to ask.
"Bella." I pull her phone from my pocket, the device warm against my palm. "This belongs to you."
Confusion flickers across her face, those green eyes I've memorized going wide. "What?"
"Your phone." I hold it out, watching her pulse jump in her throat. "You should have it back."
She stares at the device like it might bite her, then reaches out slowly. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it, and that familiar jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. Christ, even now, even when she's hollow-eyed and distant, touching her sets my blood on fire.
"I don't understand." Her voice carries that breathless quality that makes me want to press my mouth to her throat. "Why now?"
"Because you're not my prisoner, tesoro. You're here because it's safe. Because I want you here." The endearment slips out naturally, the way it always does when I'm trying to gentle her. "There's a difference."
Hope blooms across her face, the first real emotion I've seen all day. She turns the phone over in her hands, thumb tracing familiar edges, and something in my chest loosens at the sight.
"Thank you," she whispers, and fuck me, the gratitude in her voice almost brings me to my knees. "This means everything."
I want to stay, to watch her reconnect with her world. But my encrypted laptop is chiming from the office, and I have business that keeps her safe.
Twenty minutes later, I'm staring at intel that makes my blood turn to ice. Chase's lieutenant tried to reach Isabella this morning. A fake email from her Columbia professor about stolen Byzantine manuscripts requiring urgent consultation.
Academic legitimacy. Her weakness.
The email never reached her because all her communications route through my secure server first. A precaution I never removed, even when I handed her the device back.
My phone buzzes. Marco.
*Found him. Vincent Torres. Warehouse in Queens. Want me to handle it?*
I flip my coin once, then palm it. *No. I'll handle this personally.*
The warehouse smells like rust and piss and terror. Torres sits tied to a chair, blood already trickling from where my men softened him up. His expensive suit is rumpled, his Harvard tie askew. The kind of polished academic that Isabella respects.
Perfect.
"Vincent." I roll up my sleeves, white fabric stark against my forearms. "You sent my woman an email today."
Recognition flares in his eyes, followed by pure terror. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I pull on leather gloves, the snap echoing in the empty space. "Columbia professor needs urgent consultation about stolen manuscripts. Creative. Almost believable."
"Chase said she'd come willingly if—"
My fist caves in his cheekbone. The wet crack bounces off concrete walls, blood spraying in a perfect arc across the dusty floor.
"Wrong fucking answer."
What follows isn't interrogation. It's art. I teach Vincent Torres exactly what happens to men who try to manipulate Isabella Callahan. Who think they can use her brilliant mind, her scholarly passion, her desperate need to help people as weapons against her.
By the time I'm finished, my knuckles are hamburger and my shirt is ruined. But the message is crystal clear. Touch what's mine, and I'll turn you into abstract fucking art.
The drive back takes forty minutes through winding mountain roads. Rain starts halfway there, fat drops hitting the windshield like tears. I should feel satisfied. Should feel that familiar post-violence calm that settles in my bones after sending a message.
