Page 430 of Rosetti Family New York
"Even if it's dangerous?"
"Especially if it's dangerous." I reach up to cup her face, and this time she doesn't pull away. "You want to know what I learned tonight? Watching you claim this empire, watching you rewrite the rules to something you can live with? You're not just my equal, bella. You're my queen."
Her composure finally cracks completely. She steps into my arms, and I hold her while she shakes. Not from fear or shock, but from relief. From the realization that she doesn't have to choose between love and power, between me and the empire she just claimed.
"I don't know what happens next," she whispers against my chest.
"Whatever you want. I'm with you. Always." I press my lips to her hair, breathing in the scent that's become home. "No chains. No cage. Just me."
She pulls back to look at me, and for the first time since she pulled that trigger, she smiles. It's small and tired and tinged with sadness, but it's real.
"Just you?"
"Just me. For as long as you'll have me."
The sun is starting to rise over Manhattan, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. The city looks washed clean, exhausted but surviving. Like it's been through something it doesn't quite understand but emerged somehow stronger.
Isabella owns New York now. And I get to watch her rule it.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, all I feel is fierce pride and the absolute certainty that I'm exactly where I belong. Not above her, not in front of her.
Beside her. Always beside her.
My queen. My equal. My heart.
Mine.
26
Isabella
Iwake to silence so complete it feels like drowning.
Not the warehouse. Not the cold concrete floor where Chase's blood spread in dark pools. This is soft. Warm. The scent of expensive sheets and something clean and masculine that makes my chest tight with recognition.
My body feels wrong. Heavy. Like I'm moving through thick water with every small shift. There's a sharp ache in my left side, and when I try to sit up, pain shoots through my shoulder like lightning.
"Easy."
Matteo's voice, low and careful. I turn my head slowly, and he's there in the chair beside the bed, wearing a black t-shirt and dark jeans. His auburn hair is messy, like he's been running his hands through it. There are shadows under his eyes, and his usual coin is nowhere to be seen.
"Where are we?" My voice comes out scratchy, barely above a whisper.
"Home." He stands, moving toward the nightstand with deliberate care. "The mansion. You've been sleeping for eighteen hours."
Home. The word feels foreign. I've never had a home, not really. Just places where I was useful, where I was wanted for what I could provide. This room, with its pale gray walls and single abstract painting, feels like something else entirely.
"I tried to get up," I say, though I'm not sure why. The admission feels important somehow.
"I know." He picks up a glass of water from the nightstand, ice clinking softly. "You fell. I caught you."
The memory surfaces slowly. Waking in panic, the room spinning, trying to stand on legs that wouldn't hold me. Strong arms catching me before I hit the floor. The gentle way he helped me back to bed, checking my bandages with clinical efficiency.
"You're hurt," I realize, noticing the way he favors his left arm.
"I'm fine." But his jaw tightens, and I can see the careful way he moves. "You're the one who hit concrete hard enough to scrape half your skin off."
Right. The warehouse. The fight. Concrete scraping against my palms when I hit the ground, gravel biting into my knees, something sharp catching my shoulder as I rolled behind cover. At the time, adrenaline made it feel like nothing. Now every movement sends little sparks of pain through my body.
