Page 110 of Isaia

Fuck!

It’s like madness pounding against my skull, rage slicing through every muscle.

There’s just no fucking way that he gets to have her. She’s mine. She’ll always be mine, and no one, not Anthony, not Rinaldi, not the fucking Pope, is taking her from me.

I grab my jacket and stomp toward the exit when Alexius calls after me, “We can’t just fly to New York without a fucking plan, Isaia.”

“There’s only one plan, brother.” I reach the door and pause. “I’m taking her back. And God help anyone who gets in my way.”

Chapter 34

EVERLY

The dining room is all polished mahogany and suffocating tension. My mom sits to my left, her smile brittle as she stirs her tea, her gaze flicking nervously between me and Michele, who occupies the head of the table like a self-crowned king.

Anthony is across from me, his easy charm muted under the weight of the room’s oppressive atmosphere. He looks at me, his eyes searching, and I force a polite smile though my insides twist.

Michele leans back in his chair, the picture of smug entitlement, his suit immaculate, his demeanor even more so. He’s the kind of man who uses silence as a weapon, and right now, he’s holding the room hostage with it. I feel the weight of his gaze on me, but I don’t meet it. I can’t, not without showing him the loathing that boils beneath my carefully crafted façade.

I pick up my teacup, the porcelain warm against my trembling fingers. The bitter liquid burns my throat as I swallow, willing myself to stay calm while Michele’s presence sets my teeth on edge. Every smile he gives my mother tightens the resentmentin my chest because I know he doesn’t love her; he doesn’t love anyone but himself. He’s a parasite feeding off her vulnerability, and the knowledge that I have to play along with his twisted game makes my stomach churn.

Anthony breaks the silence, looking at Michele. “What is it you wanted to discuss?”

“Everly has something she wants to say to you…don’t you, Everly?”

My heart squeezes, my throat tightening when Anthony says, “You’ve been quiet, Everly. Everything okay?”

I meet his gaze, and it takes everything in me not to let my walls crumble.

His concern is genuine, his kindness undeserved, and it’s that kindness I’ll have to manipulate. The thought makes me want to scream, but I bury it deep, locking it away where it can’t betray me.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say, steady but hollow. “About everything.”

Anthony sets his tea down, his brows drawing together. “And?”

I glance at my mother, who offers me a slight, encouraging nod, then to Michele, whose expression is cold, calculating, a reminder of the stakes.

I swallow hard. “You were right,” I say, the words bitter on my tongue. “About Isaia. He’s not who I thought he was.”

Anthony’s eyes widen slightly, and I see the flicker of surprise he doesn’t quite hide. “I told you he was dangerous.”

“You did,” I agree, lowering my gaze to my lap, where my hands clutch the napkin. “And you were right. It made me realize there’s…there’s only one man who’s ever truly cared about me. One man who I know will care for me…always.”

His jaw tightens, his hand flexing on the table. “Everly?—”

“It’s you, Anthony,” I cut in, lifting my head to meet his gaze, forcing sincerity into my voice. “I’ve been running for so long, convincing myself I didn’t need stability, that I didn’t need you. But I was wrong. You’re the only one who’s ever made me feel safe.”

A beat of silence stretches between us, heavy and taut. My heart pounds as I wait for him to speak, for his reaction to betray whether he believes me.

Michele’s gaze is like a blade, slicing through the fragile composure I’ve barely managed to hold together. Every word I say feels like another chain tightening around me, another step away from the freedom I crave but can never reach.

“You’ve been dead set against this marriage for years. Are you sure about this?” Anthony asks.

“I am.” I inhale deeply. “It’s what I want. And…I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that.”

Anthony leans back, his expression unreadable, the silence excruciating. Then, he nods. “If that’s how you feel,” he says slowly, “then that’s what we’ll do.”

“Fantastic,” Michele says, all business-like as though we're not talking about my life, my freedom—my hell. “We'll start the preparations.”

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