Page 22 of Isaia

She has this quiet confidence, a calm I can’t wrap my head around. In a city full of noise and chaos, she walks like none of it touches her, like she’s unaffected by the darkness surrounding us all. And maybe that’s what’s messing with me—the way she makes everything around her feel lighter, cleaner, even when I know damn well it isn’t.

She’s this strange, untouchable force, and the more I watch her, the more I feel that if I get too close, I’ll ruin it—ruin her. But I can’t stop. It’s like I’m addicted to that fleeting sense of peace she carries, and it makes me want to pull her into my world just to see if she can survive in it.

“Goddammit.” I throw my head back against the seat.

I should be thinking about the threat she poses, about how dangerous this whole situation could be, but all I can think about is her. The way she moves, like she’s completely unaware of the predator outside.

Or is she?

I grit my teeth, my hands tightening on the steering wheel, then glance at her silhouette.

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

Not in that overdone, perfect way, but in a way that makes you want to touch, taste, and unravel her inch by inch. She’s the type of woman who gets under your skin, settles in deep, and refuses to leave.

And it pisses me off.

She’s a Rinaldi. She’s trouble. Every instinct in me should be screaming to stay away.

But instead, I’m here. Watching. Waiting. Pretending it’s a stakeout for info, to figure out if she’s bad news, but deep down, I’m enjoying every fucking second of it—observing her while she thinks she’s alone.

I see her standing near the window. She stretches her arms above her head, pulling the dress off.

My jaw clenches as I silently curse the damn curtains blocking the full view.

I shouldn’t be watching her undress, but there’s no catastrophe in the world that can tear me away from this exact spot. I’m fucking entranced, and the fact that she might be trouble does nothing to subdue my curiosity. It only fuels it, digs it so much deeper into my bones. She has no idea what she’s inviting just by existing, by being this perfect blend of innocence and temptation.

I imagine stepping out of the car, walking up to her door, knocking—no, not knocking. I’d just walk in, take her by surprise.

The look on her face when she sees me and realizes I’ve been watching her this whole time, it’ll fucking thrill me. I can almost feel the heat between us, the charge sparking like wildfire.

Would she welcome my touch?

Would she fight before submitting?

Will her breathing deepen as I step close, brushing my fingers down her arm before I bracket my hand around her hip, tightening?

Would she gasp as I pull her into me, our bodies colliding, her breath hitching in the surprise of it all? Or will she shower me in curses, spit fire and venom in my face for daring to invade her space?

Either one is equally enticing.

My mind drifts, and I picture it—her body pressed against mine, my hands on her skin, her breath catching as I lean in close. I know she’d respond. There’s a spark there, something between us, and it’s flickering like a flame about to light up dry timber.

I shake my head, trying to clear the haze of lust clouding my thoughts.

This isn’t the time.

This isn’t the place.

I’ve got a job to do, and getting tangled up in her is the worst possible move I could make.

But the tension between us is real. Every time I’m near her, it pulls me in, fucks with my head. She’s trouble, wrapped in soft smiles and sweet glances, but under all that? She’s dangerous.

A Rinaldi, maybe not by blood, but close enough. And that’s a little tidbit I can’t forget when it comes to her—no matter how much I want to peel away at her layers. Figure her out.

There’s this nagging feeling in my bones that this woman isn’t just passing through—whether it’s because she’s here doing business for her stepfather…or because I’m going to do everything I can to keep her here.

Excitement bubbles beneath the surface, and everything about this, about her, is stirring something primal. It’s an adrenaline rush slowly trickling in, waiting to engulf.

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