Page 69 of Isaia

My heart skips a beat at the sound of his name, and I take a bite of pizza to stall. Anthony waits, patient as ever, staring at me like he has all the time in the world.

Finally, I’m forced to swallow, and Anthony lifts a brow, expecting an answer.

“He’s my boss,” I say simply. It’s true, and it’s uncomplicated. Perfect.

“And do all bosses in Chicago act like guard dogs around their employees?”

“Just a select few,” I quip, taking another sip of wine.

His brow arches, the skepticism clear. “You’re hanging around dangerous people. And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Isaia’s not?—”

“Not what?” He cuts me off, leaning closer. “Not dangerous? Don’t insult me, Everly. I know exactly who Isaia Del Rossa is.”

I shift uncomfortably, the glass in my hand suddenly too heavy. “He’s not your concern.”

“You’re my concern. And he’s trouble.”

I roll my eyes, setting the glass down harder than I mean to. “You’re one to talk. You’re all,” I wave a hand around, “cut from the same cloth.”

“That’s exactly why I’m warning you.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “You think I don’t know what men like him do? How they think? He’s possessive, Everly. Men like him don’t let go.”

“I can handle him.” I grab my wine and move to the couch, curling my legs beneath me.

Anthony follows. “The Del Rossa brothers have a reputation.”

“I know. They’re a hot topic around here.”

“Good. Then you know they’re not good men.” He sinks onto the couch beside me. “But Isaia? He’s a different breed entirely.”

My curiosity sharpens. “Why do you say that?”

“I know things. Things you don’t hear in idle gossip.”

“Of course,” I quip. “I forgot you’re all subscribed toMafia Weekly.”

“I’m serious. Isaia Del Rossa doesn’t feel. He doesn’t love. He consumes.”

Ain’t that the truth.

I glance at him, his familiar face etched with concern. “You don’t need to worry about Isaia.”

“I worry about you.” His gaze softens. “I’m not one to stand by while someone I care about walks into the fire.”

I snort, trying to deflect. “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Anthony doesn’t bite. His eyes remain steady, locked on mine. “You don’t see it, do you? Or maybe you do, and you’re pretending it’s not there.”

“See what?”

“That he’s sinking his claws into you,” he says, sharp but not unkind. “Isaia’s the kind of man who leaves nothing behind. Once he’s in, he owns you—body, mind, soul.”

His words land heavily. He’s not wrong. Isaia’s already wrapped himself around my thoughts, tangled in every quiet moment. Hearing it out loud makes it feel more suffocating.

“There’s nothing between Isaia and me that you need to worry about.”

Anthony’s jaw tics. “You sure about that?”

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