Page 39 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

Chapter 13 - Isabella

The Castellano estate feels empty, its stillness unbearable and unwelcoming.

It’s been over a week since the pier. Since the gunfire. Since the blood. Since I sat beside Dominic, pressing my hands against his wound, desperate to keep him tethered to this world. He survived, but in the days that followed, he’s been a ghost in this house—here but absent, near but untouchable.

I tell myself I don’t care.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t sought me out, hasn’t spoken to me, hasn’t even acknowledged what happened between us—the kiss, the heat, the way he held me like he was afraid to let go.

But it does.

And I hate that.

To keep my mind from spiraling, I bury myself in my work. Sketches litter the desk in my room, fabric swatches tucked into the corners, pencils rolling aimlessly across the wooden surface. Drawing has always been my escape, my way of capturing beauty in a world that thrives on destruction. I sketch gowns, delicate embroidery, sharp silhouettes—things I’ll never afford, designs that will never see a runway.

Because dreams don’t mean much when they’re built on empty pockets and wishful thinking.

Still, I draw.

Because in the quiet of my room, with the golden light of the setting sun spilling through the windows, it’s the only thing that feels real.

A sharp knock at the door shatters the stillness.

I glance at the clock. Late afternoon.

For a moment, I consider ignoring it, but the knock comes again, more insistent this time. Sighing, I push away from my desk and cross the room, my bare feet silent against the floor. When I pull the door open, Nico stands on the other side, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black slacks.

“Boss wants to see you.”

I arch a brow. “Dominic?”

“No, the Pope,” he deadpans, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Yes, Dominic. He figured you’d try to ignore him otherwise.”

I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “And since when do you run errands for him?”

“Since it keeps me entertained,” he quips, tilting his head toward the hallway. “Come on. You know how he gets when people keep him waiting.”

I wait for only a second before grabbing a thin sweater off the back of a chair and following him.

As we walk, the air grows heavier.

I don’t know if it’s just me, but the house feels different. The Castellano estate has always been a fortress, but now, there’s an edge to it—a quiet wariness in the way the guards stand at their posts, in the way their eyes track our movements.

Something has changed.

And I don’t think it’s just because of what happened at the pier.

I glance at Nico, noting the way he moves—more conscious, more present. There’s an authority in his stance that wasn’t there before, a shift in the way he carries himself. He’s always been close to Dominic, but this is different.

A realization snaps into place in my mind.

Charles isn’t here.

That realization stops me mid-step.

“Where’s Charles?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.

Nico halts as well, but it’s brief, barely noticeable before he turns to face me. For the first time since I’ve known him, there’s no amusement in his expression. His usual teasing demeanor is gone, replaced with a subtle unease.

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