Page 368 of Rosetti Family New York
And I will want to. Hell, I'll be jerking off to this for weeks.
Three days ago, I kidnapped Isabella Callahan for my family.
Tonight, I'd burn the world down to keep her. And tomorrow, I'm going to start planning exactly how to make her mine in every way that matters.
6
Isabella
The gray silk dress fits like a second skin. Too tight across my hips, pulling at the fabric when I breathe too deeply, but it's the only thing in the closet that isn't drowning me in Matteo's oversized clothes. Carmela Rosetti must be slighter than I am, more delicate. I smooth my hands over the material and try to pretend it feels like armor instead of a costume I'm being forced to wear.
Four days. Four days of this suffocating politeness, of coffee and careful conversation and pretending this is something other than what it is. Four days of watching him flip that silver coin and knowing he's thinking about things I don't want to understand.
But tonight feels different. Tonight he's taking me somewhere.
"Ready?" Matteo appears in the doorway, and I have to work to keep my expression neutral. He's dressed in a black suit with no tie, the shirt open at his throat in a way that looks careless but probably isn't. His auburn hair is perfectly messy, and that familiar coin is nowhere to be seen.
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really." But he says it with that charming smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "But you'll like where we're going. Rhinebeck has the best Italian food outside of Little Italy."
I follow him downstairs and into the SUV, the same one that carried me away from my life. The same leather seats, the same soft music, the same feeling of being trapped. But this time, I'm not trying to escape. I'm watching. Learning. Mapping the roads we take and memorizing the turns.
The restaurant is tucked into a quiet street, understated elegance that speaks of money and discretion. Inside, soft jazz mingles with the clink of crystal and hushed conversations in Italian. The scent of garlic and wine hangs heavy in the air, mixing with expensive cologne and the subtle tension that follows Matteo wherever he goes. Matteo's hand finds the small of my back as we walk inside, a possessive touch that makes my skin burn even as I tell myself I hate it.
"Mr. Rosetti." The host greets him like family, all warmth and deference. "Your usual table?"
"Perfect."
We're seated in a corner booth that offers a clear view of the entire restaurant but shields us from casual observation. Strategic. Everything about this man is strategic, from the way he orders wine I never asked for to the way his eyes constantly scan the room even while he's talking to me. I catalog every detail automatically, the way I've been trained to assess any new environment. Two exits, one through the kitchen. Security cameras in three corners. Tables positioned to muffle conversations.
"You know everyone here," I observe, watching him nod to a table of men in expensive suits.
"Business associates. Rhinebeck is neutral territory." His fingers drum against the white tablecloth. "Safe for certain conversations."
The way he says it makes my stomach tighten. This isn't a date. This is him showing me off. Displaying his prize.
"So I'm part of the show?"
"You're part of everything now." He leans back in his chair, completely at ease while I feel exposed under the ambient lighting. "The sooner you accept that, the easier this becomes."
I sip the champagne he ordered, bubbles sharp against my tongue. Around us, conversation flows in multiple languages, deals being made over pasta and wine. Waiters glide between tables carrying silver trays, their movements choreographed to near silence. It's civilized. Polite. Deadly.
The atmosphere shifts before I see him approach. Conversations don't stop, exactly, but they lower. Eyes flick toward our table, then quickly away.
"Isabella?"
I look up to find a young man standing beside our table. Dark hair, expensive suit, the kind of confident smile that means trouble. He's handsome in an obvious way, all flash and no substance, but there's something predatory in how his gaze lingers on the neckline of my dress.
"I don't think we've met." His eyes rake over me appreciatively. "Nico Torrino. And you must be Matteo's new ornament. I don't think I've seen art that fine since the Met."
Heat flashes through me, but not the kind I expect. Not embarrassment or anger. Something darker. Something that recognizes the predatory gleam in his eyes and wants to sharpen my claws in response.
"Careful," I say, letting ice creep into my voice. "I bite."
He laughs like I've said something delightful instead of dangerous. "I like her already, Matteo. Where did you find this one?"
I glance at Matteo and freeze. The charming mask has completely fallen away, replaced by something cold and lethal.His hands are flat on the table, knuckles white, and his eyes are fixed on Nico with predatory focus.
