Page 413 of Rosetti Family New York
And that's exactly why I can't keep it.
Because men like Matteo Rosetti don't fall in love with women like me. They fall in lust, in possession, in the thrill of breaking something beautiful and claiming the pieces. But they don't fall in love. Not with museum curators who carry blood on their hands whether they know it or not. Not with women raised by killers, shaped by lies, hollowed out by years of performing for audiences who would destroy them without hesitation.
*I don't know how to love you without being terrified of losing you.*
His confession echoes in my chest, and I press my face against the painting, letting myself cry for the woman staring back at me. The one who looks fearless and defiant and worthy of being remembered. The one who believes she deserves to be seen and loved and chosen.
The one I can never let myself become.
21
Matteo
The coded message arrives at four in the morning, cutting through sleep with the sharp buzz of encrypted urgency. I grab my phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen in the darkness of my empty bedroom. Isabella's been sleeping in the guest room since yesterday, putting physical distance between us after I gave her the portrait. The space beside me feels cold, too big, a reminder of how she pulled away when I tried to get closer.
But Dom's text glows harsh on my phone screen: *Hornets moving upstate. Time to relocate.*
Fuck. I flip my coin between my fingers, silver catching the pale pre-dawn light filtering through the windows. Chase has operatives sniffing around our area. Too close for comfort. Too close to her.
I move to the window overlooking the forest, watching shadows shift between the trees. This place has been perfect. Our own private world where Isabella can read in the sunroom and I can watch her pretend she doesn't notice me watching.Where she curls against me at night like she's forgotten she's supposed to be my captive, not my woman.
The coin flips faster. Leaving means taking her back into the heart of Rosetti territory. Back to guards and surveillance and family meetings where she'll remember exactly what I am. What we are. Kidnapper and victim, not whatever the hell we've been pretending to be for the past few weeks.
But staying means risking Chase's men finding us. And if they take her...
The coin goes still in my palm. No. Not happening. Not ever.
I dress quietly in dark jeans and a white button-down, then start gathering essentials. Laptop, encrypted phones, the Glock from my nightstand. Business first, complications later. Except Isabella stopped being a complication somewhere between the restaurant and that first night she let me hold her.
When I have everything packed, I move down the hall to the guest room. The door is slightly ajar, and I push it open carefully, stepping into the space that smells like her perfume and the faint scent of the lavender soap she uses.
She's curled on her side, honey-blonde hair spilled across the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. The morning light filtering through the curtains paints gold highlights across her skin, and for a moment I just watch her breathe. Peaceful. Unguarded. Nothing like the careful mask she wears when she's awake.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under my weight.
"Matteo?" Her voice is soft with sleep, confused.
"We need to leave." I sit beside her, close enough to catch her scent but careful not to crowd her. "Chase's people are getting too close."
She sits up, immediately alert, and I watch her armor slide into place. The soft woman who whispered my name in her sleep disappears behind careful composure. "How close?"
"Close enough that Dom wants us back in the city. The mansion's more secure."
Something flickers in her expression. The safehouse has become familiar territory, a bubble where she's started to relax. The mansion means performing again, being Matteo Rosetti's captive for an audience of dangerous men.
"How long do we have?"
"An hour. Maybe two." I brush a strand of honey-blonde hair away from her face, and for once she doesn't pull away. "Pack light. Anything important we can send for later."
She nods, sliding from bed with efficient grace. I watch her move around the room, gathering clothes with the same careful precision she brings to everything. No complaints about the early departure or sudden change in plans. Just acceptance of another shift in the game neither of us chose to play.
But I catch her pausing at the nightstand where the portrait leans against the lamp, still wrapped in protective tissue paper. Her fingers hover over it for a long moment before she lifts it carefully, tucking it into her bag like it's made of spun glass.
My chest tightens. She can tell herself the gift doesn't mean anything, can pretend this is just survival, but she's not leaving that painting behind. The Unknown Woman is coming with us, proof that someone sees Isabella for who she really is.
Twenty-five minutes later, we're in the Aston Martin heading south toward Manhattan. Isabella sits beside me in yoga pants and one of my hoodies, looking smaller somehow in the oversized fabric. The morning air is cool enough to need heat, and I catch her shivering despite the jacket.
"Cold?"
