Page 365 of Rosetti Family New York
Civilized. The word tastes bitter. Nothing about this situation is civilized, but I understand what he's really saying. He wants the pretense of normalcy, the performance of willing participation. Another show to put on, just with a different audience.
"How civilized can it be when I'm here against my will?"
"More civilized than you might expect." His eyes hold mine, and I see something flicker there. Heat. Interest. The kind of look that makes my skin feel too tight. "Third, stay out of my office. It's the one room in this house that's off-limits to you."
I file that information away. One room he doesn't want me to see. One space that might hold answers, or weapons, or a way out.
"And if I don't follow your rules?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Then your privileges get reduced accordingly." The coin catches the morning light as it flips, sending fractured rainbows across the wall. "Right now, you have free run of most of the house, access to books and music, comfortable surroundings. Push me, and you'll find yourself confined to this room with basic necessities only."
The threat is delivered in the same tone he might use to discuss dinner plans, but I don't doubt he means every word. There's steel beneath all that charm, the kind of ruthless pragmatism that built his family's empire.
"You really think you can keep me here indefinitely?"
"I think I can keep you here as long as necessary." He straightens, that casual pose shifting into something more predatory. "Whether that's comfortable or not is largely up to you."
He moves toward the door, but pauses at the threshold. When he turns back, something in his expression makes my mouth go dry. Not the polished charm he showed me last night, but something rawer. Hungrier.
"There are clothes in the closet. Not your size, but they'll have to do. The bathroom is through that door, fully stocked with whatever you need. I'll be downstairs when you're ready for breakfast."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "What if I'm never ready?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his gaze traveling from my face down the length of my body and back up again. The assessment is frank, possessive, and it makes heat pool low in my belly despite everything my rational mind is screaming.
"Then you'll get very hungry, Isabella." His voice drops to something that's almost a growl. "And patience is a virtue I'm still learning."
The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the rapid hammering of my heartbeat and the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with spilled coffee. I sink onto the edge of the bed, my carefully maintained composure finally cracking under the weight of everything that's happened.
I'm trapped. Completely, utterly trapped with a man who sees through every defense I've spent years building. A man whoknows exactly how lonely and empty my perfect life has become, who can recite my isolation like reading from a script.
A man whose voice drops to velvet when he threatens me, whose eyes heat when he looks at my body, whose presence fills every corner of this beautiful prison until I can barely breathe.
I bury my face in my hands, trying to find some anchor in the chaos. The Isabella Callahan who woke up yesterday morning in her pristine loft feels like a stranger now. That woman lived in a world where she controlled every variable, where her biggest concern was what to wear to charm Chase's associates.
This woman sits in a stranger's bedroom wearing yesterday's wrinkled clothes, her pulse still racing from the way Matteo looked at her. Like he wanted to devour her. Like he was imagining exactly how she'd taste.
The thought sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
And that might be the most terrifying realization of all. Not that I'm trapped here with him, but that some dark part of me is curious what would happen if I stopped fighting. If I let him see past the performance the way he clearly wants to.
If I finally let someone close enough to discover what's underneath all the carefully maintained control.
The scent of coffee and his cologne lingers in the air like a promise. Or a threat.
I'm not sure there's a difference anymore.
5
Matteo
Sunday night settles into silence around me. Two full days have passed since I brought Isabella here, and the safehouse feels different now. Heavier. Charged with tension that has nothing to do with security and everything to do with the woman upstairs.
Night has claimed the forest completely, leaving only the soft glow of security monitors to push back the darkness. I sit in my office, leather chair creaking as I lean back, surveying the screens that show every corner of my domain.
Every corner including hers.
The monitor in the center displays Isabella's room, where she sits on the edge of the enormous bed I chose specifically for her. She's been there for an hour, just sitting, staring out at the forest like she's plotting her escape. My oversized gray sweatpants hang loose on her slender frame, the waistband rolled multiple times. The matching hoodie swallows her completely, sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
