Page 393 of Rosetti Family New York
"You didn't have to come," Matteo says for the third time since we left the safehouse. His hand finds the small of my back as we reach the top floor, his touch burning through the fabric of my dress. That possessive touch that makes my skin warm and my pulse quicken, even as I tell myself I hate it.
"Yes, I did." I turn to look at him, catching the way his eyes darken when they meet mine. "Last time you left me behind, youcame home bleeding. I'm not sitting in that house wondering if you're alive or dead."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. "Worried about me, bella?"
"I'm worried about being stuck in the middle of nowhere with no way home if something happens to you," I lie, but we both know it's not the truth. The truth is that seeing him hurt, cleaning his wounds with my own hands, made something shift inside me. Made me realize I care more than I want to admit.
His hand slides from my back to my hip, fingers spreading possessively over the curve. The heat of his palm burns through the silk, and I have to work to keep my breathing steady.
"You're not a prisoner," he says, his voice low and rough against my ear. "But you're mine. Act like it."
The words send heat spiraling through me, and I hate how much I like the way he says it. How much I like belonging to someone who looks at me like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once.
The elevator doors open with a soft whisper, revealing a reception area that screams money and power. Tasteful art lines the walls, strategic lighting creates an atmosphere of understated elegance, and the receptionist behind the sleek black desk looks like she stepped out of a magazine. But underneath the polished surface, I can feel something else. Something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
This is the legitimate face of the Rosetti empire. The mask they wear for the outside world.
"Mr. Rosetti," the receptionist says, her smile never wavering. "Your brothers are waiting in the conference room."
Matteo's hand tightens on my hip, and I can feel his tension through the simple touch. He's bringing me into the heart of his family's business, trusting me with something he's never sharedwith anyone outside the blood. The weight of that trust makes my chest tight.
The conference room is glass and chrome, just like the elevator. Modern and cold, with a view of Manhattan that makes me feel like I'm standing on top of the world. The air smells of leather and expensive coffee, with an underlying metallic edge that speaks of serious business conducted behind closed doors. Dom Rosetti sits at the head of the polished mahogany table, his presence commanding even in silence. He's older than Matteo, broader, with the kind of authority that comes from years of making life and death decisions.
When he looks at me, his sharp green eyes are like winter.
"You're bringing her here?" The voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see Rafe Rosetti in the doorway. Dark hair, broken nose, ice-blue eyes that cut like winter, and a five o'clock shadow that makes him look dangerous even in an expensive suit. But there's no warmth in his expression when he looks at me. "Chase's blood?"
The words hit me like a blow. Chase's blood. Not Isabella. Not even my name. Just a reminder of who I belong to in their eyes, what I represent.
Matteo steps closer to me, his body a wall of heat at my back. I can feel the tension rolling off him, the barely controlled violence that lives just beneath his charming surface. His hand slides down to rest at the base of my spine, fingers splaying possessively over the silk. The touch sends electricity through me, makes my breath catch in a way I hope no one else notices.
"She's not him," he says, his voice carrying a warning that makes the temperature drop. "And she's with me."
I force myself to stand straighter, to meet Dom's cold stare without flinching. Years of charity galas and board meetings have taught me how to project confidence I don't feel, how tosmile when I want to run. But this is different. This is walking into a den of predators and pretending I belong there.
"Isabella Callahan," Dom says, my name rolling off his tongue like he's testing the weight of it. "You're smaller than I expected."
"I'm exactly the size I need to be," I reply, keeping my voice steady. The words come out stronger than I feel, and I catch the flash of surprise in his eyes.
Matteo's hand moves to my shoulder, fingers squeezing gently. The touch sends electricity down my spine, and I have to work not to lean into him. When his thumb brushes against the sensitive skin at the base of my neck, just above the emerald pendant, I nearly gasp. The small caress feels intimate, claiming, and from the way his breathing deepens behind me, he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
"She's here because she insisted on being here. Questions?"
The silence stretches between them, loaded with family dynamics I don't understand. The overhead lights cast stark shadows across the conference table, highlighting the austere beauty of the space. Everything here speaks of power carefully contained within acceptable boundaries. Dom studies me for a long moment, and I can practically see him cataloging every detail. The way I hold myself, the expensive clothes, the fact that I'm not cowering in the corner.
Behind me, I hear Matteo's breathing change, becoming deeper. More controlled. When I glance over my shoulder, his eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my pulse skip. The way he's looking at me—like he wants to devour me whole—sends warmth spreading low in my belly.
"No questions," Dom says finally. "But if this goes sideways, she's your responsibility."
The weight of those words settles over the room, heavy with implication. I can feel all three men watching me, measuring me, deciding whether I'm worth the risk I represent.
A knock at the door interrupts whatever Matteo might have said. A man enters, nervous energy rolling off him in waves. He's thin, sharp-featured, with the kind of eyes that never stay still. I recognize the type—an informant, someone who trades information for protection or money.
"Mr. Rosetti," he says, his voice too loud in the quiet room. "I have news about Chase Callahan."
My blood turns to ice. Whatever this is, whatever information he's bringing, it's about my uncle. About the man who raised me, who gave me everything I have.
The man pulls out a small package, wrapped in brown paper. "This came for you. A gift, he said."
