Page 405 of Rosetti Family New York
"She's already not the same," I say quietly. "She just doesn't know it yet."
"And you?" Emilio asks. "What happens to you when she finds out you've been lying to her too?"
The question hits me harder than the surveillance footage. Because he's right. I've been lying to Isabella since the moment I took her. About why she's here, about what I want from her, about the way she makes me feel when she's wrapped around me in the darkness.
About the fact that somewhere between the kidnapping and now, I've fallen completely, hopelessly in love with her.
The call ends, leaving me alone in the cold office with the weight of everything I've learned. Isabella Callahan isn't just a woman anymore. She's a weapon. A key. A queen who doesn't know she's been dethroned.
And I'm the only thing standing between her and the uncle who murdered her parents.
The realization crashes over me, steals the air from my lungs. Love. That's what this is. This desperate, consuming need to protect her. This way she's carved herself into my chest, made herself essential when I wasn't looking.
I'm in love with her. Completely. Irrevocably. The kind of love that makes men burn down empires and start wars.
The kind of love that gets you killed.
I make my way back to the bedroom, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. The house feels different now. Charged with danger. Every shadow could hide a threat, every sound could be Chase's men coming for her.
Isabella is exactly where I left her, curled on her side with her hand stretched across the space where I was lying. The moonlight turns her skin to pearl, highlights the curve of her shoulder, the elegant line of her neck. The scent of her perfume mixed with sex still clings to the sheets.
Beautiful. Trusting. Completely unaware that everything she believes about her life is a lie.
I slip back into bed, my skin still cold from the office. She turns toward me instinctively, seeking warmth, and I gather her against me. Her body is soft and pliant, molding to mine like we were made to fit together. The silk of her hair brushes my chest as she settles into my arms with a soft sigh.
Perfect. Mine.
But as I hold her, I can't stop thinking about the surveillance footage. About her parents' faces, terrified and resigned. About the way Chase looked when he ordered their deaths, casual and businesslike, like he was discussing the weather.
About the fact that tomorrow, I'm going to have to destroy her world all over again.
"You're not safe," I whisper against her hair. "Not even close."
She stirs, eyelashes fluttering against my chest. "Matteo?"
"I'm here." I stroke her hair, the same gentle touch that's been soothing her nightmares for weeks. "Go back to sleep, bella."
But even as she settles back into dreams, I stay awake. Watching. Planning. Preparing for the war that's coming.
Because Isabella Callahan isn't just the woman I love anymore. She's the woman I have to save. And I'll burn down the entire world to keep her safe.
Starting with her uncle.
18
Isabella
Something's wrong with Matteo.
He's sitting in the leather chair by the window, but everything about him screams danger barely contained. Not the controlled, predatory energy I've grown used to, but something rawer. More desperate. Like he's carrying the weight of the world and it's finally threatening to crush him.
My body aches in places that remind me of last night, of his hands and mouth and promises whispered against my skin. The sheets still smell like him, expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely masculine that makes my pulse quicken even now. But the bed beside me is cold, empty, and that emptiness feels like a warning.
The bedroom door is open, spilling morning light across the hardwood floor. He's fully dressed in dark jeans and a white button-down that's already rumpled, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The careful and deliberate way he holds himself makes my skin prickle with unease.
I slip from the bed, my legs unsteady from the thorough claiming he gave me hours ago. The silk robe hangs where heleft it for me, and I wrap it around myself, tying the belt with trembling fingers. The fabric whispers against my bare skin as I pad toward the sitting area, my bare feet silent on the cool wood.
His energy is different. Quiet. Protective. Burdened.
