His Bold Seduction (Bloodlines & Betrayal #3)

3. Isadora

3

ISADORA

C arlo Rosetti isn't bad; he’s just not my type. But try telling that to a set of parents who see me as a prized cow, destined for auction, and they’re eager to sell before I’m deemed too old for their liking.

"Isadora, sweetie, you really have to meet him." Mom plays the role of good cop, her voice soft and soothing. She’s been leading the charge today, showering me with gentle coos and affirmations that I’m beautiful and would make a good wife, as if those words could somehow erase my reservations.

Dad, on the other hand, is the bad cop in this scenario. With his arms crossed tightly over his chest and a no-nonsense glare etched onto his features, he leans into his role with an intensity that makes my stomach churn. “This is our livelihood that you're playing with,” he says, his voice low and stern. “Every day that you put Carlo off makes us look bad. I have half a mind to discontinue paying for your college education.”

This threat is a familiar one, a card he plays whenever I dare to disobey him, yet it still fills me with a cold dread at the thought of not being able to complete my degree. I’m just three semesters away from finishing, a milestone I’ve worked tirelessly to achieve. I don’t even know what I want to do with my life yet; all I have are fleeting dreams, but I’m acutely aware that I’ll have so many more opportunities with my degree than I would without it. “I didn’t ask to marry Carlo. I have no desire to marry Carlo. Maybe you should just end my marriage to Carlo. Then you won’t look bad. See? Problem solved.”

They exchange a glance that communicates their resolute disapproval, and I know instantly that this is utterly impossible in their eyes. Good cop crosses the room with purpose, her expression softening as she presses a firm but gentle hand against my arm, grounding me in the moment. "Honey, after that incident with the Gallagher boy, we just think it's time for you to settle down," she explains, as if that one moment could justify the weight of my current predicament.

The unspoken words hang heavily in the air: it's time for me to settle down before no man will ever want to settle down with me. I can read between the lines, and their intent is painfully clear. I don’t know why they’ve always disapproved of Liam Gallagher, but I understand their hesitation. He’s pretty much the cream of the asshole crop, a title he wears with pride. That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m going to allow my parents to dictate the course of my life. "I'm twenty, not thirty-five. I am not a spinster or aged milk. I'm perfectly happy where I am,” I assert, trying to infuse my words with conviction.

"You can't become aged milk if you keep giving away the milk for free," Dad retorts, his eyes rolling in exasperation.

Heat floods my collar, and I can feel a flutter in my chest, the kind that signals an impending explosion of frustration. "Excuse you?" I reply, my voice tight with indignation.

He seems unfazed by my irritation, viewing my low, lethal tone as a mere invitation to continue. "You know what my men call you? A loose girl. You really want that kind of reputation to follow you around?"

I’ve been slut-shamed before; it’s a familiar sting. Men and women alike gaze at a woman who is confident in her sexuality and feel compelled to tear her down. It’s one thing to suspect that your parents harbor those thoughts about you, but it’s an entirely different experience to hear them spill out of their mouths like venom. "What men have called me a loose girl? Give me their names. I'll show them just how tight my pussy is.” The words burst forth from my lips before I can even think to restrain them.

Mom gasps, letting out a scandalous half-shriek under her breath. She withdraws her hand from my arm, stepping back as if I’ve just set off a bomb. Her eyes dart frantically to Dad, searching for support. "Isadora! We raised you better than that,” she exclaims indignantly, her face flushed with shock and disapproval.

"Did you really think so little of me? Because the way it sounds, I've been carelessly tossing around my virtue without a second thought. Who's next on the list?" I pace around the living room with a fierce energy, like a caged tiger prowling its enclosure. "Is it the guy down at the gas station who always gives me a wink and a smile? Or perhaps the high school kid who bags my groceries and can't seem to meet my eye? Maybe it's the dealer at the casino who gives me a good hand and a sly grin. You tell me, dad. What exactly does a loose girl do?"

The clench of his jaw seems to be draining all the blood from his face, and his eyes flash with a mixture of anger and shame. "You know what I mean, Isadora. Don't be ridiculous," he snaps at me, his voice strained.

"Of course I'm the one being ridiculous." A laugh escapes my lips, bright and unexpected, bubbling up from a place I didn't know existed. It's a nervous laughter, a deflection, a shield against the storm brewing in my chest. Sometimes, when you're angry, the line between emotions blurs. You might find yourself crying out of sheer frustration, or laughing at the most inappropriate moments. You build walls to protect yourself from pain, when what you truly need is to let the walls down, to open up and be vulnerable. We all cope with anger in our own unique ways. I’m the inappropriate laugher, the one who masks hurt with humor. "It couldn't be you and your traditional morals that are wrong. That would be utterly crazy."

Mom takes a step toward me, her intention clear as she reaches out, likely hoping to comfort me with a gentle touch. But I sidestep her, evading her grasp. "Honey, please. This isn't about what you've done in the past; it's about what you're doing now. And what you're doing now is marrying Carlo! He's a good man from a good family!" Her voice carries a note of desperation, as if she's trying to anchor me to the world she believes in, the one she thinks is right.

"I bet he is, but he won't be my man. I’ve heard rumors about Carlo. He treats his pets better than some of the women he’s been seen around town with, and that says a lot about his character. “If you'll excuse me, I came by to grab some things. I thought it would just be a change of clothes, but it looks like I’ll need moving boxes for everything I need to carry out of here. You can keep your bullshit, though; I won’t be packing that.”

My dad thinks I'm being dramatic. From his scoff to the roll of his eyes, he expresses his disappointment in me through exaggerated gestures, as if my emotions are nothing more than a stage performance. “Let her go, Maria. She'll be back the moment she realizes that her cards are cut off and no one is paying her tuition.” His tone is laced with disdain, as if he believes I’m just another spoiled child throwing a tantrum.

I breeze out of the room as if I don’t have a care in the world, but inside, I’m fuming. “I’ll show them,” I mumble to myself, fists clenched at my sides. “I don’t need them.” The walls of this house, once a comfort, now feel like a prison, and I'm determined to break free, even if it means facing the unknown.

There is a harsh truth to their words, though. If I don't have any money and no place to go, it won’t be long before I find myself back on their doorstep, my pride shattered. I can’t turn back now, though. I can’t tell them that they’re right. If I bend to their will, they’ll force me to marry Carlo, and Isadora Dutton is not one to be forced into anything. I make my own choices, even if they lead me into uncharted territory.

But if I’m honest with myself, I don’t have a lot of options. I could call Autumn; I’m sure that she and Enzo would put me up, even if it means imposing on their fragile situation. But they’re still dealing with the fallout from the choices they made, and I can’t put this on their shoulders; this is my cross to bear. I need to figure this out on my own, even if it feels like I’m walking a tightrope without a safety net."

I sit at the foot of my bed, tucking my legs beneath me as I try to gather my thoughts. My phone holds a hundred contacts, maybe more, each representing a potential lifeline. I could start at the top of the list and methodically work my way down, reaching out to each of them. Statistically, someone has to be willing to help me, right? There’s no way that every single person I've saved in my phone can be swayed by my father's influence.

Yet, the very first number that catches my eye in my text messages is unknown. It’s the message I sent to myself from Costantino's phone just a couple of days ago, a reminder of our strange connection. He mentioned having broad shoulders, but I can't shake the worry that I might be asking him to bear too heavy a burden if I decide to call him now.

Before I can second-guess myself, my fingers are dialing his number, and I take a deep breath, inhaling courage and exhaling the fear that has been clinging to me like a shadow.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Costantino's voice greets me, rich and warm on the other end of the line. “I was hoping I’d hear from you soon.”

“You said you could carry anything,” I remind him, my voice steadying. “You know somebody with a truck?”

For a moment, silence envelops us, but it doesn’t last long. Costantino’s easygoing, velvet-smooth voice breaks through the quiet. “We talking Chevrolet, box, or eighteen-wheeler?” His adaptability shines through even in this light-hearted exchange.

I take a moment to glance around my room, surveying the countless items I've accumulated over the years. Each piece holds a memory, but I know I could part with at least half of them if the situation demands it—maybe even more. “Whatever you've got, I want it,” I say, determination solidifying in my tone.

A low chuckle resonates through the line, its warmth almost tangible. "That's what daddy likes to hear."

I immediately cringe, a shiver of discomfort running down my spine. "I'll text you the address of where I'm at. Bring a truck, some moving boxes, and a man who doesn't call himself 'daddy'." The last part comes out sharper than I intended, my irritation surfacing like a stubborn bubble.

Costantino lets out a playful harrumph on the other end of the line, the sound rich with amusement. "Is this a date or are we moving in together? I got plenty of space, but I should warn you, I have a golden retriever, and he's a shedder." His tone is teasing, as if he’s enjoying the banter as much as I am.

I hadn’t given much thought to where I was going to go after this. The plan had been to figure it all out by the time Costantino arrived, but now I feel a flicker of uncertainty. "Sweetie, have you ever lived with a woman? We shed, too. I bet I'll give your golden a run for his money." I can't help but chuckle at the image of a golden retriever and myself in a fierce competition of fur.

"Norman will love the company. See you soon, beautiful." He hangs up unexpectedly, leaving me with a rush of emotions and a smile spreading across my face as I stare at the screen.

Costantino Bianchi has been an unexpected treat, a delightful surprise in what had seemed like a bleak chapter of my life. His tongue game is unmatched, except, perhaps, by his undeniable charm. Now he’s helping me do the unthinkable: run away from the only life I’ve ever known, a life that has grown stifling with each passing day. There’s something to be said about these Bianchis; maybe Autumn had the right idea all along, diving headfirst into the chaos and passion they seem to embody.