Chapter 6 - Dominic
The evening brims with eagerness, the Castellano estate bathed in deepening shadows as preparations for the poker night unfold. I’ve spent days orchestrating every detail, ensuring nothing can go wrong. My staff moves like a well-oiled machine—trays of food circulating, bottles of wine uncorked, every corner polished to perfection.
Today’s game isn’t just another poker game; it’s a chess move in a larger plan. Tonight’s stakes are far more significant than the pile of chips on the table. Every decision I’ve made up until now has led to this moment. The Castellano name demands nothing less than precision, and tonight, I’ll deliver it.
But a feeling gnaws at me—an edge to my focus I can’t quite shake. I can’t seem to forget yesterday’s conversation with Isabella. There’s a rat in the house, snooping around, trying to uncover Isabella’s purpose. I need to figure out who it is before it’s too late.
I enter the kitchen, and the head chef’s booming voice echoes across the room, barking orders. The scent of freshly baked bread and simmering sauces fills the air. My gaze sweeps over the bustling chaos until it lands on a sight that freezes me mid-step.
Isabella.
She’s standing at the center of it all, a streak of flour on her wrist as she leans over the marble countertop, laughing softly. The sound of her laughter—it’s light, unguarded—hits me like a punch to the ribs. Her cheeks are flushed, her brown hair spilling over her shoulders. There’s a maddening allure about how she looks in this moment, she’s too radiant.
But as if jolted back to reality, I realize, she is not alone.
That damn assistant chef, some younger guy whose name I can’t recall, is standing too close, leaning in as he shows her how to roll dough. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms dusted with flour, and he’s smiling like he’s got a right to be that comfortable near her.
A knot of heat coils in my chest.
“What’s going on here?” My voice cuts through the room like a blade.
The kitchen falls silent, all motion halting. Isabella’s head snaps up, startled, her hands pausing mid-motion. For a split second, her eyes meet mine, wide and unguarded. Then, just as quickly, her expression shifts—warmth replaced by a sharper expression.
“I’m learning to bake a pie,” she says, her tone even, though there’s a touch of defiance in her voice. That defiance stirs a dangerous emotion in me.
“Do I look like I run a cooking school?” I snap, my gaze swinging to the assistant. He stiffens under my glare. “You. Get back to work. Now.”
The guy seems unsure, his eyes darting to Isabella, and that small act of loyalty grates against me. But he’s not stupid. He mutters a quick, “Yes, sir,” before retreating to the far end of the kitchen.
“Was that really necessary?” Isabella demands, her tone stone despite her lethal expression. Her hair falls into her face, and she brushes it back with a floured hand, smudging her cheek in the process.
She looks so damn... human. Real.
“You’re distracting my staff,” I say flatly.
“He was teaching me how to make pumpkin pie! You didn’t have to treat him like that,” she retorts, crossing her arms. “I was bored in my room, and it’s not like you’ve given me much else to do. I thought this would be a nice change.”
Her dark eyes bore into mine, challenging me in a way few would dare. A part of me wants to explain myself, but the larger, reserved part—the part that knows what’s at stake tonight—closes the door on that impulse. Why does it bother me that she was spending time with someone else?
“If you’re so bored,” I hear myself saying, “come to the poker game tonight.”
Her eyes widen, surprise softening her features. For a moment, she just stares at me, like she’s waiting for me to take it back. Then, slowly, her lips curve into a smile—bright, genuine. It’s the kind of smile that cuts through the layers I keep wrapped around myself.
“Really?” she asks, her voice lighter now, almost hopeful.
I regret the words the second they leave my mouth. Inviting her is reckless, but the sight of that smile is enough to ground me. It’s a rare thing, and before I know it, I’ve committed to seeing it again.
“Yes,” I say gruffly, the word rougher than I intend. “Be ready in an hour.”
I turn before I can see the full effect of her reaction. If I stay, I’ll do something stupid, like let her see how much she’s getting under my skin. Tonight, I need focus. I need control.
As I enter the dining hall, it glows with opulence, every detail carefully curated for the evening. The polished mahogany poker table, bathed in the warm light of crystal chandeliers, commands attention. Decanters of fine whiskey and wine rest within arm’s reach, while the glimmer of candlelight dances off intricately etched crystal glasses. The room exudes wealth and power, but beneath its grandeur lies a predatory edge—a lion’s den cloaked in velvet and gold.
I stand at the head of the table, surveying the setup with a critical eye. The stakes tonight go far beyond the chips we’ll toss across the felt. Hugo Bianchi, acting boss of the rival syndicate, isn’t a man to be underestimated. He’s cunning, sharp, and unpredictable—a man who thrives on exploiting the weaknesses of others. Winning him over tonight could tip the scales in my favor. Having him on my side would mean better chances of victory over Delgado’s.
Every move I make tonight must be planned, precise. There’s no room for distractions.
And then she walks in.
I sense her presence before I see her, the sharp click of her heels cutting through the quiet and drawing my attention. My gaze shifts, pulled by an invisible gravity, and the moment my eyes find her, the breath catches in my chest, frozen by the sight before me.
Isabella.
She’s changed from the casual ease of the kitchen into an outfit designed to ruin my focus. A sleek black dress clings to her curves like a second skin, the fabric smooth and shimmering under the golden light. The hem skims mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare and endless, while the neckline plunges low enough to show off just enough cleavage to drive a man insane. Her hair is tied in a low bun with strands framing her face with an effortless beauty.
She’s a vision—and a liability.
My chest swells, heat coiling low in my stomach as anger rises to the surface. What the hell was she thinking wearing that?
I cross the room in quick, measured strides, my voice low enough to keep others from overhearing. “Where did you get that dress?”
She meets my gaze head-on, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. There’s a challenge in her expression that both irritates and intrigues me. “It was in the closet,” she says simply, her voice even. “Why? Do I not look good?”
That’s the damn problem. She looks too good—too distracting, too tempting, too much. I force my gaze upward when it dips to the curve of her collarbone.
“You’ll draw attention,” I say, the words clipped.
She steps closer, and the subtle shift in proximity sets my pulse hammering. Her chin tilts up in defiance, her smirk playful and maddening. “I thought that was the point of bringing me here. Or am I wrong?”
Her tone is light, teasing. I part my lips to respond—to tell her just how wrong she is—but before I can, the doors behind me swing open, pulling my attention away.
Hugo Bianchi.
The man walks in like he owns the place, his entourage trailing behind him. His white suit is sharp, his smile sharper, and his gaze is immediately drawn to Isabella. It lingers, sliding over her like a predator sizing up prey, and my fists curl at my sides.
“Dominic,” Hugo says, his voice smooth and unctuous as he extends a hand. “A pleasure, as always.”
With a calm, measured motion, I reach for the decanter on the side table but pause, glancing at Hugo. “What’s your preference? Whiskey?”
He leans back slightly, considering the choices before giving a casual shrug. “Whiskey. I’ll need all the courage I can get if I’m playing against you.” His smirk deepens as he adds, “Besides, whiskey suits a high-stakes game like this.”
“Good choice,” I reply, pouring two glasses. The amber liquid gleams in the dim light as I hand him one. He takes it without hesitation, raising it slightly in a mock toast. I then pour a glass of wine and hand it to Isabella—she could use a drink to loosen up a little.
“To courage,” he says with a hint of humor before taking a sip.
“Only the best for meetings like these,” I respond coolly, swirling my own glass before taking a measured sip. The warmth of the liquor spreads through me.
“Let’s begin,” Hugo says curtly, gesturing toward the table.
He moves to his seat, still watching Isabella as he does, and I follow, every muscle in my body tight with restraint. The poker game hasn’t started yet, but the real game—the one I can’t afford to lose—has already begun.
The poker game is a dance of calculated risks and subtle power plays, but tonight, my focus is fractured. I shift in my seat, arranging my cards into a perfect fan, but my attention keeps slipping—to her.
She’s perched just out of reach, her legs crossed and the glass of wine cradled in her hand. The way her dress clings to her curves is maddening, and I hate myself for noticing how the low-cut neckline draws the eye. I told her she’d draw attention, and I was right. Hell, even I can’t keep my eyes off her for too long, and I’m supposed to be the one in control here.
My grip tightens on the edges of my cards as Hugo deals the next hand. His gaze doesn’t stay on the game for long. Instead, it slides to Isabella, lingering just a second too long, and my blood simmers at the sight.
“Your guest is quite the sight tonight, Castellano,” Hugo comments, his voice slick with amusement.
I glance up, my expression carefully neutral, though the edges of my temper are sharp enough to cut. “She’s none of your concern.”
Hugo, of course, doesn’t care. His smile widens, and I know he’s enjoying this—pushing, testing. It’s his way of getting under my skin, and damn it, it’s working.
“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” he says, addressing Isabella directly.
Her head jerks up, caught off guard by the sudden attention. She straightens in her chair, her fingers tightening on the glass, but to her credit, she doesn’t waver. She offers a polite, if reserved, smile. “I prefer to observe.”
“Ah,” Hugo says, leaning back in his chair like a smug bastard. “But someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t sit on the sidelines.” His tone drips with uncomfortable intimacy. “Tell me, do you play poker? Perhaps you’d like to join the next round.”
I grit my teeth. I don’t like the way his gaze crawls over her like she’s an object to be claimed. I don’t like how she shifts under his attention, clearly uneasy.
“I don’t think so,” Isabella says after a moment, her smile faltering. “I’d probably lose all my chips in minutes.”
Hugo’s grin spreads wider. “I’d gladly stake you, sweetheart. Anything for such fine company.”
The snap of my cards against the table rattles the room. “She’s not interested, Bianchi.”
Hugo’s grin doesn’t falter, but there’s an edge of mockery in the way he raises his hands. “Relax, Castellano. I’m only being friendly.”
Friendly? He’s pushing boundaries, testing limits he has no business approaching.
Isabella glances at me, her brows knitting in concern—or confusion, maybe. Either way, I’ve had enough. I meet her gaze briefly before looking away, forcing my attention back to the cards in my hand. But my concentration is shot. The cards might as well be blank, and every noise—chips clinking, the shuffle of the deck, Hugo’s smug laughter—feels muted.
I can’t focus. Not with her here, not with him watching her. My pulse thrums in my ears, and frustration coils tighter in my chest with every second that passes.
Hugo, of course, picks up on my distraction like the vulture he is.
“Distracted tonight, Castellano?” His voice carries that lazy arrogance he wears like a second skin. He stacks his winnings, one chip at a time, dragging it out just to get under my skin. “Three hands lost in a row. That’s not like you.”
I force my grip to relax on the whiskey glass I haven’t touched. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Hugo leans back in his chair, smirking. “Must be hard to concentrate with a woman like that under your roof.”
There it is—the jab I’ve been waiting for. Anger rushes through my veins, but I keep my expression blank. “Your hand,” I say, motioning toward the dealer.
He chuckles, pleased with himself, and turns his attention back to the game. But Hugo doesn’t need much encouragement to keep talking. He thrives on needling people, on poking at their sore spots until he gets a reaction.
“She’s… something, isn’t she?” he muses, studying his cards like he isn’t watching me out of the corner of his eye. “If she were mine, I’d keep her close. Beautiful things have a way of slipping through one’s fingers.”
My gaze snaps to his, cold and sharp. “Careful, Bianchi. You’re close to overstaying your welcome.”
The warning doesn’t faze him. It never does. Hugo grins, spreading his arms like he owns the place. “I’m just enjoying myself, Castellano. No need to take everything so personally.”
I throw my cards down, the sound slicing through the low murmur of conversation. “I’m done for the night.”
Hugo arches a brow, his smirk widening. “Calling it quits already? That’s not like you.”
I push my chair back and stand, my movements steady and controlled. “I have other matters to attend to.”
I don’t wait for his response. My steps are steady as I leave the room, but inside, I’m seething. Hugo’s low chuckle follows me out, and I know he thinks he’s won this round. The bastard always knows how to get under my skin.
The halls of the estate are quiet, my footsteps echoing off the wooden floors. I tell myself to keep walking and ask Charles to keep Hugo company for the rest of the night, but the thought of Hugo lingering near Isabella, his smooth voice filling the space between them, gnaws at me. A harsh tightness grips my muscles at the mere possibility of her enduring his attention. I can't bear the idea of him talking to her, of her feeling cornered by someone like him. Frustration boils over, and before I realize it, I’m already turning back. I need to be there. I can’t leave her alone with him.
“I told you I’m not interested.”
Her tone is tight, unsteady, and it freezes me mid-step. The blood in my veins turns cold, then hot, then cold again as I move, faster now, toward the doors.
I push them open, and the sight inside ignites a fury so sharp it takes everything in me to keep from tearing Hugo apart on the spot.
He’s too close to her, his tall frame looming as he braces one hand against the back of the chair where she’s sitting. Isabella is pressed back, her body tense, her hands gripping the wine like it’s the only thing keeping her steady. I notice her dress riding up, exposing her thighs to Hugo’s lecherous eyes.
“Come now, sweetheart,” Hugo drawls, his voice oily. “Don’t be shy. A little conversation never hurt anyone.”
“I said no,” Isabella snaps, but I can hear the strain beneath her defiance.
“Get away from her.”
The growl tears from my throat, loud enough to cut through the tension in the room. Both of them turn toward me, and I see it—the relief in Isabella’s teary eyes, the smirk on Hugo’s face.
Hugo straightens slowly, his hand falling away from the couch. “Relax, Castellano,” he says, his tone light and infuriatingly calm. “We were just talking.”
My gaze flicks to Isabella. Her pale face, the way her shoulders are drawn tight… it’s enough to send the anger in me spiraling out of control. I don’t think—I act.
In three strides, I’m across the room. My hands grab the front of Hugo’s jacket, and I shove him back, pinning him against the wall. His whiskey glass slips from his hand, shattering at our feet. My forearm presses into his chest, hard enough to make him shift uncomfortably.
“I told you to stay away from her,” I snarl, my voice low and sharp. The calm mask I had been wearing is now gone, stripped away by the raw fury coursing through me.
Hugo doesn’t back away. He meets my gaze, that damn smirk still plastered on his face. “Touchy, touchy. You act like she’s yours.”
“She is mine. And she’s off-limits.” I state, the wall creaking behind him.
Hugo’s eyes gleam with sharp and satisfactory understanding, his grin widening. “Oh, I understand perfectly.”
Then he leans closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Careful, Castellano. You’re showing your hand.”
I hesitate, just for a second, and Hugo’s soft chuckle grates on every nerve I have left.
“So this is your weakness, huh?” he says, his voice dripping with mockery. “The mighty Dominic Castellano, getting all bent out of shape over a woman. Interesting.”
“Watch your mouth,” I growl, though I know I’ve already given too much away. Hugo isn’t stupid, and I’ve handed him exactly the kind of leverage he thrives on.
He shrugs under my hold, feigning indifference. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. For now.”
The urge to hit him burns in my chest, but I shove him away instead, my fists trembling as I force myself to step back.
"Hugo straightens his jacket, his smirk firmly in place. “You should check on your little guest,” he says lightly, his voice dripping with mock concern as he glances toward Isabella, “She seems… flustered.”
I don’t answer. I don’t trust myself to.
When he finally leaves, closing the door behind him, I turn to Isabella. She’s still in her chair, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The sight of her, so small and shaken, calms the anger brewing in my chest shift.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice rough.
She nods, but her face tells a different story.
I step closer, lowering myself into a squat on the floor in front of her. Her unresponsiveness is echoing louder than any words she could say. She sits there, her arms still wrapped around herself, her shoulders tight.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I murmur, my voice soft but firm. My hand finds its way to her thigh. As my fingers lightly graze her skin, I feel the goosebumps rise beneath my touch. I try to warm her, my hand gentle against the tremble of her skin.
Her head snaps up, her eyes blazing with anger. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I lean forward slightly, my gaze locked on hers. My hand instinctively tightens, gripping her thigh. “I brought you to the game tonight, and that was a mistake. You don’t belong in rooms like this.”
Her fists tighten in her lap, and I catch the flash of fire in her eyes, the stubborn defiance that’s become all too familiar. “Then maybe don’t invite me next time.”
I exhale, running a hand through my hair.. She’s right, of course. This is no place for her. I’d told myself it was to keep her close, to protect her, but now Hugo knows exactly what she means to me. And that’s a complication I can’t afford.
Still, the thought of her anywhere else, beyond my reach, feels even worse.
“I’m taking you back to your room,” I say, rising to my feet. I release her body, and immediately, the absence of her warmth leaves an ache in my hands.
“I can get there myself,” she snaps, pushing herself to her feet.
Before she can storm past me, I reach out and catch her waist—not hard, but enough to stop her. “Isabella.”
She freezes, her glare sharp enough to cut. “What?”
Even through her dress, I can feel the sudden warmth of her skin under my hand. I loosen my grip but don’t let go. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”
Her expression softens, just barely, but the fire doesn’t leave her voice. “I didn’t ask you to protect me.”
Her tone hits deeper than I expect, but I don’t let it show. “You didn’t have to.”
She stares at me, and I wonder if she’ll argue again. But instead, she pulls herself free, the fight still simmering in her eyes. “Goodnight, Dominic.”
I watch her leave, her heels clicking against the floor as she disappears through the doorway.
When I hear the door upstairs close, I sit back down, the unsettling quiet swallowing me whole. Hugo’s words circle in my head, taunting me: You’re showing your hand.
He’s right. I am. And in my world, weakness is a death sentence. I’ve spent my entire life keeping people at arm’s length, making sure no one could get close enough to use me. But Isabella…
She’s already too close.
And I don’t know if I can push her away.
Not when she’s the first thing in years that’s made me feel like a man instead of a weapon.
The clock in the hall chimes midnight, and I stay there, sitting in the dark, trying to figure out if I’m protecting her from Hugo—or from myself.