Chapter 13 - Isabella
The Castellano estate feels empty, its stillness unbearable and unwelcoming.
It’s been over a week since the pier. Since the gunfire. Since the blood. Since I sat beside Dominic, pressing my hands against his wound, desperate to keep him tethered to this world. He survived, but in the days that followed, he’s been a ghost in this house—here but absent, near but untouchable.
I tell myself I don’t care.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t sought me out, hasn’t spoken to me, hasn’t even acknowledged what happened between us—the kiss, the heat, the way he held me like he was afraid to let go.
But it does.
And I hate that.
To keep my mind from spiraling, I bury myself in my work. Sketches litter the desk in my room, fabric swatches tucked into the corners, pencils rolling aimlessly across the wooden surface. Drawing has always been my escape, my way of capturing beauty in a world that thrives on destruction. I sketch gowns, delicate embroidery, sharp silhouettes—things I’ll never afford, designs that will never see a runway.
Because dreams don’t mean much when they’re built on empty pockets and wishful thinking.
Still, I draw.
Because in the quiet of my room, with the golden light of the setting sun spilling through the windows, it’s the only thing that feels real.
A sharp knock at the door shatters the stillness.
I glance at the clock. Late afternoon.
For a moment, I consider ignoring it, but the knock comes again, more insistent this time. Sighing, I push away from my desk and cross the room, my bare feet silent against the floor. When I pull the door open, Nico stands on the other side, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black slacks.
“Boss wants to see you.”
I arch a brow. “Dominic?”
“No, the Pope,” he deadpans, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Yes, Dominic. He figured you’d try to ignore him otherwise.”
I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “And since when do you run errands for him?”
“Since it keeps me entertained,” he quips, tilting his head toward the hallway. “Come on. You know how he gets when people keep him waiting.”
I wait for only a second before grabbing a thin sweater off the back of a chair and following him.
As we walk, the air grows heavier.
I don’t know if it’s just me, but the house feels different. The Castellano estate has always been a fortress, but now, there’s an edge to it—a quiet wariness in the way the guards stand at their posts, in the way their eyes track our movements.
Something has changed.
And I don’t think it’s just because of what happened at the pier.
I glance at Nico, noting the way he moves—more conscious, more present. There’s an authority in his stance that wasn’t there before, a shift in the way he carries himself. He’s always been close to Dominic, but this is different.
A realization snaps into place in my mind.
Charles isn’t here.
That realization stops me mid-step.
“Where’s Charles?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.
Nico halts as well, but it’s brief, barely noticeable before he turns to face me. For the first time since I’ve known him, there’s no amusement in his expression. His usual teasing demeanor is gone, replaced with a subtle unease.
“He’s just taking some time away.”
It’s a lie.
I see it in the way his fingers twitch slightly in his pockets. Charles doesn’t just take time away. He’s Dominic’s right-hand man, his shadow. If he’s gone, something happened.
But Nico doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press.
Not now.
Instead, I tuck the suspicion away, filing it with the growing list of questions Dominic refuses to answer.
By the time we reach the library doors, my nerves vibrate with unease.
Nico doesn’t knock, just pushes the door open and steps aside, waiting for me to enter first.
The scent of whiskey and aged books surrounds me, warm and rich, curling around me as I step inside. The library is bathed in a dim, golden glow, the fire in the hearth casting moving shadows against the dark wood shelves.
And there, standing near his desk, is Dominic Castellano.
The library is grand, but there’s something constricting about it now.
Maybe it’s the towering bookshelves lining the walls, casting long, stretched shadows in the flickering firelight. Or maybe it’s the scent of aged paper, whiskey, and what feels like dried blood that makes me nauseous.
The moment I step inside, I know I’ve walked into something I wasn’t meant to be part of.
Dominic stands near his desk, one hand braced on the polished wood, the other wrapped loosely around a crystal glass of whiskey. He looks composed and impossibly calm, like he always does. His face is emotionless, carved from the same unshakable resolve I’ve seen before—but I know better now. I’ve seen the cracks. I’ve felt them in the way he kissed me, in the way his body tensed under my hands when I pressed down on his wound, desperate to keep him from bleeding out.
And yet, here he stands, unbothered. As if none of it happened.
I grit my teeth, ignoring the way that realization burns.
But then my attention shifts.
I’m not alone with him.
The man beside him is unfamiliar—tall, sharply dressed in a suit that fits like it was sewn onto him. He carries himself with the kind of cool arrogance that only a man who deals in high-end art and expensive clientele can. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly styled, his sharp blue eyes flicking over me like he’s already assessing my worth. I don’t like it.
I don’t like him.
He gives me a slow, knowing smile, one that feels more like a calculated gesture than a genuine expression.
“So, this is the artist?”
His voice is smooth, controlled, but I hear the undertone of amusement.
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
Dominic doesn’t give me a chance to process, let alone demand an explanation.
“Oliver is handling the auction.”
Auction.
The word lands like a slap, sharp and unexpected.
I frown, arms folding tightly over my chest. “Auction?”
I stand there, confusion clouding my thoughts—until my eyes land on it.
My painting.
The rose. The river. The delicate petals caught in the rush of dark waters. The piece of me that never should’ve left my studio, let alone ended up on display in Dominic’s damn library like some prized possession.
It’s propped on an easel near the window, where the last remnants of sunlight filter through the sheer curtains, casting golden streaks over the canvas. It looks almost unreal in this space, a vivid contrast to the dark, imposing decor of the room. But all I see is a violation.
A cold feeling sinks into my chest.
Why is it here?
And why is it about to be sold?
I take a step forward, unable to stop myself, drawn to the painting like it’s the only thing tethering me in this moment. My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to grab it, to take it away before they can twist it into something it was never meant to be.
Dominic watches me heatedly.
Oliver studies me, intrigued.
I inhale sharply, tearing my gaze away from the painting to glare at Dominic. “Explain. Now.”
His lips twitch slightly—almost like he was expecting this reaction, like he was waiting for it. “We’re hosting an auction in two days.”
“And you thought I wouldn’t care that you’re selling my painting?”
“I thought you’d care more about why.”
Oliver chimes in, stepping forward slightly, hands clasped in front of him like he’s about to discuss business over a glass of wine. “The original painting—the one your work is inspired by—is an object of obsession for a very particular man.”
My stomach twists.
Samuel.
Dominic doesn’t have to say his name. It’s there, in the slight shift of his expression, in the way an unspoken weight settles over the room, pressing in from all sides.
Oliver nods, as if sensing my understanding. “If we put this one up for sale, Samuel Delgado will come for it.”
Istare at him. Then at Dominic. Then back at the painting.
The realization is a slow, creeping thing.
They’re using my work as bait.
For a man who kills without hesitation.
I take a step back, suddenly needing the distance, needing space to think, to breathe.
“This is insane,” I say, shaking my head. “You were shot. You almost died. And now you want to play games with a man like Samuel?”
Dominic’s expression doesn’t change. “This isn’t a game.”
The words are soft, but I know he means it.
And when I meet his gaze, I see it.
The unrelenting hunger for retribution.
The same thing that got him shot in the first place.
I glance at Nico, expecting him to be the voice of reason, but he only shrugs, like this is just another day in their world. Like using an auction to lure in a criminal is nothing worth questioning.
Nico leans against the desk, arms crossed. “It’s the best way to get Samuel to show his hand.”
I exhale sharply, pressing my fingers against my temples. “And what happens when he does? When he shows up?”
Dominic lifts his whiskey glass to his lips, taking a slow sip before answering.
“Then we handle him.”
That’s it. That’s his entire plan.
Like it’s that simple.
Like it won’t end in more blood, more bullets, more goddamn carnage.
I shake my head. “You’re reckless.”
He smirks. “And you’re dramatic.”
I narrow my eyes. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re putting yourself in danger. Again. For what? Revenge?”
Dominic watches me, his gaze steady, unyielding. But for the first time, I see beyond the cold calculation that usually lurks in his dark eyes. Weariness drags at his features, the faintest shadow beneath them betraying more than he ever would. His knuckles whiten around the glass in his hand, but it’s the exhaustion that unsettles me the most.
The room is dimly lit, the golden glow from the fireplace gleaming against his face, highlighting the sharp angles and the deep shadows beneath his eyes. Dark circles bruise his skin, stark against his usually impenetrable exterior. His complexion is paler than normal, like he hasn’t seen the sun in days, and his normally composed presence feels... worn. Weakened.
Like he hasn't been sleeping.
Like something is slowly unraveling inside him.
A strange feeling twists in my chest, unexpected and unwelcome. It’s not sympathy—I tell myself it isn’t. But seeing him like this, stripped of his usual effortless control, makes my stomach tighten. This is the man who stood on that pier, taking a bullet like he was untouchable. The man who has done nothing but exude confidence, arrogance, and authority since the moment I met him.
And now?
Now, he looks human.
I hate the way it affects me.
I narrow my eyes, ignoring the simmer of frustration beneath my skin. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re putting yourself in danger. Again. For what? Revenge?”
Dominic doesn’t blink. His fingers tighten around the whiskey glass, but his voice remains steady. “For control.”
It takes me a second to understand.
This isn’t just about Samuel. It never was.
Dominic isn’t just trying to strike back—he’s trying to force Samuel into a corner, trying to make him suffer. Not just in retaliation, but in a way that will make him feel helpless.
Like Dominic felt when he lost his family.
Like he nearly felt when he almost lost his life.
I swallow hard, my anger hardening into determination.
I glance at my painting again, the careful strokes, the hours I poured into it. It was never meant to be part of this world—this world of violence, power, and vengeance. But now it is.
And so am I.
Trapped in it.
I could walk away.
But I don’t.
Instead, I square my shoulders, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Fine.”
Dominic’s brows lift slightly. “Fine?”
I exhale. “But if you do this, I have one condition.”
His smirk returns, sharper this time. “I don’t take conditions, Isabella.”
I can feel Nico and Oliver’s eyes on us, their reserved observation pressing down on me. Nobody challenges Dominic Castellano—not without consequences. His word is law, his authority absolute. And yet, here I am, standing my ground, daring to push back against him. I know I’m not the only one who can feel the almost electric energy in the air. Oliver watches with quiet amusement as if entertained by the rare sight of someone not immediately folding under Dominic’s command. Nico, on the other hand, shifts slightly, uneasily, but I can sense the wariness in his expressions.
This doesn’t bother me. I lift my chin, refusing to let him intimidate me. “Too bad. If my painting is going up for auction, I want to be there.”
Nico exhales through his nose, already seeing the argument coming.
Oliver chuckles, the amusement in his eyes sharp and knowing.
Dominic’s gaze sharpens. “No.”
I step closer, refusing to back down. “You want Samuel to take the bait? Let me be there. Let me see it.”
“You’ll be in danger. Especially if anyone recognizes you from the pier. They all saw your face, they know what you look like!”
I don’t waver. “And you won’t be?”
At this, his hand stiffens around his glass, the muscles in his forearm flexing. He’s pissed, but I can see the gears turning in his mind, weighing his options.
Finally, he exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face like he already regrets what he’s about to say.
“You’ll stay close to me. And I mean close. I don’t want you sneaking around or even going to the ladies' room alone,” he says, and I roll my eyes at him. This man is unbelievable.
But when I look at him again, I can tell it’s not a request, it’s a command. And there’s nothing I can say to change his mind. I have to be careful of which battles are worth fighting for so I nod.
I meet his sharp gaze, “Deal.”
Dominic exhales again, slow and heavy, like this is a mistake. Like he knows I’ll be more trouble than I’m worth. His fingers tighten around the crystal glass in his hand. I think he might tell me to get out, to leave it alone. But he doesn’t. He just watches me, his eyes darkening with resolve.
Oliver adjusts the cuffs of his suit, his smirk never faltering. “Well, this just got a whole lot more interesting.” His gaze flicks to Dominic, then back to me, assessing. Calculating. “I’ll handle the necessary arrangements. Expect a guest list within the next twenty-four hours.”
Dominic barely acknowledges him, his focus still locked on me, but Oliver doesn’t seem to care. He gives a slow nod before turning toward the door.
Nico lingers a second longer, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s trying to decide whether to say something. But in the end, he just exhales through his nose, shaking his head before following Oliver out.
The door clicks shut behind them.
Silence.
Dominic doesn’t move. Neither do I.
The intensity of everything we just agreed to linger between us—thick and charged.
Finally, I break the quiet. “You don’t have to look at me like that.”
His brow lifts. “Like what?”
“Like you regret letting me be part of this.”
He leans back against his desk, rolling the whiskey glass between his fingers. “I do.”
I’m not offended by that. Because for all his arrogance, there’s a hint of reluctance in his voice. Like he wishes he could push me out of this world entirely, but he knows it’s already too late.
I step closer, arms crossing over my chest. “Too bad. I’m not going anywhere.”
His face tenses, his grip tightening around the glass, but he doesn’t argue.
For once, he doesn’t have the last word.