Chapter 19 - Isabella
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the eerie stillness. The second is the absence of warmth beside me.
I stretch my arm out, feeling nothing but the cool linen where Dominic had been only hours ago. My fingers brush over the empty space, my stomach twisting in disappointment.
He’s gone.
The morning lingers on my skin—the heat of his touch, the way he whispered my name like it meant everything, the way he made me feel like I belonged. I can still feel the ache of him inside me, the bruising grip of his hands on my waist. He hadn’t just taken me. He had claimed me.
And now, he’s disappeared.
I don’t expect him to stay—I know he has things to do. But a part of me still longs for his touch after waking up. He’s the kind of man who just takes what he wants, without having a care in the world.
But this morning felt different.
Pushing aside the tangle of sheets, I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The room is lit with the muted glow of the late afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. I shudder, reaching for my nightgown before padding toward the bathroom. The steam from the shower wraps around me as I step beneath the hot water, washing away the remnants of him, the reminder of his hands, his mouth, his body.
By the time I step out, my skin flushed and warm, I feel more composed. More in control. I slip into a fitted sweater and jeans, towel-dry my damp hair, and step out of my room, ready to find him.
And that’s when I see the man standing outside my door.
I stop short, my fingers still gripping the doorknob. He’s tall, dressed in a crisp black suit, his face a practiced blank facade. But I don’t recognize him.
“Miss Isabella.” His voice is formal, businesslike. “You are to return to your apartment immediately.”
The words hit me like a slap.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
His expression doesn’t change. “Mr. Castellano has arranged for your departure. The car is waiting.”
My heart stutters, a slow, painful realization curling in my gut. This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t a misunderstanding.
This is deliberate.
I straighten my shoulders, ignoring the way my hands tremble. “I need to speak to Dominic.”
“He is not home.”
I shake my head, my pulse pounding. “Then I’ll wait until he gets back.”
The man’s gaze hardens. “I have orders to ensure you leave the premises. You are not permitted to remain.”
The words settle over me, chilling and final. I open my mouth, searching for an argument. But what’s the point? Dominic isn’t here. And even if he were, he clearly doesn’t want me to be.
I swallow the lump in my throat, my voice quieter now. “Why?”
The man doesn’t answer. He simply gestures toward my room. “You should pack.”
I stand there in a dilemma for one breath. Then another.
And then I turn, closing the door behind me before my composure breaks.
I move through my room in a daze, every motion mechanical, every breath shallow and uneven. My hands tremble as I yank open drawers, pulling out clothes and shoving them into my bag with no real care for what I’m packing. Fabrics spill over the edges, wrinkled and haphazard, mirroring the chaos inside me. My heart is a dull roar in my ears, drowning out the distant hush of the house beyond my closed door.
A deep, gnawing ache squeezes in my stomach, twisting cruelly as I realize how much of him is still here—how much of him has wrapped itself around me, making it impossible to leave without feeling like I’m leaving something more than just this room.
My fingers tighten around a shirt.
What changed?
Had I overstepped? Had I gotten too close? Had I let myself believe that I was anything more than a temporary distraction? That the sex meant something?
A bitter laugh threatens to escape, but I swallow it down, my throat thick. Stupid, stupid girl.
I force myself to keep moving, grabbing whatever I can, stuffing it into the bag with jerky, desperate movements. My art supplies sit untouched in the corner, brushes still in the jar of water, the painting I had started for him—a second version of the rose on the river—half-finished on the easel. The sight of it makes my chest tighten. I can’t take it with me, but I also can’t bear to leave it behind.
I rip the canvas off the stand, rolling it up and shoving it into the bag before I can second-guess myself. The motion knocks over the cup of water, sending paint-streaked liquid spilling across the floor, seeping into the cracks between the wooden planks.
Perfect.
The mess mirrors the way I feel inside—scattered, raw, ruined.
I sink onto the edge of the bed for just a moment, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead, trying to steady my breathing. The sheets are still tangled, the pillows indented where Dominic had been. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend he’s still here. That this is just another morning after, that he’ll walk in, smirking, and pull me back into bed. That this isn’t goodbye.
But reality crashes in, sharp and brutal.
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling sharply.
I refuse to cry. Not for him. Not for a man who doesn’t have the decency to tell me himself.
I rip the sweater off, replacing it with a clean shirt, a fabric that doesn’t smell like him. But it’s too late—his scent clings to my skin, woven into my hair, into the fabric of my being.
Coward.
I zip up the bag with more force than necessary and sling it over my shoulder, the weight pressing down on me, anchoring me in a reality I don’t want to face.
My fingers hover over the door handle for a fraction of a second before I force myself to push it open.
I don’t look back.
I can’t.
The drive to my apartment is tormenting.
The man who escorted me sits in the front, silent and unwelcoming. Dominic’s rejection settles heavy in my chest, but I keep my back straight.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s broken me.
I stare out the window as the Castellano estate disappears behind me, swallowed by the winding roads and towering trees. My reflection stares back at me in the glass—hollow-eyed, empty.
I fell harder than I wanted to.
And now I’m paying for it.
I try to convince myself this is for the best. That I don’t belong in his world. That I was always meant to leave.
But the words feel hollow, even in my own mind.
When we finally pull up in front of my apartment building, I force myself to move. The car ride had been agonizing. Now, as I step out, the early evening air clings to my skin, thick and damp, pressing against me like a warning. The streetlights flicker overhead, casting long, wavering shadows along the cracked sidewalk.
The sight of the familiar building doesn’t bring any comfort.
The dimly lit lobby greets me with the faint scent of old wood and stale coffee, a scent that has always been there, a scent I used to find oddly comforting. But now, it turns my stomach. My steps echo as I cross the worn tile, my boots clicking against the floor, but the stillness is too deep, too unnatural.
I stop at the entrance to my apartment, my fingers tightening around my keys. There’s no reason for my heart to be hammering like this, for my skin to prickle with unease. Everything looks the same—the chipped paint on the doorframe, the scuff marks near the handle, the small dent where I’d once kicked the door in frustration.
And yet—
Something is off.
The feeling settles deep in my bones, coiling there like a snake waiting to strike. I force myself to breathe, telling myself I’m imagining things, that my paranoia is a lingering effect of the past twenty-four hours. That I’m still shaken from being tossed out of Castellano’s world like I was nothing.
But no.
I press my key into the lock, turning it slowly, listening for anything—any sign that something isn’t right. The soft click of the bolt sliding back is too loud in the quiet, and when I push the door open, I freeze.
The apartment looks untouched.
The small couch is in its usual spot, my art supplies scattered across the desk where I’d left them, the blanket on the armrest folded exactly the way I remember. There are no broken locks, no shattered glass, no overturned furniture.
But it doesn’t feel like home.
The air is too thick. Stagnant. Like the room has been holding its breath.
Like someone has been here.
A sharp jolt of fear races through me.
I step inside, my bag heavy on my shoulder, my chest even heavier. My eyes sweep over everything again, searching for what my instincts are screaming at me to find.
Nothing is out of place.
And yet I feel it.
A disturbance in the air.
I swallow, taking another step forward. My boots scuff against the floor, and I feel the way the tension coils tighter in my stomach, my breath coming too shallow, too fast.
My hand squeezes the strap of my bag.
I’m not imagining this.
Something is wrong.
I reach for the nearest light switch, flicking it on, the glow flooding the room in soft yellow light. The shadows recoil, but the unease doesn’t leave. My eyes track the space again, moving over every object, every tiny thing that could have been shifted or touched.
Then, my gaze lands on my coffee table.
A single glass sits there.
An empty glass.
I don’t remember leaving it out.
A knot tightens in my stomach.
I swallow back the lump in my throat, trying to steady my breathing, but it does nothing to calm the ice spreading through my veins.
Someone has been in my apartment.
And they wanted me to know it.
My phone feels like a dead weight in my pocket, and my fingers tremble as I pull it out. My first instinct is to call Dominic.
The realization makes my chest ache.
No.
He made it clear where I stood with him. I won’t go crawling back, no matter how badly I want to hear his voice, no matter how much I crave the illusion of safety he gave me.
That leaves only one other person.
Someone I never wanted to involve.
Demitri.
I haven’t spoken to my brother in months, not since the night I left everything behind and stepped into Castellano’s world. We parted on tense terms—he warned me that the mafia life was a game with no winners, that the deeper I got, the harder it would be to leave. And now?
Now, I’m standing in my apartment, feeling like prey.
And Demitri is the only one who might have answers.
My throat strains as I pull up his contact, my finger hovering over the call button. He’ll be angry. He’ll have a thousand questions, all of them laced with judgment. But he’ll also know what’s happening. He’s always known more about this world than he ever let on.
I exhale shakily.
I don’t have a choice.
I press call.