Chapter 6 Isabella
ISABELLA
I jolt awake as the mattress dips beside me.
Heart hammering, I twist around to find Roman sliding under the covers on the other side of the bed.
The soft glow from the moonlit window silhouettes his broad shoulders before he lies back next to me.
"What are you doing?" I hiss, clutching the blanket to my chest even though I'm fully clothed in a T-shirt and pajama pants.
"Going to sleep." His voice is maddeningly calm, like this is the most normal situation in the world.
"But you said—"
"I said you could have the bed. I never promised to sleep elsewhere." The mattress shifts as he settles in. "It's been a long day."
"You can't sleep here." I scoot as far to my edge as possible without falling off.
"It's my bed, Isabella." There's no anger in his tone, just a simple statement of fact. "My house. My rules."
"So what, you're just going to—"
"I'm not going to touch you." He cuts me off, voice low and steady. "That wasn't part of our arrangement."
I sit up, fumbling to turn on the bedside lamp. When light floods the room, Roman's lying there with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
He's shirtless, and I catch myself noticing the tattoos across his chest before looking away.
"Why not?" The words tumble out without thought. "What's wrong with me?"
He turns his head slowly, one eyebrow raised in what might be amusement or confusion.
I immediately regret the question.
What am I doing?
This man works for the family I believe murdered my mother. The last thing I should care about is whether he finds me attractive.
"Nothing's wrong with you," he says finally. "But I don't force myself on women. Especially not ones who think I'm a murderer."
I feel my face flush hot with embarrassment. My thoughts are a chaotic mess. “Whatever.”
Roman shifts onto his side, facing me. "Wait a minute." His voice has a dangerous edge of amusement. "Did you just sound disappointed that I'm not planning to fuck you? The woman who was ready to run away rather than marry me?"
"No!" I snap, too quickly. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" His dark eyes study me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "Because it sounded like you were questioning why I wouldn't want to."
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.
The truth is, I don't understand my own reaction.
This man represents everything I've been fighting against—the violence, the family business, the world that took my mother.
Yet here I am, somehow insulted that he's keeping his distance.
"You're imagining things," I mutter, reaching for the lamp.
"If you say so, Isabella." My name rolls off his tongue like he's tasting it, and something flutters in my stomach.
I click off the light and pull the covers up to my chin. "Goodnight, Roman." I make my voice as cold and dismissive as possible.
Behind me, I hear a low chuckle. "Running away again? That seems to be your specialty."
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself not to respond. The mattress shifts as he settles back, and I lie there rigidly, acutely aware of every inch of space between us.
What have I gotten myself into? And why does this dangerous man's opinion of me matter at all?
I lie awake long after Roman's breathing deepens into sleep. The ceiling above me blurs as tears well in my eyes.
How did I end up here, married to a murderer, trapped in a life I've desperately tried to escape?
My plans—my career goals, my independence, my search for justice—all of it feels out of reach now.
Even my FBI contact has abandoned me, pushing me to stay in this marriage for his case rather than helping me escape.
"You're still awake." Roman's voice startles me. I thought he was asleep.
I quickly wipe away my tears. "So are you."
"Hard to sleep when someone's thinking so loudly next to you."
I turn to face him, finding his eyes open, watching me in the darkness. "I don't want to die," I whisper.
His expression turns concerned.
"But what am I living for? I'm trapped. I can't leave. I can't pursue my career. I can't even find out what happened to my mother without being labeled a traitor."
Roman shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. "You had a life before all this FBI business."
"A life where I was expected to be the perfect Mafia princess? Where I smiled at family gatherings while pretending I didn't know what my father and the others did? Waiting for him to marry me off…" My voice cracks. "I wanted something different."
"And now?"
"Now I'm more confined than ever." I stare up at the ceiling again. "Married to a stranger who's been ordered to watch my every move and possibly kill me."
"I told you I'd help you find out what happened to your mother."
"Why would you? What's in it for you?"
He's quiet for a moment. "Maybe I don't like being accused of murder."
I turn back to look at him, studying his face in the dim light. "I don't know how to live like this," I confess.
“How would you live if you weren’t in this situation? This life? What are your hopes and dreams?”
I stare at Roman in the darkness, confused by his question. "My dreams? Why would you care about those?"
"Humor me. What do you want from life?"
I hesitate, wondering if this is some kind of trap. But something in his tone makes me answer honestly.
"I wanted to be a designer. Fashion design, specifically."
Roman shifts slightly, his interest seemingly piqued. "Really?"
"Is that so hard to believe?" I can't keep the defensiveness from my voice.
"No, just… unexpected. I figured it was something like law or business."
It feels like a compliment. Like he thinks I’m smart. Or maybe it comes from my need for justice for my mother.
"I've been sketching designs since I can remember. I even went to design school, though my father wasn't thrilled about it. He was just humoring me, keeping me occupied."
"Why fashion?" He sounds genuinely interested, but I can’t forget that he’s a master at manipulation. Perhaps this is all a ploy to make me feel safe, to forget how lethal he is.
"Because when I design something, I'm creating more than just clothing. I'm creating how someone feels when they wear it. Their confidence, their comfort, their identity."
I wait for him to laugh or dismiss it, but he remains silent, listening.
"My mother always encouraged it," I continue, surprised by how easily the words flow now. "She said creativity was a gift that shouldn't be wasted. After she died, it became even more important, like I was keeping part of her alive through it."
"And you were working toward this? Before everything happened?"
"I was getting ready to start my own small line.” I feel a pang of loss thinking about the collection I'd been working on when my world imploded. "I had a studio space and everything."
The silence stretches between us, and I realize I've revealed more than is wise, although I’m not sure how he can use it against me.
“Angelica likes clothes.”
For a moment, I can’t believe he shared that.
Could he really be trying to connect with me and not dig for information he’ll use against me?
“She has excellent taste in clothes. That outfit today, mixing teal and purple, it’s unusual but it worked. It was adorable."
Roman's expression shifts, a genuine smile breaking through his guarded demeanor. "You noticed that, huh?"
I find myself smiling too, thinking of Angelica's outfit. "Not many seven-year-olds have such a defined style."
He chuckles, a warm sound in the darkness. "Mrs. Rossi indulges her, probably too much, but I’m not much better. She’s got me tied around her finger.”
It’s hard to imagine anyone having control over Roman.
He's quiet for a moment, then says, "Angelica isn’t sure of this situation we have.”
That makes two of us.
“But she loves clothes. It could be a way for you to connect with her.”
The thought of bonding with his daughter over something I love catches me off guard.
We aren’t a family.
Considering my infraction, I’d think he’d want me as far away from Angelica as possible.
"You'd trust me with her?" I ask cautiously.
"I'm not saying hand over scissors and needles," he says with a half-smile. "But yeah, I think you two could be good for each other."
For a minute, I’m pleased by this until I remember I don’t have anything to design with. I didn’t even bring my sketch pads.
“That would be fun, but I don’t have any of the materials I need.”
“What do you need? I can get them for you.”
For a moment, I allow myself to imagine it.
A corner of this place transformed into my workspace, sketching designs, fabric swatches spread across a table.
"You'd do that?" I search his face for signs of deception. "Why?"
"You're right. Your life isn't fully your own right now," Roman says, his voice surprisingly gentle in the darkness. "I won't pretend otherwise."
"That's refreshing to hear. Most people in your position would tell me I should be grateful to be alive."
"Being alive and having a life worth living are different things.”
I study him, trying to reconcile the man beside me with the ruthless enforcer I've been taught to fear. "Why do you care whether I'm happy or not? Wouldn't it be easier if I just stayed quiet and compliant?"
"Easier? Maybe." He shrugs. "Then again, happy wife, happy life, right?"
"So this is what, a challenge for you?"
"No. It's about recognizing that you're a person, not just a problem to be solved or contained."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words.
It's been so long since anyone has seen me as more than a daughter to be controlled or a traitor to be punished.
"Look, this situation isn't ideal for either of us," he says. "But we're stuck with it for now. Doesn't mean you have to be miserable."
"What's the catch?" I ask, still suspicious.
"The catch is you stop trying to run away or contact the FBI." His eyes harden slightly. "You focus on your designs, help with Angelica, and work with me to figure out what really happened to your mother."
I should dismiss the idea immediately.
This man is still my captor, no matter how he tries to dress it up.
But the thought of reconnecting with my designs, of creating again, it's like offering water to someone dying of thirst.
"I'll think about it," I say, unwilling to commit but unable to reject the possibility outright.
In the silence that follows, I realize I'm seeing glimpses of a man far more complex than I imagined.
The enforcer who tucks his daughter in at night.
The captor who wants his prisoner to pursue her dreams.
The man who acknowledges my pain instead of dismissing it.
It would be easier if he were the monster I expected. This Roman, thoughtful, perceptive, almost kind, is far more dangerous to my resolve.
I drift into sleep with my mind full of contradictions. Anger at my situation wars with unexpected comfort from Roman's words.
The transition from wakefulness to dreams is seamless, and suddenly, I'm no longer in his bed but in my old design studio.
Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating my workstation. I'm sketching something, the pencil moving with purpose across the page. I feel a presence behind me, warm and solid.
"That's beautiful." Roman's voice rumbles close to my ear, his breath tickling my neck.
In my dream, I don't flinch away. Instead, I lean back against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "It's not finished yet."
His hands slide down my arms, coming to rest on my waist. "I wasn't talking about the design."
I turn in his arms, the sketch forgotten. This dream-Roman looks at me with hunger in his eyes, raw and wanting.
"I thought you weren't interested," I say.
"I never said that." His fingers trace my jawline, sending shivers down my spine. "I said I wouldn't force you."
When his lips meet mine, it's nothing like our wedding kiss. It's heat and need and something deeper I can't name.
My hands find their way under his shirt, exploring the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle.
"Isabella," he breathes against my mouth, and the sound of my name ignites something inside me.
In the logic-free world of dreams, we're suddenly on a bed with silken sheets and pillows everywhere.
His weight above me feels right, protective rather than threatening.
"So you do want me.” My body arches toward him.
"I want you," dream-Roman replies with a wicked smile.
His hands explore me, finding places that make me gasp and sigh.
The contradiction of this gentle touch from hands I know have done violence makes everything more intense, more forbidden.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Isabella.”
In the waking world, those words would frighten me. At the very least, make me nervous.
I’ve never been with a man.
But this isn’t the waking world.
So I open to him. I open my body, my very being. He thrusts and is inside me. It doesn’t hurt like I’m told it would.
I’m not sure what I’m feeling, yet I don’t want it to stop. He moves, in and out, in and out, and I’m aware of him losing himself in me.
Something builds inside me, intense and frustrating.
And then it peaks and pleasure washes through me.
As it subsides, I wonder if I’ve had my first orgasm.