10. CHAPTER 9—ANTONIO
CHAPTER 9—ANTONIO
P aola is pinned against the wall, her dress shoved up around her waist, her body arching under my grip as she falls apart for the second time, her moans bouncing off the marble walls. But it’s all background noise. None of it registers. My mind is trapped elsewhere—on her . Isabella.
Fuck. Minutes ago, she stood in that corridor, watching us. Her honeysuckle scent making me harder.
What was she thinking as her mouth gaped open? Did she wonder how I’m going to feel bury deep inside her?
She is wrapped up like some sacrifice in that goddamn blue tulle dress. All dolled up for the auction, where men will fight over her, thinking they have any right to touch her.
My fingers dig harder into Paola’s hips, anger burning through me. The image of Isabella, beautiful and defiant, claws at my insides.
I want to march out and rip that fucking dress off her, tear away every layer until she’s bare, until she knows she belongs to me and no one else. Hell, I’d fuck her right in that auction room, in front of everyone, to prove no one else can have her.
But the thought twists dark and deadly—because I’d slaughter any bastard who dared to watch.
Paola shudders around me, her voice breaking as she moans my name. She’s trying to draw me back to her, desperate for connection. But she’s nothing more than a distraction. A weak stand-in for the fire that’s consuming me.
I move mechanically, chasing a release that won’t come, no matter how many times Paola falls apart beneath me. Every touch feels wrong. Every thrust emptier than the last. “Antonio,” she whispers, her voice breathless and unsure. Her fingers trace my shoulders, trying to ground me, but I feel nothing. The need that’s ripping through me isn’t for her. It never has been.
I pull back, without my own release, the emptiness in my chest spreading. Her touch is wrong, her scent cloying, and my rage simmers dangerously close to the surface. Paola looks up at me, eyes wide and questioning. “Are you… okay?” she asks, biting her lip, probably sensing that she was never more than a body to use. She tries to reach out to touch my hand but I shake my head.
Paola doesn’t insist. Three years ago, I saved her from being beaten every single night. Even if her sister didn’t make it. She’s grateful. And loyal.
“Fine,” I snap, stepping away, the lie bitter on my tongue.
Buttoning up my crisp navy shirt, adjusting my cuffs, I almost smile… because Isabella must have realized—if she hadn’t already—that she can’t trust anyone.
And she can’t.
As I’m readying myself to face the crowd, the auction, and all the devils awaiting in that grand ballroom, I tell myself that revenge will be sweet.
“Make sure you get back to our compound,” I tell Paola. I don’t want her to pay the price of her betrayal to Isabella’s father. Will Isabella tell? Probably not. She’d get in trouble, too. And little Principessa doesn’t like to get in trouble.
I leave Paola there, breathless and confused, my frustration twisting into something cold and lethal. I roll my shoulders back, letting the rage settle into something more controlled, more focused. Like loading a gun—all that volatile power compressed into something I can aim.
The only thing I'm certain of is this: I'm going to win that auction. I'll put that fucking ring on Isabella's finger, mark her as mine for everyone to see. Then I'll break her in ways that can't be repaired, make sure she feels every ounce of the betrayal that shaped me. And when I've crushed her spirit, I'll rip apart the Moretti business, leave her father in ruins.
Revenge isn't only about power. It's the perfect crescendo to make them suffer.
As I step into the grand ballroom, the air feels thick, almost suffocating, charged with the kind of tension that prickles along the back of your neck. My heart thuds heavily, a dark rhythm that matches the low hum of conversation around me. The scent of expensive cologne and aged whiskey hangs heavy, mingling with the metallic edge of anticipation. Every set of eyes scans the room, predators sizing up prey, gauging their competition.
In the shadowed corner, there's a stage where Moretti's other "merchandise" performs. Their curves, their teasing moves wrapped in next-to-nothing fabrics catch every glint of light—they look like they've stepped out of some forbidden fantasy. But they're just the appetizer. Some were payment for debts, others trapped by Moretti's web. Not all broken, but none with any real power.
A redhead catches my eye—her smile sharp, defiant. She knows how to play this game, probably thinks she can manipulate her way to freedom. But tomorrow, after the main event, they'll all be sold regardless of their spirit. The thought has me wincing and my jaw clenching. They didn’t do anything.
And in my world, you have to agree to play by the rules. Or you have to get a taste of your own medicine. Like Isabella.
They didn’t.
Yet, I’m not saving all of them.
Sometimes you have to become the monster to slay one. But I’ll ask Franco to get one or two to rehabilitate them. Can’t do it too loudly or the Morettis will know.
Madame Lefevre whose the powerhouse in the Parisian underground delicately waves her fan as she approaches. "Monsieur Antonio, such a pleasure," she purrs. "Have you met my son, Sébastien?" She gestures to a striking young man standing close by, his eyes fixed on the entrance with keen anticipation. "He needs a proper wife, and Isabella would be the crown jewel. You know her. Maybe you can give him tips for once he wins.”
She doesn’t stand a chance and her son doesn’t either. So, I nod, eyes never leaving the entrance. "Maybe, later, Madame.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch Henrik Müller giving me a pointed look as he strides in the room before smiling his creepy smile. The German thinks he can rattle me. He knows nothing.
Connor, the Irish bastard with eyes that seem to put a price tag on everything—including the souls of men—slides into the seat across from me, whiskey in hand. “Italy’s a fine place for chess, isn’t it?” he muses, his grin casual but his eyes calculating, always.
I lean back, letting my predatory smile do the talking. "Only if you enjoy watching knights discover exactly how long they can dangle by their balls before they start singing soprano." The threat wrapped in humor is a language we both speak fluently.
Connor chokes on his whiskey, drops of amber liquid catching the light. "Fuck me, Antonio," he says, shaking his head. "You never fail to make me question why we're usually on the same side."
I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the light play off the crystal like blood in water. "We call it an alliance, Connor. Anything more sentimental might make me want to demonstrate my creative side."
"Alliance." He tests the word. "Just keep your creative side away from my balls." His grin turns calculating. "Though you'd probably charge me a loyalty tax just for breathing."
"Only if I thought you'd live long enough to pay it."
Before Connor can respond, a hush falls over the room, every head turning in a ripple-like effect toward the entrance.
Whispers crawl through the crowd like fire through dry grass.
Connor leans back, eyes widening just slightly, a tell-tale sign even he is taken aback. The atmosphere is thick, almost unbearable, as if the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.
First, a tall woman with raven-black hair enters, her confident strides echoing in the hushed room. But no, it isn’t her. Then another, her red gown a fiery contrast against the marble floor. But as she moves further inside, the disappointment in the room is palpable.
Connor, taking another sip of his whiskey, chuckles lightly as another woman enters. "All these grand entrances, and for what? You think the elusive Isabella will even show?"
Another woman, a blonde draped in silver, makes her way in, catching a few glances. But it's nothing compared to what Isabella's entrance would incite.
From the table close to ours, men are cheering and sighing.
“All these appetizers," Takeshi muses, sake glass catching the light. "When we're waiting for Moretti's prize jewel."
"Kept pure for the highest bidder," Henrik adds with that fucking smile that begs to be broken. "What a thoughtful father."
Connor smirks, leaning in, "Seems like a parade of almost but not quite. Wonder if they'll ever tire of being second best."
I don’t divert my eyes from the entrance. "Oh, she's here," I reply, my muscles tensing.
Rahul from Mumbai hasn't taken his eyes off the stage where the video of Isabella dancing keeps playing in the background. "Such grace," he murmurs. "Such control. Imagine breaking that control." His perfectly tailored suit can't hide the predator beneath.
Carlos Rivera joins our table, Colombian blood money evident in every perfect seam. "Beautiful performance. Makes you wonder if she still dances like that." His eyes cut to me. "Behind those mansion walls."
My grip tightens around the glass, and for a split second, I imagine smashing it into Carlos’s smug face. My fingers ache with the need for violence, my jaw grinding as I force myself to stay calm. I take another slow sip of whiskey, every swallow a reminder to keep my composure. Let them speculate. Let them talk. They think they know Isabella, but they don’t. They never will.
Connor's eyes meet mine across the rim of his glass. There's calculation there, cold business. Because that's what this is—business. Even if it feels like war. "May the best man win," he says, and we both know he means it.
And then, she steps in. Isabella.
The world doesn't just pause—it fucking stops breathing. Different but hauntingly familiar, like a song you know by heart played in a minor key. She has a fuller, more mature grace to her frame, curves the tulle dress can't quite hide. Her once-long hair is now rebelliously short and curly, barely brushing her shoulders—something happened there, something that makes my gut clench.
Especially because I thought earlier had been a mirage. I had been dreaming her. When I was outside, looking up the balcony.
When I saw her in the corridor, her hair seemed longer.
The dress is a masterpiece of control and rebellion. Light blue tulle flowing like water, but that corset... It cinches her waist, pushes up her breasts until they threaten to spill over.
She has more curves than before.
She looks like she stepped out of a Renaissance painting, all ethereal beauty and hidden steel. Every step she takes makes the fabric shimmer, begging to either be worshipped or torn apart. Right now, I want to do both.
Connor whistles low. "She might be restricted in that corset, but look at her eyes. There's no taming that fire."
He's right. Under all that makeup—more than I've ever seen on her—there's a wildness she can't hide.
Paola outdid herself. And yet, I want to rub all trace of that mask off her and truly see her.
Those red lips might be painted to entice, but the way she holds herself... She's ready for war. Good. Because that's exactly what she's going to get.
Our eyes meet across the room, and everything else blurs like a badly focused photograph. The crystal glasses stop tinkling, the murmur of voices fades to white noise, even the air feels different—charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. My pulse pounds in my throat, every muscle coiling tight with the need to cross the room, to grab her, to—
I detect the challenge in her gaze, that raw defiance that made me want her even before. The way her chest rises and falls rapidly, the slight tremor in her fingers as they smooth down that goddamn dress—she feels it too, this electric current between us. But there's something else there now, something vulnerable she can't quite mask.
Years ago, that might have made me gentle.
Not anymore.