15. CHAPTER 14—ANTONIO
CHAPTER 14—ANTONIO
T he morning after the auction, and the fucking hotel still reeks of honeysuckle, her scent lingering in every corner like a ghost I can't exorcise.
The coffee's strong enough to raise the dead, but it can't erase the memory of her in that dress, her body soft against mine until she stumbled. Isabella never stumbled. Not when she danced.
Sleep was a joke. Not because of the tournament—I've killed enough men to sleep through worse. No, it was her.
The way her voice has gotten throatier, sadder, like she's been swallowing glass. Those eyes that wouldn't look away, that saw too much, that dragged up memories I thought I'd buried with my mother. And that fucking honeysuckle perfume.
She's an itch under my skin, the kind that makes me want to draw blood. Because that catch in her breath when she watched me with Paola? That wasn't just shock. She stayed, imagining how it would feel if it were her. How she'd dig her nails into my shoulders, how she'd moan—no, scream my name. How she'd shatter...
"You look tired, mon cher." Mrs. Lefevre's voice drips honey-coated venom. Her eyes drop to where my pants are getting uncomfortable, and she chuckles like she's found ammunition. "Or not."
I join her and Connor at their table. The Irish bastard's a different man this morning—stone-faced, focused on his coffee like it holds redemption. The blonde from last night is conspicuously absent.
I order eggs Benedict without the caviar they want to add on the side, just because that's what powerful men eat at places like this.
The room vibrates with the kind of energy that precedes bloodshed, filled with men who didn't make the cut but can't resist watching the show. Vultures circling, waiting to see who'll fall.
"An alliance sealed in blood," Mrs. Lefevre muses, cutting into her crepe with surgical precision. "The Moretti empire... their routes through Sicily, their holds in Chicago. Their old world connections." Her eyes glitter. "But that's not all it is, is it?"
"The girl comes with unexpected advantages," Connor adds, finally looking up from his coffee. "Those private security forces that answer to no one? The ones even her father can't touch? Word is, they're loyal to her bloodline, not the Moretti name. And the grandmother’s contract? His own mother must have seen what a dipshit he is. Genius to tie her son’s hands—sucks to be Isabella, though. "
Let them talk, let them think they understand the game.
Isabella thinks she’s just a pawn in her father’s game, a mafia princess auctioned off to secure alliances. But this tournament isn't just about power; it’s about survival—her father's, and maybe even hers. And I intend to ensure it becomes his downfall.
Everyone here has something to gain—the French want Sicily (too bad I already own it), the Russians want Chicago, Connor wants the Irish peace treaty renewed.
Everyone wants to be the one that wins for the security forces and the contract. Whispers about gold, long lost treasures…
"Welcome to the tournament." Her father's voice cuts through the speculation. The stage behind him wasn't there last night—everything's different now. Gone is the auction room pretense, replaced by something older, more primal.
And there she is—not in the middle of the room like last night, firing up every dark impulse I've got. No, she stands behind her father like the prize she is, wrapped this time in deep green silk instead of those dance leggings she used to live in. The ones she'd wear for hours in that ballroom, practicing until her feet bled and her body sang.
I used to think she was made of fire, a spark ready to blaze. But she was just a porcelain doll in her father's grand collection, ready to wreck everything in her path. It was all a damn act, playing her part, making me believe there was something more between us, before she went and ripped apart the only thing I ever loved.
“All winning bidders, come to the stage.” He doesn’t bother to say our names. Henrik, Radomir, Connor, Christophe and I slowly stand up. Connor mutters something about a spectacle—not sure what happened to him last night but my guess is he didn’t get lucky.
I march ahead, my eyes focused on her again and on her trembling hands. She looks tired. More tired than yesterday. Maybe she didn’t sleep either.
Maybe she dreamed about our wedding night.
She won’t sleep then either.
“These twenty-four hours will change your life. Whoever marries Isabella will not only be gaining territories, and respect, they will of course become my heir. That contract you’re all murmuring about makes sure of that.”
His heir? Ah. My lips lift into my half-grin. I’m going to destroy his empire. Destroy him. He knew… oh he knew that this spectacle gives him a way out. A way to hold on to his power. His precious daughter to the highest bidder, an alliance of sort. But this isn’t an alliance. It’s a declaration of war.
His eyes lock with mine, and I can almost hear his mind whirring. If he thinks I’m blind to the obstacles he’s putting between Isabella and me, he’s more deluded than I thought.
“We have twenty-four hours. Three to hack into Diamonds Inc., unearth their dirty secrets. Fail, and you’re out.”
Smart
Testing our resources, our connections. "A race through Sicilian roads."
Testing our nerve, our will to survive.
"And finally, the ring for the first two who make it through."
Testing our ability to spill blood personally.
Each challenge designed to eliminate the weak, but also to show who has the infrastructure to support the Moretti empire. Or tear it down.
“We’re not asking for blood, but accidents happen.”
Another pause. Another glance at me.
“The two competitors who make it to first and second place in the race will fight in the ring.”
“Yeah!” The approving shouts pierce the atmosphere, and I see her—the subtle way her body tightens, a silent scream in a sea of noise. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there, a light shift, a silent battle. Her hands, elegant and delicate, clutch at the fabric of her dress, and her face, a mask of stoicism, betrays the faintest flicker of fear, of vulnerability.
Her father, the master of ceremonies, continues his speech, his voice cold, each word dripping with unspoken threats. “I know some of you were upset that Isabella danced with Antonio yesterday…and only with him.” The tension in the room tightens, a living entity winding around us all, drawing us closer to the inevitable climax. “But you have to understand, it was somewhat of a family reunion for us.” His words are like shards of ice, calculated, piercing, and I can see the uncertainty flash in Isabella’s eyes, the shadows of unsaid words hanging heavy between them.
“However,” he says, his voice laced with a sinister amusement. “Everyone should have the pleasure of knowing what they’re purchasing. Winning. Earning.” His words hang in the air, a reminder of the true nature of this game. “You will each have five minutes with Isabella before the tournament begins.”
Her father's words make the room vibrate with dark possibilities. But it's the way she sits straighter, chin lifting like she's about to step on stage, that makes my blood sing. She thinks she's being brave. Doesn't realize she's just showing them all where to strike.
Isabella’s father’s gaze sweeps over us, a predator assessing his prey. “Our bodyguards will remain outside the room, and of course, we have cameras. So, you don’t take too many liberties. She is pure, after all.” He pauses, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head, plotting, planning. “We’ll proceed in reverse alphabetical order. So, Radomir, you’ll go first, and Antonio, you’ll have the pleasure of being last.”
The room is a symphony of murmurs and whispers and laughter, loud laughter, but all I can see is her, the way she sits a little straighter, the way her eyes, those light brown eyes filled with mystery and pain (and maybe defiance?) remain locked on mine.
A silent battle of wills, a whisper of what could have been, what can never be. And in this moment, amidst the chaos and the noise, I swear, I can hear her heartbeat.
But I won’t let myself be swayed by the snake she can be. Stakes are high, and the price, the price is everything.
Henrik, with a smirk etched across his face, leans in, “Five minutes can be... quite revealing.”
My shoulders tighten. If he does anything to her… I clench my fists, glaring at him. “Just don't damage what's mine," I tell Henrik, my voice a velvet threat.
We both know the truth beneath it: touch her, and I’ll show you why they call me The Beast—one agonizing minute at a time.