17. CHAPTER 16—ISABELLA
CHAPTER 16—ISABELLA
I don't have time to inhale and exhale, to reset my mask of indifference. My cheek still throbs from Henrik's bite, a reminder that I'm just property being inspected.
Connor—the Irish mafioso—enters the room. He's slightly shorter than Antonio, but still towering over me, all controlled power where Antonio is lethal grace.
Yesterday he was all laughter and inappropriate jokes, but today there's a storm in his eyes that makes me tense. Naomi met him once—she made him laugh. He’s not laughing now.
He frowns when he sees the marks on my face, something dark passing over his features.
"Whoever did those things are children,” he grunts before pulling the chair and sitting in front of me. Then, instead of pawing at me or threatening to break me, he spends five minutes on his phone. Completely ignoring me. Like I'm not even worth his time.
I drink some water, studying him while trying not to be obvious about it. His gruff is turning into a beard and he doesn't sound mean on the phone—until his voice turns to ice: "Find her. And when you find her, don't touch her—wait for me."
My hand tightens around the water glass. I'm not the only one trying to escape this gilded cage, am I? Some other woman is running, fighting, probably terrified.
I'm tempted to say something, to ask who she is, if she needs help. But honestly? Not doing small-talk or whatever their version of small-talk is (Threats? Promises of violence? Discussion of human trafficking routes?) feels like the first moment I can actually breathe since Henrik left.
"Five minutes are up." The door opens and Connor leaves without another glance at me or another word.
Christopher—the French mafioso—strides in next, and any relief I felt evaporates. But instead of threats or violence, he comes closer and whispers words I never expected: "I don't want this." His French accent is strong. Maybe I misunderstood him.
"I'm sorry, what?" My voice comes out hoarse, like I've been screaming. Maybe I have been, on the inside.
Because it never occurred to me that I'm not the only one who doesn't want this. That someone else might be as trapped as I am, just in a different kind of cage.
"I don't want this," he repeats. "You. I don't want you." But there's hatred in his gaze like this entire ordeal is my fault, like I personally orchestrated this nightmare while I was busy trying not to die from chemo. "I don't want to fucking die competing for a hand that doesn't even deserve me."
I don’t deserve him?
Ha.
Of course, it’s about him. What he wants.
And anger swells within me—the kind that used to make my heart monitor scream, the kind that got me through endless nights of nausea and pain. Because they all think about themselves. Even in their refusal, it's about them.
They don't see how I don't want any of this, how my body's already been through enough battles without adding their war. "But you have to listen to Mommy dearest?" I ask, tilting my head, letting some sass slip into my voice.
He groans, and for a moment I see something almost human flash across his face. "You should know better than anyone that family can be problematic." His tone isn't as vicious as the others. More indifferent. Like he's already planned his ending and is waiting for the curtain to fall.
My mind reels. Him and Connor may be the least of all evils out there. The devil you know versus the devil who might just want to watch everything burn.
Until Christopher leans forward, and something shifts in his expression. "Let's just say Mommy Dearest has it coming."
And there's a glint in his eyes that chills me. It's not the obvious menace of Henrik or the cold calculation of the Russian.
It's something deeper, darker—the kind of hatred that doesn't need to touch you to destroy everything you love. Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"And if I win? Let's just say you'll know your place. You're either an asset or... you're not." His French accent thickens like poison in a wound, and then he laughs. The sound is a bizarre mix between a hiccup and a vampire's cackle—so out of place I don't know whether to smile or wince. Like watching someone pirouette into a wall.
He stands up before the door opens again. And my heart? My heart is somewhere on the floor, probably hiding under a chair, because I know who's coming next.
Antonio.
And after that dance... pressed against him, dizzy from his scent and memories and those words that are branded somewhere between my nerve endings and my common sense, I'm not sure what to expect. Will he be the monster who promised to destroy me, or the man who held me like I might shatter? Or worse—the one I watched with Paola, proving exactly how little our marriage will mean?
The door swings open, and he strides in, stealing every ounce of air from the room. Because that oxygen? It's definitely not in my lungs. My treacherous body forgets about Rodomir’s slap, Henrik's bite, about Christopher's threats, about everything except the way Antonio moves—all lethal grace and barely contained power.
He's a vision of forbidden temptation, those jeans molding to his muscular thighs like they're painted on, that tight black shirt stretched across his chest, hinting at every sinew, every ripple. He's even more dangerous than yesterday in his crisp buttoned-down shirt. Or maybe he's equally dangerous and my brain is finding new ways to torture me.
Why am I even ranking his outfits? He's not getting any awards, especially not from me. The "Most Likely to Make Me Question My Sanity" trophy isn't a thing, even if he'd win it hands down.
I can't get lost in his dark gaze. And if I stare at his scars, his fury won't simmer, it'll explode. But those tattoos on his powerful arms, they're pieces of art, forcing my eyes to linger. Each one probably tells a story of violence I don't want to know.
I need space. So, I stand up but still can't look away. Like a ballet where I've forgotten all the steps but can't stop dancing.
I want to ask him so many questions. I want to ask him if he remembers those moments we spent together laughing and toying with a line we didn't even realize existed. I want to ask him if revenge is really all he's here for... when he marches toward me with a scowl on his face that has me flinching.
I want to ask him if there’s a tiny part of him that could forgive me.
"Who did this to you?" His whisper is a threat wrapped in a deep growl. His fingers linger on my bruise and the bite mark, leaving a trail I don't want to analyze on my skin. "Isabella. Who. Touched. You?"
The gentleness in his touch makes something inside me snap. Because how dare he act like he cares? How dare he play protector when hours ago he was promising to destroy me?
"Does it even matter?" I laugh, and it sounds hysteric even to my ears. "The Russian slapped me because I wouldn't dance for him like a puppet. Henrik—" My voice breaks, and Antonio goes still. Deadly still. "Henrik decided my mouth needed training. That he'd teach me to use it for better things than spitting at him. Oh, and he bit me, marked me, promised to make me choke on—"
I can't finish. Can't say the words. Can't admit how violated I felt, how helpless. How different it was from medical procedures because at least those were meant to save me.
"He kissed you." It's not a question. Antonio's voice has gone arctic, his fingers still gentle on my face but his eyes promising violence.
“I mean… if you can call that a kiss, yes. Oh, and he bit me. Or did you miss that part?”
"He put his hands on you."
"Well, his teeth, really." The words come out light, almost flippant. A perfect performance. See how far I've come from that scared ballerina? Look how well I can dance around trauma now.
I refuse to break down in tears. Not in front of him. Not when his rage is already a living thing between us, waiting to feed on any weakness I show.
The sound he makes isn't human. His fingers slide to my cheek, right where Henrik's teeth broke skin, and his touch is so gentle it burns.
"I'm going to make him swallow every single one of his teeth," he says softly. Like he's making me a promise. Like he's telling me a bedtime story. "And that's just the beginning."
"What do you care?" The words burst out of me like they've been waiting to escape. "You're all the same. Predators seeking the same prey. You don't care about who hurt me. You just want to be the only one who gets to break me. The only one who—"
"Careful, piccola." His fingers trail from my bruised cheek down to my throat, gentle but claiming. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way his eyes darken. "You have no idea what I want to do to you."
"Don't I?" My laugh is sharp enough to draw blood. "I saw exactly what you want to do. With Paola. Against that wall. Or did you forget about your little show?"
His grip tightens slightly, just enough to make my pulse jump. "Jealous, Bell'cenda?" The nickname is a whisper from the past, from all those afternoons he watched me practice dance—how he used to tease me for building up intensity in every movement until it nearly broke me.
"You wish." But my voice betrays me, coming out breathless instead of bitter.
He’s looking at my lips, really looking, like he’s considering every inch, every word I’ve said, before his eyes lift back to mine. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip, rough and calloused, but somehow soft enough to make my breath hitch. It’s a maddeningly gentle touch, the kind that could turn possessive at any second.
And for a split second, I’m not standing here in this nightmare—I’m sixteen again, catching my breath from dancing for him, leaning over the piano as he kissed me for the first time. His lips had started almost soft, teasing, until my hands clutched his shoulders, and he deepened the kiss, showing me just how much he wanted me. The intensity had left me breathless, my heart pounding with a mix of innocence and longing.
But that was then.
Now, his touch is nothing like that kiss. Now, it’s heat and danger, a whispered threat wrapped in desire. God, I hate how easily he makes me feel, makes me want.
But after everything—Henrik’s violations, Christopher’s indifference, my father’s control—I’m tired of being used, of being twisted into something for everyone else’s gain.
This moment, this kiss, it’s going to be mine. Even if it ruins me, even if I’m flirting with the kind of danger that could shatter me, I’ll take it. Because for once, I want to choose, to take something back. I want to feel alive, powerful, and wanted on my terms.
So, I taunt him. "I just think it's funny how you all want to own me, control me, break me—but none of you can even kiss me without making it about power."
His eyes darken, his thumb lingering at the corner of my mouth, and something dangerous flashes there. "Is that what you think?" he murmurs, voice low and rough. "That I'm like them? Like Henrik with his amateur attempts at dominance?” He pauses, gaze dropping back to my lips before finding my eyes. "You think I don't know how to take what's mine?" he growls, his voice a blend of desire and dark promise. "I could ruin you. Make you forget every other touch."
I refuse to back down, straightening my spine, a fire burning inside me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with wanting this on my terms. "Really?" The challenge tears from my throat, demanding, not pleading. "Kiss me like you mean it. Show me how different you are from them. Or are you all talk, Maestro?"
His eyes darken, the shadow of something deeper flashing in them. He leans closer, his voice a raw whisper that sends heat pooling low in my belly. "I'm the Beast now, Bell'cenda."
My back is against the wall now and the air between us thickens, every charged second stretching into an eternity.
"Careful what you wish for," he breathes, his voice carrying a promise that sends shivers across my skin.
“What I wish is…”
I can't complete my sentence; within a heartbeat, his lips seize mine in a fervent clash.
This—this is what kissing should be. Not an invasion, but a claiming. Not a punishment, but a promise. Each electrifying touch envelops me in a symphony of forbidden sensations that make my hospital memories feel like someone else's nightmare.
My thoughts? They're gone. Vanished. Vanquished.
The room that I found sterile and cold before is an inferno.
He's claiming me with his tongue, sliding against mine, leading a dance that makes ballet look tame. Not like this. Not this consuming, this desperate, this... right.
His hands are demanding, crafting every response, every shiver that runs down my spine like he's choreographing my surrender. He maps my vulnerabilities with bossy, authoritative precision, but unlike Henrik's touch that made me want to crawl out of my skin, Antonio's makes me want to crawl into his.
My fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the solid muscles beneath his shirt. Too close, not close enough. He groans when I grip him harder, and the sound is raw, feral, dragging another wave of heat through me.
My romance novels didn’t prepare me for this—for how intoxicating it feels to be bad, to relinquish control to someone so devastatingly sure of himself when I’ve been gripping it for so long.
“You feel that?” His voice is a low growl, roughened with something dark and unrestrained. His lips brush against my ear as his hand presses against the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. “Do you feel what you do to me?”
I can’t speak, my breath stolen by the intensity of him, the way his lips graze that spot beneath my ear that makes my legs threaten to give out. His fingers press into my hip, possessive and firm, while his other hand cups my cheek, tilting my face so his eyes trap mine.
“Maybe you should see for yourself,” he murmurs, the words a low, dark challenge that sends a shiver cascading through me. His lips hover just above mine, teasing, consuming even without contact.
My pulse thunders as his hand slides down, capturing mine. He pauses, the heat of his palm grounding me for a single, electric moment as his gaze holds me in place.
“Well?” His tone is deceptively casual, like we aren’t standing on the edge of something dangerous. Like there aren’t invisible strings pulling me closer to him, binding me to whatever happens next. But the tension between us vibrates, alive and crackling like a live wire about to snap.
I nod. Just barely. It’s a surrender so slight I almost want to take it back.
His chuckle follows instantly—low, rough, and dangerous, a sound that wraps around me like smoke. It’s filled with a dangerous satisfaction that ripples through me. It’s both approval and warning, like I’ve given the right answer—and the wrong one.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the words against my skin, each syllable a spark that ignites something reckless inside me. Before I can process how hearing those words from him leaves me craving more, his hand moves mine, guiding it between us.
He presses my palm firmly against the rigid length straining beneath his jeans, and the contact steals my breath.
My fingers curl instinctively, exploring the shape of him through the denim, and my pulse stumbles at the sheer size of him. He’s thick, unyielding, and impossibly hard under my hand.
A sharp hiss escapes him, low and rough, and the sound shoots through me like a live current. His grip tightens on my hand, keeping it there, pressing me against him as if daring me to take it all in.
“Feel that?” he growls, his voice darker now, roughened by something primal. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you look at me, every time you argue with me like you’re not already mine.”
My fingers twitch against him, a mix of instinct and curiosity, and his groan vibrates against my neck. The sound is raw, hungry, and so possessive it feels like a claim.
“Careful, Bell’cenda.” His voice drops even lower, dangerous and thick with heat. “They’re watching.”
My breath hitches, the weight of his words sinking in. The camera. Someone could be watching us right now, seeing my hand pinned against him, seeing the way my body melts into his like I’ve forgotten where I am.
“Do you think they can see how desperate you are for me?” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. “How much you need me?”
I try to pull back, instinctively aware of the risk, but his hand on mine doesn’t budge. His grip tightens, keeping me locked in place, pressed against the proof of his desire.
“Ah, ah, no.” His voice is smooth now, mocking, like he’s savoring my reaction. “You nodded, mia cara. You said yes.”
His lips return to my neck, trailing fire along my skin as he speaks between kisses. “Don’t tell me you’re shy now. Not when you’re squeezing me like that, not when you’re letting everyone see how bad you want me.”
I tremble, torn between pulling away and pressing closer. My treacherous body makes the choice for me, leaning into him, my hips shifting slightly against his thigh as the ache in me grows unbearable.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, the dark satisfaction back in his voice. “Let them see. Let them see exactly who you belong to.”
The thought of being watched, of someone knowing how close I am to unraveling, should be humiliating. Instead, it only makes the fire burn hotter.
His teeth graze my ear, his breath hot and heavy. “You like this, don’t you? Knowing they’re watching and you want more, don’t you, mia cara?” His breath is molten against my skin. “You want me to fuck you? Would you be a good girl for my cock, love?”
The words wreck me, stripping me bare in a way I’ve never known, but then—
A flash. Him. Paola. His body driving into hers. His promises to take her even after our wedding. His eyes locking with mine in that damn mirror.
The heat coiling in me twists into something darker, something cruel. I hate it. Hate how my body betrays me, how it responds to him even as my mind rebels.
“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice a mix of threat and temptation. “Sei mia. La mia piccola ballerina. Bell’cenda.”
His hands trace up my thighs, rough palms igniting every nerve in their wake. So close. Too close. But not close enough to where I need him. Butterflies—traitorous, reckless things—dance low in my stomach to the rhythm he’s creating.
His touch makes me forget. Forget the lies. Forget the betrayal. Forget who he is, who I am and what this could cost me.
All I know is the way he makes me feel—alive.
Alive.
And dangerous. And wanted. And…free.
But just as I start to lose myself in him, to question where I end and Antonio begins, the sharp crack of a gunshot slices through the haze.
Reality hits like a slap, cold and brutal, yanking me back from the fire into the icy grip of fear. The fog of desire evaporates instantly, leaving my pulse racing for an entirely different reason.
Before I can process the sound, his body shifts—not away from me like my father used to during treatments, retreating and leaving me exposed, but in front of me. Making sure I’m flushed against the wall, his back against my front. A solid, immovable shield between me and the unknown threat.
His muscles coil tight, every line of his body radiating lethal intent. The heat from his touch is gone, replaced by something colder, sharper—a predator ready to strike.
“What the hell is going on?” he growls, the low, fierce edge of his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
The transition gives me whiplash, my heart slamming against my ribs as the shift from passion to danger unfolds in a heartbeat. One moment he’s consuming me, the next, he’s a force of nature, bristling with a protectiveness so fierce it leaves me reeling.
Because this?
This isn't the Beast who promised to destroy me.
And this isn't the boy who used to stand between me and my father's disappointment, who used to play piano while I danced my hopes and dreams.
This is someone who takes what he wants with the same intensity he once played Chopin—demanding, relentless, consuming. Someone who doesn't treat me like I might break, but like he knows exactly how much pressure to apply before I shatter. Or worse, someone who might be the man I thought he might become: mine.
And that, more than the gunshot, sends a shiver racing down my spine.