20. CHAPTER 19—ANTONIO
CHAPTER 19—ANTONIO
W e're back in the ballroom before dawn bleeds into morning. The hotel staff scurries around like frightened mice, their movements jerky with fear or greed—probably both. Money or threats, it doesn't matter. In our world, they're usually the same thing.
Crystal glasses clink as they're arranged with military precision, pitchers of ice water catching the first light.
The air hums with tension, thick enough that even the chandeliers seem to shiver, light like knives poised to drop.
The staff whispers among themselves in rapid-fire Italian, probably betting on which of us will die first. They've seen enough of these "tournaments" to know better.
But the real circus is already in full swing, a dangerous game where one misstep could mean a bullet between the eyes. Henrik’s second-in-command holds court with their men, champagne flowing like they've already won something. But I know better—because the only real prize here is control, and I’ll make damn sure it’s mine.”
The fool raises his glass to me, lips curled in what he probably thinks is a knowing smirk. Let them drink. They don't know they're toasting their own funeral. First the hacking challenge, then the race—I'll bury them all.
Security swarms the place like black ants, triple what it was yesterday. Mrs. Lefevre's attempted assassination left everyone jumpy, trigger-fingers itchy. It's a rookie move from her son.
Amateur hour.
Then again, many men are been better at appearing powerful than actually being it. Like Isabella’s father.
Not that it matters.
Once Isabella's wearing my ring, once she's mine in every way that counts, her father's empire won't just crumble—it'll implode. Death would be too kind for him. No, I want him alive to watch everything burn.
Like he watched me.
But getting there means winning this tournament—a test of strength, cunning, and the alliances I've forged in blood. And with every second ticking down, the danger tightens like faulty wire around us.
Phones in hand, ready to hack, because this isn't some schoolyard game. This is our empire, built with blood and loyalty, and today, I'll prove mine reigns supreme. I’ll win this thing for my family. My chosen one. The ones I protect with everything I have. I’ll get my revenge and everything I deserve. Everything the people on my compound should claim as theirs.
Even if the taste of her lingers, even if the memory of her skin distracts me more than I'd like.
I take a deep drag of air, and for a split second—a damn weak moment—I think I might catch that honeysuckle scent. But it isn't there.
She isn't there.
"You always seem so tense. Try smiling once in a while," Connor remarks, slapping my back with his ever-present grin. Like we're old friends. Like we both don't have blood on our hands.
"My smiles are earned not given freely." I settle into the chair at my assigned table, fingers ghosting over my laptop. "I'll smile when victory is mine. And it will be mine."
Connor chuckles, but there's steel under that Irish charm. "Do you know what we say in Ireland?"
"That the dark Guinness you brag about is terrible?" The words come easy, this dance of deadly men playing at friendship.
His feigned hurt is almost convincing. "You wound me, Antonio." He glances around conspiratorially, then leans in close enough I can smell expensive whiskey and gunpowder. "If you're enough lucky to be Irish... You're lucky enough!" He pauses, eyes sharp despite his grin. "I'll still win. But still let me tell you something else." His accent thickens like blood. "As you slide down the banisters of life, May the splinters never point the wrong way."
The corner of my mouth quirks upward—it's not quite a smile, but it's enough to make three of Henrik's men shift nervously. Connor's booming laughter turns every head our way, slicing through the tension like a well-placed blade.
"There you are. Catch you later, lad." His table is just a few feet from mine. Close enough to watch each other's backs. Or put a bullet in them.
Henrik and Radomir trade death stares across the room like they're in some playground showdown.
Henrik stops by his crew again, barking orders, but this time refusing the champagne they keep pushing at him.
His hands shake—barely noticeable unless you're looking for it. There are whispers he's been threatening families to ensure loyalty, like fear alone builds empires. Fucking idiot. Those same families will slit his throat the second they see weakness.
Radomir isn't any better. All cold Russian efficiency on the surface, but I've seen how his organization bleeds from a thousand small betrayals. Power through fear only works until something scarier comes along.
I've done business with both of them, played the game, shook hands while slipping knives between ribs. Henrik tried to bury me more than once, burned down one of my safe houses, killed people who trusted me for protection. He thinks those deaths are on my conscience. He should ask himself why his shipments keep getting seized, why his best hackers keep disappearing. Why his "loyal" crew looks at me when they think he's not watching.
Idiots, both of them. They take their respective places like kings at a chess match, not realizing they're just pawns in a bigger game.
My game.
Another figure strides in, and though it's not Christophe, Mrs. Lefevre's trailing presence suggests we've got another heir in the mix. He's wearing a scowl so deep you'd think someone pissed in his espresso. Relax, buddy—you'll be out the door before your laptop even warms up.
Before Henrik can spew his predictable protest about this unexpected twist, my eyes start their own mission across the ballroom—searching for her. Like some fucking magnetic pull I can't resist.
The clock reads 5:25 am. Five minutes until this hacking showdown kicks off, and my fingers itch for the keyboard. For control. For something other than the memory of her skin.
And precisely at 5:27 am, the prick I once called a stepfather makes his entrance, his daughter in tow.
His daughter. My soon-to-be wife. My revenge.
But fuck—a sudden heat courses through me as I take her in, and it has nothing to do with vengeance. Those faded jeans hug curves that weren't there when we were younger, when I first noticed how she moved. The tank top, loose yet revealing enough to make my mouth dry, paired with that casual cardigan—it's like we're teenagers again, but not. Because this Isabella isn't the innocent ballerina who used to practice until her feet bled.
Her gaze falters for just a fraction of a second, a ripple of vulnerability that she quickly masks by squaring her shoulders. The way her fingers grip the hem of her cardigan—white-knuckled, desperate—betrays the fear she’s trying to hide beneath that iron will.
Her fingers clutched my shoulders yesterday and the noises she was making? Pure need.
It shouldn’t matter. I’ve hardened myself against caring, against the temptation of that fire and fragility she carries. But then there are those damn Converse she’s wearing. They make her look young and fierce and so fucking beautiful it hurts, like she’s ready to run—either from me or to me. I’m not sure which is more dangerous.
Either way, danger clings to her, and to me, like a second skin.
Yet, I keep watching. Telling myself I’m only making sure there’s no trick coming from her right now.
And her hair. Fuck—it's wet, making it look darker, sticking to her neck like a lover's touch. The image of water droplets trailing down her skin, her fresh from the shower, sends a jolt straight to my thickening cock. It's straining against my pants, demanding attention, remembering how she felt pressed against that wall, the way she melted into our kiss, her hand on me like she wanted to guide me right inside of her tight pussy.
I shift in my chair, jaw clenching as I imagine following those water drops with my tongue, pushing her up against the nearest wall, making her gasp my name instead of fighting back tears from Henrik's marks. My fingers itch with the memory of her hair between them, how she trembled when I pulled her close.
Will she change allegiance? Turn to me like she did in that room, trust me like she used to before everything burned? That would make breaking her even sweeter—watching hope die in those eyes when she realizes it was all a game. Because that's the plan. The only plan.
Even if my body argues otherwise.
This time, she doesn't falter as she walks across the room. Today, there's less of that painted-on mask and a whole lot more steel in her spine. The kind of fire that used to make her dance until her feet bled. And an air of rebellion that makes my blood sing with possibilities I shouldn't want.
But it's those damn scars that halt me. Peeking out just slightly from under her tank top, but enough to stir a storm inside me. When did she get those? What the fuck happened while I was planning my revenge?
A protective fury rises, crashing against the walls of resentment and desire I've built. Those marks weren't there before. Someone hurt her while I was gone, and that right belonged to me.
She locks eyes with me, and hell, it feels like a direct challenge. Not the doe-eyed looks from before, not the fear. Not the desire.
As if she's daring me to figure her out, to see past the scars and steel to whatever secrets she's hiding. Whatever went down between her and that bastard father of hers has changed the game.
Maybe me telling Georgio about her escape had her wings clipped even more.
Then she does something that amplifies that realization. Isabella's chin lifts as she walks past her father, ignoring his outstretched hand and seating herself beside Mrs. Lefevre. The older woman's smug grin doesn't escape me, but it's the fire in Isabella's eyes that burns into my skull—a dare, a refusal to be owned by any of us. Yet.
And why does that make me want to flip these tables and rush to her, show her exactly how she could be tamed? Pin her against that wall like yesterday, but this time not stop at a kiss. Make her forget everything but my name, my touch, my claim.
"She's got fire today," Connor murmurs, his Irish lilt thick with amusement. "Like a mare that needs breaking."
“I'll break her soon enough,” Henrik sneers, his voice carrying just far enough, like he wants me to hear. I let a slow smile spread, one that promises nothing but ruin.
“Keep dreaming,” I murmur, fingers itching to make good on the threat.
Radomir's cold laugh joins in. "Children. You think too small. It's not about breaking—it's about owning."
I need to concentrate on the tournament that's about to begin. And not. Definitely not on how I could grab her hand, drag her back to that room where I kissed her yesterday and pleasure her against the wall until all she knows is my name. Until those scars are covered with my marks instead. Until she forgets every other man who dared to touch her.
Her father stands up—and it may seem to others he's unbothered, but I notice him wincing. The man is pissed. His little ballerina just performed her first act of rebellion in public, and he can't do a damn thing about it.
"It's 5:30 a.m. No need for a speech. Know your every move is watched. We won't tolerate another misstep. Begin."
The threat in his voice would make lesser men tremble. But all I can think about is Isabella's defiant stance and how fucking beautiful she'll look when she finally realizes who really owns her.
Soon.