31. CHAPTER 30—ISABELLA
CHAPTER 30—ISABELLA
I keep waiting for my father to produce some elegant little vial, some perfectly measured dose of death to slip into Antonio's drink. The silence on the matter feels wrong - like waiting for test results you know will be bad. As if my father would suddenly grow a conscience, as if ordering his daughter to murder her ex-stepbrother would be the line he finally won't cross. But morality and my father parted ways long before he watched Antonio burn.
Naomi hugs me goodbye, and god, her smile is barely there - a ghost of the girl who used to make me laugh through treatments. The thought of that light getting snuffed out under Radomir's hands makes my chest tighten.
My throat closes around emotion thick as hospital air. Each step forward feels like walking into surgery - that same mix of dread and resignation, knowing what's coming but powerless to stop it.
"Salvatore stays with you." My father's voice carries no room for argument. "Or close enough. Part of the deal." His pause carries threat. "If they kill him..." The words trail off, but their meaning rings clear as monitor alarms - Antonio's fortress may be surrounded, but we're all trapped in my father's web.
I used to think he was some kind of dark guardian angel, protecting our family with whatever means necessary. Now I see the truth - he'll sacrifice anyone, anything, to keep his crown. People used to whisper his name like a prayer, like he was some benevolent king. Now they whisper it like a warning.
The man who couldn't be there for me, who’s been using me, most likely lying to me, trying to use my best friend thinks he can protect his empire by making me a murderer.
My father's choice of guard speaks volumes - not Georgio who'd take a bullet for him, but Salvatore who still needs to prove his worth. A laugh catches in my throat, bitter as hospital coffee. Is this a test for me, or for him? Knowing my father, probably both.
"What's funny?" Salvatore's question hangs in air thick with threat. I don't bother answering - some jokes only work if you've been the punchline.
Antonio's mansion rises from wilderness like something forgotten by time. The path leading to iron gates shows signs of deliberate neglect, like he wants nature to reclaim what man built. My foot catches on loose stone and I stumble, grace deserting me.
Salvatore's steadying hand lingers too long, too firm. Another shiver joins my collection - not the good kind that Antonio's kiss sparked, but the kind that reminds me I'm just currency in this world. Salvatore won't cross lines, but his loyalty to my father means my fear is just background noise, my pain just another day ending in 'y'.
The mansion could be pulled from every dark romance novel hidden under my mattress - "Beauty and the Beast" if Disney did horror, "Dracula" with a mafia twist. This is where fairy tales come to die, where princesses learn that monsters wear Armani and carry grudges like loaded guns.
Shadows move in windows, behind pillars - Antonio's men watching our approach. And my body tenses. My breath catches. This is pure, distilled dread doing a pas de deux with anticipation.
The Beast's lair. My future prison.
Unless I kill him first.
"Watch your mouth in there," Salvatore growls, like I'm some debutante who needs etiquette lessons. I arch an eyebrow at him - what does he think I'll do, pirouette through diplomatic relations? "Remember who you are. Your father's daughter. The family name rides on you." His tone carries that special blend of command and condescension that makes my skin itch.
My spine straightens like it used to before performances, before cancer tried to bend it. "And you?" The words taste sharp as scalpels. "You don't carry that name at all."
Before Salvatore can bite back, Franco appears - Antonio's right hand, the one who watches everything. "Welcome home, Isabella." His assessment lacks the usual predatory edge I've come to expect from men in our world. He gestures us inside like this is some normal house tour and not a prelude to murder or marriage.
The mansion hits me like a fever dream - decaying elegance wrapped in stone and shadow. Parts cry out for repair, but the ocean crashes through open windows, salt air kissing skin like a lover's breath. A ballroom catches my eye, vast and empty, waiting for dancers who'll never come. For a moment, I let myself imagine spinning across that floor, losing myself in music and maritime wind. Like I used to before treatments stole my grace.
Maybe after the wedding, Antonio might give me my own space. A room where I could... but hope is a luxury I can't afford. This isn't some dark romance where the Beast's heart melts for Beauty.
This is real.
This is my cage.
And I'm either here to kill or be killed.
I force air into lungs that feel too tight, trying to focus as Franco leads us deeper into stone and shadow. What am I doing dreaming of rooms and chances? This isn't about building a life - it's about survival. Naomi's survival. And Antonio's silence about helping her gnaws at me worse than pre-treatment anxiety.
We stop before a door that looks ancient as sin, carved with stories I probably don't want to understand. Franco turns to Salvatore, authority radiating off him like heat. "Wait here." More of Antonio's men materialize from shadows, a not-so-subtle warning. "You'll be safe." Franco's voice carries disappointment - like he'd rather settle scores for his Boss's near-death experience. "No poison here." The air goes Arctic, and Salvatore's shoulders bunch like he's expecting a fight.
"Remember the rules." My voice comes out cold as hospital tiles, dripping the kind of contempt that would make my father beam. I hate how easily that mask slides on, but it works - Salvatore's tension eases just enough.
Franco's attention shifts to me, door opening with ceremony that feels like preparing for surgery. "Signorina. He's waiting."
I step into the Beast's lair, braced for whatever game we're playing now.
But a dog launches itself at me - all soulful eyes and happy tail, looking at me like Antonio used to before everything burned. Its joyful barks cut through layers of fear and facade, hitting something real inside me. Before I can stop it, a genuine smile breaks through - the kind I haven't felt since before treatments started stealing pieces of me.
"Well hello there," I coo, voice lifting with actual delight. "What's your name, beautiful?"
For just a moment, surrounded by fur and unconditional love, I forget everything else.
But only for a moment.
"Cerberus." Antonio's voice hits like thunder, like those moments before bad news in doctor's offices. The room shrinks, air going thick as morphine dreams. When I turn, the world outside these walls might as well not exist.
His dark eyes capture mine with the kind of gravity that used to make me stumble during pirouettes. No words needed - the weight of everything unsaid fills the space between us like smoke. He's propped against pillows, but there's nothing weak about him. Even wounded, he radiates the kind of power that makes my pulse forget its rhythm.
The scar splitting his face stands out stark in filtered light - a map of that night everything burned. His bare chest tells more stories in damaged flesh, each mark a testament to survival. I know about survival - my own scars might be hidden under silk, but they sing the same song of refusing to die.
When our eyes lock, electricity arcs between us sharper than any of Henrik's threats. It's that same dangerous pull that made me watch him with Paola, that made me kiss him back in the ring. My feet carry me closer like they used to carry me to center stage - each step a choice between fear and desire.
This isn't just Giselle falling for Albrecht despite knowing he'll break her heart. This is me, walking willingly into the Beast's den, knowing he plans to destroy me. Knowing I might have to destroy him first.
But god help me, I can't stop moving toward him.
Like a moth to flame.
Like a dancer to music.
Like a heart to the blade that will end it.
His jaw tightens - that tiny tell that says he's fighting pain. Something in my chest twists, and my fingers ache to touch him. To learn the topology of his scars like I used to learn choreography, to map every inch of damaged flesh until memory becomes touch becomes healing. The need burns hotter than chemo ever did, this urge to trace his wounds with fingertips, with lips, with whatever it takes to make him feel whole.
He lifts his hand, beckoning me closer like he used to motion me to the piano. The air between us carries more voltage than those machines that used to monitor my heart - all that history, all that hurt, all that want we can't kill.
My feet carry me to his bed while my pulse performs its own dangerous dance. This close, I can read the storm in his eyes - pain and rage and hunger swirling like the cocktail of drugs they used to pump through my veins. But there's something else there too, something that looks dangerously like desire.
His hand finds my neck, pulling me down into a kiss that steals breath like bad news. The moment our lips touch, electricity shoots through me sharper than any treatment ever hit. A moan escapes before I can catch it, and heat floods my skin like fever.
His mouth claims mine with desperate hunger, but there's something else there - a softness he can't quite hide, like those moments between music and movement when everything aligns perfectly. He kisses me like he's trying to burn away our past and forge something new in the flames. It's destruction and creation all at once, leaving me dizzy with possibilities I shouldn't want.
My heart forgets every warning my doctors ever gave it, racing toward whatever this is - redemption or ruin, I'm not sure which would hurt more.
When we part, his breath ghosts across my lips like a dark promise. "So, Bell'cenda," he growls, and that nickname does things to me that no threat ever could. "Already planning my murder?"
The words vibrate through me like music before a fall, like danger wrapped in desire.
My heart pounds against my ribs - not from fear, but from wanting things I shouldn't.
Because how do you tell the man you might have to kill that his kiss makes you forget about revenge and reality? That it makes you want to dance with the devil himself?