48. CHAPTER 47—ANTONIO
" Can you fucking believe her?" The words scrape out of my throat while it takes every ounce of control not to turn for one last look. Takes strength that would make Hercules look weak not to watch her walk away in my shirt, wearing marks I left on her skin.
"What?" Paola's voice hits like nails on glass. Her perfume drowns the room - jasmine and vanilla thick enough to choke on. Should tell her to get out, but what's the point? She's convenient distraction from memories I need to burn - from how Isabella felt under me, how she trusted me, how she still smells like fucking honeysuckle.
A growl tears from my chest.
Because goddamn it - I can't stop wanting that scent.
"Let me help you forget." Her hands slide down my stomach, reaching for what isn't hers anymore. I catch her wrists before she learns that lesson the hard way.
"Don't." The command comes rough as gravel as I put distance between us. She pouts - those lips that used to make me hard, used to have me ordering her to her knees, to suck me dry.
But now?
Now they just remind me of what they're not.
Who they're not.
But I can't. Not when my tongue still tastes Isabella's pleasure. Not when her moans echo in my head, the way she came apart in my arms last night, all trust and surrender. Her honeysuckle scent clings to my skin like a curse I can't wash away.
She's going to fucking destroy me.
"She's gone now." Paola steps closer like she can read my thoughts, like she has any right. "Time for her to pay for everything."
Something primitive roars to life in my chest. My glare pins her in place.
"You don't decide shit about punishment." Ice coats every word. "Isabella pays by my rules. Only mine." Speaking it out loud steadies me. One look at those letters on the bed turns my spine to steel again. So what if she played innocent perfectly? So what if every tear looked real? She's had years to practice her performance.
"Of course." Paola's smile curves like invitation, like she's already imagining me taking her against the wall or in the shower where I claimed Isabella hours ago.
But all I can think about is honeysuckle.
All I can taste is betrayal.
All I want is what I can't have.
Isabella under shower spray haunts me like a fever dream - water sliding down curves I mapped with my tongue, making my cock harder than granite. Paola reads my reaction wrong, slinking closer with hunger painted on her lips.
Maybe I should fuck her. Exorcise Isabella's ghost with someone else's flesh. Drive out honeysuckle with jasmine.
But there's work to do.
Revenge to plan.
Pain to perfect.
"Out." The command comes arctic. Paola knows better than to argue - knows this is just the beginning of what I have planned.
Franco replaces her, reading the room like always. "You were at the piano." His voice carries surprise wrapped in meaning.
"Your point?" But my fingers betray me, finding keys like muscle memory. Another flash hits - Isabella's smile in moonlight, her scars like battle maps, her eyes when she thought we could be more than monsters.
What the fucking hell? I drag a hand over my neck, trying to scrub away thoughts that burn like acid.
"You haven't touched those keys in years, boss." Franco's voice carries weight. "Maybe Isabella—"
"She rots in that room." The words tear out like broken glass. "Until she understands exactly what her choices cost."
Franco flinches - and something I've never seen before flashes in his eyes. Doubt. From my most loyal soldier. The urge to smash his face in hits like lightning, but that violence... fuck. That's exactly what made me pause last night. "Almost kept her," I admit, the words tasting like surrender.
"You said you wanted my truth." Franco stands his ground like always.
One sharp nod. Continue.
"This revenge? Making her suffer? It shows everyone - especially the young ones - exactly what kind of monster you are." His eyes cut deep. "The same kind you swore we'd never become."
Becoming what I hate to punish what I want.
Turning into my stepfather to break his daughter.
"He turned our fucking wedding into a war zone." Rage burns through my veins hot as napalm. "Orchestrated a goddamn massacre just to show he could. My retaliation? That's aimed at him, his men, his blood."
"Those boys out there?" Franco doesn't back down. "They follow you like you're some dark Robin Hood. Because you're different from men like her father. You give them something to believe in."
"I'm not her father." My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth. "But I'm not running a fucking charity either. Isabella pays for what she did."
"For a mistake she made as a kid." Franco stands firm like always, like the brother he's become.
"A mistake that put my mother in the ground." The words rip out with decades of pain. I close the distance between us, beast recognizing the one person who might understand.
"If you're growing a conscience, Franco, walk away now. Just this once, no consequences. Because it's you." My voice drops to granite. "But if you stay? You follow my lead without question. Clear?"
Franco's nod comes slow as death. "Understood.”
“And what’s going on with the fucking contract? Was that a lie, too? And the men that are supposed to be loyal to her?”
“Her father said the contract will be valid in a year. She still needs to be alive in a year and living in the fortress.”
“Always fucking fine print. Well, she will be. Isabella stays locked away. Let her be a fucking monument to what happens when people betray me." My fingers curl into fists. "Plus her name might be enough for part of the next phase. That alliance is our key." I watch him for any hint of doubt, but he's stone-faced as ever.
"Moving forward with the plan?"
"Every goddamn shipment into Moretti's territory gets intercepted. His men get one choice." The smile that curves my lips feels like violence. "Join us or join their boss in hell."
Franco's eyebrow lifts. "Or?"
"They die." Simple as a blade between ribs.
He inhales like he's tasting gunpowder. "Got it, boss." Then hesitates, something complicated crossing his face. "What about Naomi?"
Naomi.
The Mediterranean crashes against cliffs like my thoughts against skull. Is she watching these same waves, worrying about her friend?
"Connor gets Naomi."
"Connor?" Franco's surprise grates.
"He wants a wife. Better him than those German or Russian animals." I meet his eyes, daring him to argue. "I'm not completely the monster they made me."
"Just selling another woman." Franco's mutter carries judgment.
Something snaps. I slam him against the wall, forearm against his throat. "Last warning. Walk away clean now, or stay without questioning me. Doubt's a cancer I won't let spread. Not after what their betrayal cost us."
Franco's throat works under my arm. "Sorry, boss." He steps back when I release him. "I'll handle Connor's arrangements." A pause heavy with caution. "Men want to celebrate tonight. You coming?"
"Fine." Last thing I need is celebration, but the Beast has to play his part. Show strength while we expand territory. Soon I'll face Moretti, make him pay for every scar, every betrayal. Make him burn until there's nothing left but regret.
Franco clears his throat before I can find solace in scotch. "Something else you need to hear..."
"What?" I whirl on him, violence itching under my skin. "Isabella?" Her name comes too fast, too desperate. "Did someone touch her?" The thought of any bastard looking at her wrong makes my fists clench, makes the Beast want blood.
"No. Woman from the village left a child at our gate."
One eyebrow lifts. "Another charity case?"
"Mother's name is Giuliana Dorecce."
"Giuliana..." The name hits like smoke - memories of a dancer's body, graceful as Isabella but nowhere near as dangerous. Three years ago, when I was trying to forget honeysuckle with other scents. "A child?"
"Giuliana was there. At the wedding." Franco's voice drops low. "One of the bullets found her."
"And you wonder why I can't show mercy?" The growl rips from my throat, but something twists in my chest. Another innocent caught in Moretti's games. Another dancer who'll never perform again.
Franco won't meet my eyes - first time since I pulled him from those burning ruins years ago. When he finally looks up, his gaze carries the weight of worlds about to shatter.
"The little girl, Antonio..." Every word falls like judgment. "She's yours."
"Are you sure? I'm known to be careful." I lift an eyebrow. "Of course, we'll take care of the little girl, but while she may be mine, she may not be my flesh and blood."
"We're sure. We'll check, but we knew Giuliana and this was the night you, um, found out about the first delay in the auction. You got very drunk that night. And you had been with Guiliana before."
My face gives nothing away, but the news hits like a sharp blade right between ribs. Still, the Beast doesn't pause.
The revenge doesn't falter.
The plans don't change.
It's just one more complication. One more reason to make Moretti pay for every drop of blood he's spilled.
Because sometimes the past doesn't just haunt you—sometimes it comes back with your eyes. Sometimes it wears innocence like a shield, making you question what kind of monster you've become.
But it's too late to question that, isn't it?
Because, as Isabella would certainly agree, I'm too far gone for redemption.
Are you ready to find out what happens next? Will the Beast redeem himself?