Chapter 1
Matteo
The silk sheets whisper against my skin as I slide out without a sound. Years of practice have taught me the art of the seamless exit: dress in the dark, shoes in hand, no lingering.
I'm halfway into my pants when she stirs.
"Matteo?" Her voice carries that hopeful note women get when they think one night might turn into something more. "Are you leaving already?"
"Early meeting," I murmur, buttoning my shirt. The cotton still holds the faint scent of her perfume. "Business doesn't sleep."
She props herself up on one elbow, sheet sliding down to reveal the kind of body that graces magazine covers. A couple of years ago, that might have been enough to pull me back to bed. Today, I'm already mentally checking out.
"Will I see you again?" she asks, trying to sound casual and failing.
I lean down to kiss her forehead, a gesture that feels tender but commits to nothing. My lips brush skin that's still warm from sleep. "I'll call you."
We both know I won't.
My phone buzzes as I'm lacing up my Italian leather shoes. A text from an unknown number. I delete it without reading and grab my jacket from the chair where I threw it last night, when taking it off seemed urgent.
The elevator ride down from her penthouse is silent except for the soft jazz playing through hidden speakers.
My reflection stares back from the polished steel doors: auburn hair messed from her fingers, shirt wrinkled despite my best efforts, the satisfied expression of a man who got exactly what he wanted and nothing he didn't.
Twenty minutes later, I'm pulling into the underground garage beneath our Midtown tower. The Aston Martin's engine echoes off concrete walls as I find my reserved spot, the sound sharp and hungry. Everything in my life is sharp and hungry: my suits, my cars, my exits, my appetites.
My phone buzzes again. Another unknown number. Some women take longer to get the message than others.
I slip the phone back into my pocket without looking then pause, glancing down at the wrinkled shirt I've been wearing since yesterday afternoon.
Can't meet Domenico looking like I just rolled out of someone's bed.
I retrieve a fresh white button-down from the emergency stash in my trunk—a collection that's saved my reputation more times than I care to admit.
I change quickly between parked cars, the cool underground air raising goosebumps on my skin.
In the elevator, I straighten my collar and watch the numbers climb. Forty floors to prepare my face, to shift from Matteo the playboy to Matteo the businessman. The transition is easier than most people would believe—both roles require calculated charm and a willingness to go for the kill.
The doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing a hallway of polished marble and subdued lighting.
My brother's domain. I flip my lucky silver coin between my fingers, the familiar weight centering me as I stride toward the double doors at the end of the hall.
Whatever Domenico wants, it's not a social call.
Not at this hour, not with that tone in his text.
Time to find out what kind of fire needs putting out today.
Manhattan sprawls below the conference room, a concrete empire baking in the summer morning, heat waves shimmering off glass and steel. Coffee percolates somewhere nearby, filling the air with a rich, dark scent, but my attention stays fixed on the folder spread across the glass table.
Isabella Callahan.
One night. That's all it took for her photograph to lodge itself in places it has no business being, ever since Dom handed it to me at Emilio's wedding reception.
Less than twelve hours since I first saw that face, and I woke up this morning with her honey-blonde hair tangled in my sheets, in my dreams, at least. The kind of vivid, explicit dream that left me hard and frustrated despite the sexy woman in the sheets beside me.
It's been a long time since any woman invaded my sleep without permission. Usually, I'm the one doing the invading. Usually, I'm the one leaving them wanting more.
"Matteo."
Dom's voice cuts through my distraction.
My eldest brother stands at the head of the table, hands braced against the glass surface, green eyes hard with the kind of focus that built this empire.
His dark brown hair is perfectly styled despite the early hour, his charcoal suit pressed to perfection.
Always the professional, always in control.
"Are you listening?"
I flip the coin one more time before palming it, metal slick with warmth. "Chase is moving faster than expected. I heard you the first time."
"Then act like it matters." But there's amusement in his voice, the kind that comes from knowing exactly where I've been this morning. "How was the Lonnigan girl?"
Leonardo snorts from his chair by the window, wild dark-red hair catching the light as he turns toward us. "Predictable, probably. They always are with Matt."
"Gentlemen," I say, spreading my hands with exaggerated dignity, "a gentleman never tells."
"Good thing you're not a gentleman," Rafe comments dryly, not looking up from his tablet.
His ice-blue eyes scan intelligence reports while his broken nose gives his handsome face the kind of character that comes from years of enforcement work.
"Besides, half of Manhattan already knows you left with her. "
"Only half?" I flip the coin again, letting it dance between my knuckles. "I'm losing my touch."
Dom shakes his head, but his expression carries fond exasperation rather than real disapproval. "One of these days, your reputation is going to catch up with you."
"My reputation is an asset," I counter, letting cocky confidence drip through my voice. "Women expect charm and seduction from Matteo Rosetti. Makes them easier to handle when I need something."
"Speaking of handling women," Leo says, hazel eyes bright with mischief, "maybe you should focus on the one who actually matters to business."
He gestures toward the folder on the table, and the mood in the room shifts. The air conditioning hums louder, or maybe that's just the sudden tension. Playtime is over.
Chase Callahan has been testing our boundaries for months, probing for weaknesses like a rat searching for holes in the walls. But weakness isn't something Rosettis show, and patience isn't something we're known for.
Rafe leans forward in his chair, ice-blue eyes fixed on the digital map displaying red markers across our territory.
"He's bought three more properties near the docks," Rafe says, tapping his tablet.
"Shell companies, but the paperwork leads back to Callahan accounts.
He's laying groundwork for something big. "
Leonardo shifts restlessly beside him, fingers drumming against the polished table. "So we hit him first," Leo says, voice carrying that familiar edge of barely contained violence. "End this before it escalates."
"It's already escalated." Dom slides another folder across the table. "He flipped Marco at Il Lusso last night. Twenty years of loyalty, gone because Chase offered him triple what we were paying."
The betrayal cuts cold through my chest. Marco has been managing our main club since before Leo and I were born, a steady presence who knew every secret that passed through those doors. If Chase can buy him, he can buy anyone.
"How much did he offer?" I ask.
"Enough to make other people start calculating their worth," Dom replies grimly. "And he's got new muscle coming in from Jersey. Professionals, not street thugs."
"He wants a war he can't win," Rafe observes. "Maybe it's time we remind him who ends wars in this city."
Dom nods toward the surveillance photos scattered across the glass.
Isabella laughing politely at some gallery event, her emerald green eyes distant.
Isabella exiting her Tribeca loft, every line of her posture perfectly controlled.
Isabella mid-step through the Met's courtyard, caught in a moment of unguarded grace.
"Which is where she comes in."
The room falls silent except for the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of traffic forty floors below.
I reach for the folder, fingers brushing against the edge of her photograph.
The same face that's been haunting my sleep, the same elegant profile that made me volunteer for this job before Dom even finished explaining it.
"Isabella Callahan," I say, keeping my voice level. "Art girl. Tribeca. Walks to work like no one's watching."
"She isn't involved," Dom confirms. "No ties to his operations, no knowledge of the business. Clean record, clean reputation. The perfect niece."
"Then she's the perfect pressure point." I close the folder, but her image remains burned in my memory. "She's not part of the business, but he'll still bleed for her."
Leo turns from the window, hazel eyes bright with curiosity. "What makes you so sure you can handle this cleanly?"
The coin slides between my fingers again, metal slick with sweat despite the air conditioning.
I think about the way she looks in the photos, poised and untouchable in her designer dresses.
The kind of untouchable that makes a man want to mess up all that perfection, see what's underneath the careful control.
Run my hands through that honey-blonde hair until it's as wild as the dreams she's been starring in.
I've had plenty of women who thought they were untouchable. They're usually the most fun to break in. Usually the ones who scream my name the loudest when I'm done with them.
"Because I'm good at what I do," I say, letting my dimpled grin surface. "And she's exactly the kind of challenge that makes this job worth doing."
"Just don't get distracted by the target," Leo warns, but he's grinning too. "We all know how you get around beautiful women."
"I get results," I correct, voice dropping to something more dangerous. "Whether they're beautiful or not is just... a bonus I plan to enjoy."
Rafe frowns, leaning back in his chair. "Taking a civilian is messy, Matt. Especially one with her profile. The art world will notice if she disappears."
"Not if it's done right." I flip the coin again, catching it without looking. "Quick, clean, contained. She takes a few days off work, maybe a long weekend. People will assume she's visiting family."
"What about security?" Leo asks.
"Minimal. A doorman, keycard access. No bodyguards, no real protection. She's never made enemies because she's never been part of the game."
Dom studies me for a long moment, green eyes calculating. "This isn't a seduction, Matteo. This is leverage. Keep that in mind."
"Understood." My fingers tighten on the folder despite my casual tone. "Business first, complications later."
But even as I say it, I know there's something different about this assignment.
Lindsay Lonnigan was forgotten before I left her bed this morning, but Isabella Callahan has been occupying valuable real estate in my head since last night.
It's not like me to fixate, especially on a woman I haven't even met. Haven't even touched.
Yet.
"Timeline?" I ask.
"Soon." Dom's voice carries the weight of inevitability. "Intelligence suggests Chase is planning a major strike within the month. Better to have leverage in place before he moves."
The room falls quiet again. Outside, the July heat makes the city shimmer like a mirage, all glass and steel and dangerous possibility.
I think about Isabella walking through that heat, completely unaware that her ordinary life is about to end.
Completely unaware that I'm about to become the most important thing in her world.
The thought sends a dark thrill through my chest.
"Consider it done," I say, standing with fluid grace. "I'll handle the acquisition personally."
My brothers exchange glances as I move toward the door, but none of them object. They know I'm the best choice for this kind of work—smooth, charming, capable of making the impossible seem inevitable.
I pause at the threshold, folder tucked under my arm, silver coin warm in my palm.
"One more thing," I say without turning around. "When this is over, when Chase understands the cost of threatening family, of threatening our sister, I want to be the one who delivers the message personally."
"Noted," Dom replies. "Just make sure the girl stays unharmed. We need cooperation, not trauma."
I nod and step into the hallway, but my mind is already racing through logistics and timing. Isabella Callahan doesn't know it yet, but her carefully ordered life is about to become mine to orchestrate. Mine to control.
Mine to enjoy.
The elevator doors close with a soft whisper, carrying me down toward the street where the real work begins. In my pocket, the coin tumbles between my fingers, faster now, a nervous habit that only surfaces when I'm contemplating something particularly dangerous.
Or particularly tempting.
The hunt begins now.