Chapter 4
Isabella
The door handle turns easily under my palm, but the door itself doesn't budge. Electronic lock, of course. The kind that requires a code or keycard. I test it again, pressing my shoulder against the solid wood, but there's no give at all.
My heart kicks against my ribs, a sharp staccato that I force myself to breathe through. Sweat pricks at the back of my neck despite the cool air. The reality of my situation hits like ice water. Trapped. Actually trapped.
I move to the windows next, my bare feet silent against the hardwood floor. The windows are floor-to-ceiling, offering a view of deep woods that stretch endlessly in every direction. No buildings, no roads, no escape. Just trees and sky and silence so complete it feels suffocating.
The windows open three inches and stop. Some kind of safety mechanism preventing anything larger from fitting through. Safety. Right.
I catalogue everything while my hands work systematically along the window frame, searching for any weakness.
The room is beautiful in the way only serious money can buy.
Modern furniture in shades of cream and soft gray, all clean lines and expensive fabrics.
A sitting area near the windows. Another door that probably leads to a bathroom.
My clothes from yesterday are wrinkled but intact. Blouse twisted, trousers rumpled, but I'm still wearing everything except my heels. Small mercies.
The memories crash into me as I check the bathroom door next. Unlocked, but windowless. The SUV. Matteo Rosetti's dimpled smile and those fingers that never stopped moving that silver coin. The way his voice dropped when he said I was his.
My stomach lurches, but I force myself to keep moving. Keep thinking. Keep planning.
I examine the air vent in the bathroom ceiling. Too small, and probably monitored anyway. Back in the bedroom, I test the lamp cords, looking for anything that could be useful. The drawer pulls on the bedside table are solid brass, heavy enough to do damage if necessary.
Years of being around Chase taught me to gather information, to look for advantages even when everything seems hopeless. Especially then.
I'm still cataloguing potential weapons when I hear footsteps in the hallway. Measured and confident. He doesn't knock. The lock disengages with a soft beep, and Matteo Rosetti steps into my beautiful cage carrying a coffee mug and wearing the expression of a man who owns everything he sees.
Including me.
"Good morning," he says, like this is a hotel and I'm a welcomed guest.
I straighten my spine, smoothing my blouse with hands that want to shake but won't. Not in front of him. "I want to leave."
"I know." He closes the door behind him with deliberate care. The lock engages again automatically. "Coffee?"
The mug he extends smells rich and perfect, exactly how I like it. The fact that he knows this makes my skin crawl.
"I don't want anything from you."
"Except your freedom." His lips curve in something that might be a smile on anyone else's face. On his, it looks dangerous. "Unfortunately, that's not on the table."
I cross my arms over my chest, needing the barrier between us. "What do you want?"
"Right now? For you to sit down and drink some coffee while we talk like civilized people."
"Civilized people don't kidnap art historians."
"They do when art historians have uncles who threaten their families." His voice carries no heat, just matter-of-fact certainty that makes this somehow worse. "I solve problems."
"I'm not a problem. I'm a person."
"You're leverage." But something flickers across his face as he says it, gone too quickly for me to interpret. "And right now, leverage is exactly what my family needs."
I walk to the windows, needing space between us. The forest stretches endlessly in every direction, thick and green and utterly silent. No neighbors, no road, no escape. Just trees and sky and the man behind me whose presence seems to fill every corner of the room.
"What do you want from me?"
"Cooperation." The word is simple, but I hear layers underneath it. "This doesn't have to be unpleasant, Isabella. I'm not going to hurt you."
I turn to face him. "You already have."
For just a moment, his confident mask slips. Something almost like regret passes across his features before he recovers, but I caught it. Good. Maybe he's not as untouchable as he pretends to be.
"You're safe here," he says quietly. "Safer than you've ever been, probably."
"I was safe in my own home."
"Were you?" He tilts his head, studying me with those sharp green eyes. "Living in Chase Callahan's shadow, performing for his associates, pretending to be something you're not every single day? That's not safety, sweetheart. That's survival."
The words slice deeper than they should because there's truth in them. But I've spent years building walls against that kind of truth, and I'm not about to let Matteo Rosetti tear them down.
"You don't know anything about my life."
"I know more than you think." He pushes off from the doorframe, moving closer with that predatory grace that makes my pulse jump.
Each step brings his scent closer, something clean and masculine that makes my traitorous body want to lean toward him instead of away.
"I know you haven't taken a real vacation in three years.
I know you eat dinner alone six nights a week. "
My hands clench into fists at my sides. He's reciting my life like reading a grocery list, reducing everything I am to surveillance data.
"I know you go to sleep every night in that pristine loft and wake up every morning putting on a mask."
The words slice through my carefully maintained composure. My breathing quickens, the familiar tightness building in my chest that comes when someone sees too much.
"Stop." The word comes out sharper than I intended, but he doesn't stop. He never stops.
"I know your uncle uses you as window dressing for his business deals.
" His voice drops lower, more intimate, as if we're lovers sharing secrets instead of captor and prisoner.
"I know you've never had a relationship that lasted longer than three months because you can't let anyone see past the performance. "
My throat constricts. Three months. The exact amount of time it takes for someone to start asking why I never talk about my real feelings, why I flinch when they suggest meeting my family, why I always have somewhere else to be when things get too close.
"Stop." But my voice cracks on the word, betraying everything I'm trying to hide.
"I know you're lonely, Isabella." He's close enough now that I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "And I know you're tired of pretending you're not."
The truth slams into me. All those perfectly ordered days, all those carefully managed interactions, all those nights staring at the ceiling wondering if this is all there is. He sees it. He sees through every defense I've spent years building.
The rage comes swift and white-hot, born from exposure I never gave permission for.
My hand moves without conscious thought, grabbing the coffee mug and hurling it at his head with all the fury I can't otherwise express.
He catches it easily, liquid splashing across his shirt, coffee droplets scattering across the hardwood floor.
But his eyes never leave mine, and something in them makes my breath catch.
Not anger at being attacked, but fascination.
Like he's just discovered something precious.
The silence stretches between us, thick with tension I can taste on my tongue. My chest rises and falls with harsh breaths I can't control. My hands shake with rage and something else, something that feels dangerously close to relief at finally letting the mask slip.
"Feel better?" he asks, his voice rough around the edges.
"No." The word comes out as barely a whisper.
"Want to try again?"
The question catches me off guard. There's no anger in his voice, no threat. Just genuine curiosity, as if he's actually interested in my answer. As if he wants me to keep fighting him.
"I want to go home."
"I know." He pulls a cloth from his pocket and wipes coffee from his forearms. "But that's not an option right now."
"Because you won't let me."
"Because letting you go gets my sister killed." The casual charm drops from his voice, revealing something harder underneath. "And that's not an option either."
Sister. Carmela Rosetti. I know that name from the art world, though we've never met directly. She's made waves in contemporary galleries, has a reputation for being brilliant and untouchable. If Chase threatened her...
"This is about her?"
"This is about family." He tosses the cloth aside and looks at me directly. "Something your uncle apparently doesn't understand the value of."
"Chase loves me."
"Chase uses you." There's no heat in the statement, just cold certainty. "The same way he uses everyone. The difference is, I'm not going to pretend otherwise."
I want to argue, to defend the man who raised me after my parents died. But the words stick in my throat because deep down, in places I don't let myself examine too closely, I know Matteo is right.
"What happens now?" I ask instead.
"Now, I'm going to explain how this works." He leans against the dresser, the picture of casual control, but I catch the way his fingers find that silver coin again. The nervous tell I'm already learning to read. "Think of them as guidelines for making this easier on both of us."
Guidelines. As if there's anything easy about being kidnapped.
"First rule." The coin flips once, twice. "No escape attempts. The doors are locked, the windows don't open wide enough, and there are security measures you can't see. All you'll accomplish is making this more restrictive than it needs to be."
I cross my arms over my chest, a barrier against his words and the way he's looking at me. Like he's memorizing every detail of my face, cataloguing my reactions for future use.
The thought sends an unwelcome thrill down my spine.
"Second, meals will be shared. I'm not running a hotel service, and I'm not your servant." His voice takes on an edge that makes me think of steel wrapped in velvet. "We eat together, we clean up together, we maintain some semblance of civilized behavior."
Civilized. The word tastes bitter. Nothing about this situation is civilized, but I understand what he's really saying. He wants the pretense of normalcy, the performance of willing participation. Another show to put on, just with a different audience.
"How civilized can it be when I'm here against my will?"
"More civilized than you might expect." His eyes hold mine, and I see something flicker there. Heat. Interest. The kind of look that makes my skin feel too tight. "Third, stay out of my office. It's the one room in this house that's off-limits to you."
I file that information away. One room he doesn't want me to see. One space that might hold answers, or weapons, or a way out.
"And if I don't follow your rules?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Then your privileges get reduced accordingly.
" The coin catches the morning light as it flips, sending fractured rainbows across the wall.
"Right now, you have free run of most of the house, access to books and music, comfortable surroundings.
Push me, and you'll find yourself confined to this room with basic necessities only. "
The threat is delivered in the same tone he might use to discuss dinner plans, but I don't doubt he means every word. There's steel beneath all that charm, the kind of ruthless pragmatism that built his family's empire.
"You really think you can keep me here indefinitely?"
"I think I can keep you here as long as necessary." He straightens, that casual pose shifting into something more predatory. "Whether that's comfortable or not is largely up to you."
He moves toward the door, but pauses at the threshold. When he turns back, something in his expression makes my mouth go dry. Not the polished charm he showed me last night, but something rawer. Hungrier.
"There are clothes in the closet. Not your size, but they'll have to do. The bathroom is through that door, fully stocked with whatever you need. I'll be downstairs when you're ready for breakfast."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "What if I'm never ready?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his gaze traveling from my face down the length of my body and back up again. The assessment is frank, possessive, and it makes heat pool low in my belly despite everything my rational mind is screaming.
"Then you'll get very hungry, Isabella." His voice drops to something that's almost a growl. "And patience is a virtue I'm still learning."
The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the rapid hammering of my heartbeat and the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with spilled coffee.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my carefully maintained composure finally cracking under the weight of everything that's happened.
I'm trapped. Completely, utterly trapped with a man who sees through every defense I've spent years building. A man who knows exactly how lonely and empty my perfect life has become, who can recite my isolation like reading from a script.
A man whose voice drops to velvet when he threatens me, whose eyes heat when he looks at my body, whose presence fills every corner of this beautiful prison until I can barely breathe.
I bury my face in my hands, trying to find some anchor in the chaos.
The Isabella Callahan who woke up yesterday morning in her pristine loft feels like a stranger now.
That woman lived in a world where she controlled every variable, where her biggest concern was what to wear to charm Chase's associates.
This woman sits in a stranger's bedroom wearing yesterday's wrinkled clothes, her pulse still racing from the way Matteo looked at her. Like he wanted to devour her. Like he was imagining exactly how she'd taste.
The thought sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
And that might be the most terrifying realization of all. Not that I'm trapped here with him, but that some dark part of me is curious what would happen if I stopped fighting. If I let him see past the performance the way he clearly wants to.
If I finally let someone close enough to discover what's underneath all the carefully maintained control.
The scent of coffee and his cologne lingers in the air like a promise. Or a threat.
I'm not sure there's a difference anymore.