Chapter 6 Isabella
Isabella
The gray silk dress fits like a second skin.
Too tight across my hips, pulling at the fabric when I breathe too deeply, but it's the only thing in the closet that isn't drowning me in Matteo's oversized clothes.
Carmela Rosetti must be slighter than I am, more delicate.
I smooth my hands over the material and try to pretend it feels like armor instead of a costume I'm being forced to wear.
Four days. Four days of this suffocating politeness, of coffee and careful conversation and pretending this is something other than what it is. Four days of watching him flip that silver coin and knowing he's thinking about things I don't want to understand.
But tonight feels different. Tonight he's taking me somewhere.
"Ready?" Matteo appears in the doorway, and I have to work to keep my expression neutral. He's dressed in a black suit with no tie, the shirt open at his throat in a way that looks careless but probably isn't. His auburn hair is perfectly messy, and that familiar coin is nowhere to be seen.
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really." But he says it with that charming smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "But you'll like where we're going. Rhinebeck has the best Italian food outside of Little Italy."
I follow him downstairs and into the SUV, the same one that carried me away from my life. The same leather seats, the same soft music, the same feeling of being trapped. But this time, I'm not trying to escape. I'm watching. Learning. Mapping the roads we take and memorizing the turns.
The restaurant is tucked into a quiet street, understated elegance that speaks of money and discretion.
Inside, soft jazz mingles with the clink of crystal and hushed conversations in Italian.
The scent of garlic and wine hangs heavy in the air, mixing with expensive cologne and the subtle tension that follows Matteo wherever he goes.
Matteo's hand finds the small of my back as we walk inside, a possessive touch that makes my skin burn even as I tell myself I hate it.
"Mr. Rosetti." The host greets him like family, all warmth and deference. "Your usual table?"
"Perfect."
We're seated in a corner booth that offers a clear view of the entire restaurant but shields us from casual observation.
Strategic. Everything about this man is strategic, from the way he orders wine I never asked for to the way his eyes constantly scan the room even while he's talking to me.
I catalog every detail automatically, the way I've been trained to assess any new environment.
Two exits, one through the kitchen. Security cameras in three corners.
Tables positioned to muffle conversations.
"You know everyone here," I observe, watching him nod to a table of men in expensive suits.
"Business associates. Rhinebeck is neutral territory." His fingers drum against the white tablecloth. "Safe for certain conversations."
The way he says it makes my stomach tighten. This isn't a date. This is him showing me off. Displaying his prize.
"So I'm part of the show?"
"You're part of everything now." He leans back in his chair, completely at ease while I feel exposed under the ambient lighting. "The sooner you accept that, the easier this becomes."
I sip the champagne he ordered, bubbles sharp against my tongue. Around us, conversation flows in multiple languages, deals being made over pasta and wine. Waiters glide between tables carrying silver trays, their movements choreographed to near silence. It's civilized. Polite. Deadly.
The atmosphere shifts before I see him approach. Conversations don't stop, exactly, but they lower. Eyes flick toward our table, then quickly away.
"Isabella?"
I look up to find a young man standing beside our table. Dark hair, expensive suit, the kind of confident smile that means trouble. He's handsome in an obvious way, all flash and no substance, but there's something predatory in how his gaze lingers on the neckline of my dress.
"I don't think we've met." His eyes rake over me appreciatively. "Nico Torrino. And you must be Matteo's new ornament. I don't think I've seen art that fine since the Met."
Heat flashes through me, but not the kind I expect. Not embarrassment or anger. Something darker. Something that recognizes the predatory gleam in his eyes and wants to sharpen my claws in response.
"Careful," I say, letting ice creep into my voice. "I bite."
He laughs like I've said something delightful instead of dangerous. "I like her already, Matteo. Where did you find this one?"
I glance at Matteo and freeze. The charming mask has completely fallen away, replaced by something cold and lethal. His hands are flat on the table, knuckles white, and his eyes are fixed on Nico with predatory focus.
"Walk away, Nico." Matteo's voice is quiet. Too quiet.
"Come on, don't be selfish. Just a dance, maybe a conversation."
The words are still hanging in the air when Nico reaches out, his fingers brushing against my shoulder as he moves a strand of my hair. The touch is casual, meaningless.
Matteo moves like violence made flesh.
The sound of Nico's face hitting the table is wet and sharp, like breaking bone.
The impact sends water glasses jumping, silverware clattering to the floor.
Blood spatters across the white tablecloth in perfect crimson dots, across the bread plates, across my champagne glass.
Matteo's hand is fisted in Nico's hair, holding his face pressed against the wood.
More blood drips steadily onto the floor, each drop loud in the sudden, absolute silence.
Every conversation in the restaurant dies instantly. Forks pause halfway to mouths. Wine glasses hover in mid-air. But no one looks directly at us. No one moves to help or interfere.
"If he ever looks at you again," Matteo says, his voice like winter steel, "I'll cut out his eyes."
Matteo releases Nico's hair and steps back, straightening his jacket with deliberate calm. There's blood on his cuff, dark against the white fabric. Nico stumbles backward, one hand pressed to his nose, the other reaching for his wallet.
"My apologies," Nico mumbles through the blood running down his chin. "I didn't realize she was claimed."
Claimed. Like I'm property. Like I'm something to be owned and marked and fought over.
I watch Matteo's face, searching for some sign of remorse or shock or anything human. Instead, I see cold satisfaction, the look of a man who's sent exactly the message he intended. That expression does something dangerous to my pulse, makes heat pool in places I don't want to acknowledge.
"Come," Matteo says, his hand finding my wrist. Not roughly, but firmly. A guidance that feels like a leash. "We're leaving."
I let him lead me outside into the cool evening air, my legs unsteady beneath me.
The gray silk dress feels too tight now, restricting my breathing.
Or maybe that's just the image burned into my retinas of blood spreading across white linen, the wet sound of impact, the way every person in that restaurant looked away like choreographed dancers.
In the SUV, silence stretches between us like a held breath. Matteo sits perfectly still beside me, his breathing slightly elevated, his jaw still clenched. There's blood under his fingernails. Blood on his shirt. The scent of violence clings to him, metallic and sharp.
"You could have killed him," I say finally, my voice barely audible.
He looks at me, and his eyes are molten. Dark and hungry and completely unrepentant.
"I still might." He leans closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. "You're mine, bella. And I don't share."
The words hit me like electricity. Raw and possessive and completely wrong. I watch his gaze drop to my mouth, then lower, taking in the way the dress clings to my body. The way my chest rises and falls with each rapid breath.
My body betrays me completely. Heat floods my veins, my pulse hammers against my throat, and something deep inside me responds to his claim with fierce, primitive satisfaction. But I can't let him see that. Can't let him know how completely he's unraveling me.
"That's barbaric," I whisper, the words barely audible.
His hand finds my thigh, fingers spreading against the silk. The touch burns through the fabric, claiming and demanding and completely devastating.
"Is it?" The ghost of a smile touches his lips, but there's something darker underneath. Something that suggests he knows exactly what his violence does to me, even if I won't admit it. "Because your body is telling me a different story."
I can't answer. Can't breathe. Can't think past the heat of his hand on my leg and the way he's looking at me like he wants to devour me whole.
The violence I just witnessed plays behind my eyes, brutal and swift and completely orchestrated.
He destroyed a man for touching me. For looking at me.
For thinking he had the right to claim what Matteo considers his.
The rational part of my mind screams warnings, talks about Stockholm syndrome and trauma bonds and the dangerous psychology of captivity.
But that voice is getting quieter every day, drowned out by something darker.
Something that whispers about possession and protection and the intoxicating rush of being wanted so completely that a man will spill blood to keep you.
But I can't give him that. Can't let him see how thoroughly he's dismantling everything I thought I knew about myself.
"I don't understand what's happening to me," I breathe, the closest thing to truth I can manage.
"You're learning," he says, his thumb stroking across my thigh. "Learning that perfection is just another kind of prison."
The car pulls into the driveway of the safe house, gravel crunching under the tires. Back to my beautiful prison. The thought sits bitter in my throat.
Matteo doesn't move to get out. Instead, he turns toward me fully, his hand sliding higher on my thigh. The air between us feels charged, crackling with tension that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want.
"Tell me you didn't feel it," he says, his voice rough. "Tell me you didn't like watching me destroy him for you."
The lie comes easily, reflexively. The same way I've been lying to myself for four days.
"I hated it." The words taste like ash. "I hated every second of it."
Something flickers across his face. Disappointment? Or maybe he knows I'm lying and finds it amusing. His thumb traces a circle on my thigh, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from reacting.
"Did you?" His voice is soft, dangerous. "Because your pulse says something different."
I want to pull away, want to escape the intensity of his gaze and the heat of his touch. But I'm trapped between him and the car door, trapped in this space where lies feel as thin as paper.
"You don't know anything about me," I say, but my voice shakes.
"I know more than you think." His hand doesn't move, but somehow the touch feels more possessive. More claiming. "I know you've spent your whole life being exactly what everyone expected. And I know that's slowly killing you."
The words slice too close to something I don't want to examine.
Something that's been cracking wider every day I spend in this place, every morning I wake up and find coffee waiting for me, every time he looks at me like I'm something worth destroying a man over.
But I can't let him see that he's right.
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" He leans back slightly, but his hand remains on my thigh. "Then why are you trembling?"
I am trembling. My hands, my voice, something deep inside my chest that I can't suppress. But I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing why. Won't admit that every word he says feels like he's reading from a script of my deepest fears.
"I want to go inside."
For a moment, he doesn't move. Just studies my face like he's trying to read the truth written there. Then he releases my thigh and opens his door, coming around to help me out like the perfect gentleman he pretends to be.
But I've seen what lies beneath that polished surface now. I've seen the violence, swift and brutal and completely measured. And the most terrifying part isn't what he's capable of.
It's how badly some buried part of me wants to see it again.
The thought follows me into the house, uninvited and unwelcome. I climb the stairs to my room, hyperaware of his presence behind me, of the way his eyes track my movement. At my door, I pause without looking back.
"Goodnight, Matteo."
"Goodnight, Isabella." His voice is rough, edged with something I don't want to identify. "Sweet dreams."
I close the door between us and lean against it, my heart hammering. Through the wood, I hear his footsteps retreat down the hall. Only then do I allow myself to breathe.
In the mirror across the room, my reflection stares back. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted like I'm waiting for something. I look like a woman who's been thoroughly claimed.
I look like a woman who enjoyed every second of it.
The lie I told him echoes in my head. I hated it. But my body tells a different story. The way my pulse raced when he destroyed Nico. The way heat pooled low in my belly when he called me his. The way I'm still trembling from his touch.
This is just trauma bonding, I tell myself. A psychological response to captivity. It doesn't mean anything real. It doesn't mean I actually want this.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and bury my face in my hands. Four days. Four days, and he's already unraveling everything I thought I knew about myself. Everything I thought I wanted.
I hated it. I hated every second.
If I keep telling myself that, maybe eventually my body will believe it too.