Chapter 9 Matteo
Matteo
Friday night arrives like a held breath finally released.
The black dress hangs on Isabella's closet door where I left it this morning, sleek fabric that will cling to every curve I've memorized through stolen glances and surveillance feeds.
The emerald earrings rest in their velvet box on the dresser, chosen specifically to bring out the green in her eyes.
Everything calculated, planned, executed.
Just like the woman wearing it all.
I adjust the cufflinks on my black tux, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror. No tie tonight. The clean lines of the jacket are severe, dangerous. Exactly the image I want to project when I walk into the Callahan Foundation Gala with Isabella on my arm.
Chase won't be there. Too obvious, too risky after everything that's happened this week. But his people will be watching. His allies, his donors, his carefully cultivated network of influence. They'll all see Isabella Callahan, radiant and untouchable, choosing to be with me.
The message will be clear: she's mine now.
My phone buzzes with a text from Anton. The car is ready downstairs.
I flip my lucky coin once, twice, the familiar weight centering me as I walk down the hall toward Isabella's room.
Through the thick walls, I can hear soft classical music playing.
The same playlist she's been listening to every night since I brought her here.
I knock twice before entering. She stands at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the forest, and the sight of her steals whatever words I'd planned to say.
The dress fits like it was made for her body, black silk that pools at her feet and leaves her shoulders bare.
Her honey-blonde hair is pinned up in an elegant chignon, and those emerald earrings catch the lamplight.
"You look..." I stop, clear my throat. Since when do I struggle for words around a woman? "Beautiful doesn't cover it."
She turns, and I see that her makeup is flawless, her expression composed.
But there's something fragile around her eyes, a tension that makes me want to cross the room and pull her against me until she relaxes.
I remember how she felt when I pressed her against the bookshelf, how her breast filled my palm and her pulse raced under my fingers.
"The dress fits well." Her voice is polite, distant. The same tone she used during our first breakfast conversations. "Thank you."
"Isabella." I step closer, watching her hands where they rest at her sides. Steady, controlled. But I remember how they trembled when I held her throat, how her breathing changed when I claimed her mouth. "Are you ready for this?"
"I agreed to your terms." She meets my gaze directly. "I'll smile when you touch me. I'll stay close. I won't run."
The words echo what she said in the library, but something's different now. There's a wall between us that wasn't there after our kiss, after the way she surrendered under my hands. She's retreating behind that composed facade, turning herself back into the untouchable Callahan princess.
It shouldn't bother me. This is business, after all. Leverage against Chase, nothing more.
But it does bother me. And that annoys me more than her distance.
"Come here," I say quietly.
She hesitates for just a moment, then crosses to me with that unconscious grace that makes my pulse spike.
When she's close enough to touch, I reach out and adjust one of her earrings, letting my fingers brush the soft skin of her neck.
The same spot where I held her throat, where her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird under my touch.
She doesn't pull away, but I feel her tension increase. Every muscle in her body is wound tight, ready to run or fight despite her promises.
"Relax, bella." I let my hand linger at her throat, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse. "You're safe with me."
"Am I?" The question slips out before she can stop it, and for a moment the mask cracks. I see the woman underneath, the one who kissed me back with desperate hunger, who admitted she wanted my touch.
"Always." The word comes out rougher than I intended. "No one will hurt you while you're mine."
Her green eyes search my face, looking for truth or lies or something in between. Whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her, because some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
"Ready?" I offer her my arm.
She takes it with steady fingers. "Ready."
The drive into Manhattan passes in comfortable silence, city lights streaming past the tinted windows of the SUV.
Isabella sits beside me, poised and controlled, her bare shoulder occasionally brushing mine when Anton takes a turn.
Each point of contact sends heat through my system, making me hyperaware of her scent, her breathing, the way her fingers rest in her lap.
I remember those fingers digging into my shoulders when I kissed her, the way she arched against me when my hand found her breast. The memory makes my jaw tighten. This is supposed to be about business, not the way she felt melting under my touch.
By the time we reach the Plaza, I'm wound tighter than piano wire.
The valet opens Isabella's door, and flashbulbs immediately start popping. A small crowd of photographers has gathered outside the hotel, drawn by the promise of society scandal. I slide out after her, placing my hand on the small of her back as we walk toward the entrance.
She doesn't stiffen at my touch. Doesn't pull away. Instead, she turns her head slightly and smiles, brilliant and dazzling. But her body moves closer to mine, seeking shelter or comfort, and the warmth of her skin through the silk makes me think of how she felt pressed against the bookshelf.
"Smile, bella," I murmur against her ear as we reach the revolving doors. "You're the most beautiful scandal in the room."
Her breath catches slightly, but her smile never wavers. We move through the lobby like we belong here, like she chose to be on my arm instead of being forced into it. The performance is flawless.
The ballroom doors open to reveal Manhattan's elite in all their glittering glory.
Gold chandeliers cast warm light over designer gowns and tuxedos.
Champagne towers catch the overhead lighting, and classical music drifts from a small orchestra near the dance floor.
The air smells like expensive perfume, aged whiskey, and the particular scent of old money mingling with fresh corruption.
This is my world as much as it is theirs. I've been playing this game since I was old enough to wear a suit, using charm and calculated violence in equal measure to build the Rosetti empire. But tonight feels different. Tonight, I'm not just here to make deals or gather intelligence.
Tonight, I'm claiming what's mine.
"Matteo." Senator Reynolds approaches us, his wife trailing behind him like an expensive accessory. His eyes immediately shift to Isabella, taking in every detail with the hungry assessment of a man who appreciates beautiful things. "What a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect to see you here."
"Senator." I extend my hand, noting the way he lingers over Isabella's appearance. The possessive heat that spikes through me is unexpected and unwelcome. "I'd like you to meet Isabella Callahan."
The reaction is immediate. His wife's eyebrows raise slightly, and I can practically see the gossip calculations running behind her eyes.
A waiter drops his champagne flute somewhere behind us, the crash of glass punctuating the moment.
Everyone in this room knows the Callahan name, knows about Chase's recent troubles with my family.
Having his niece here, on my arm, sends shockwaves through their carefully maintained social order.
Exactly what I wanted.
"Miss Callahan." The Senator's handshake lingers just a moment too long. "You look absolutely radiant tonight."
"Thank you, Senator Reynolds." Isabella's voice is warm honey, modulated to the exact pitch of polite interest. "I've heard wonderful things about your work with veterans' affairs."
She's good at this. Better than I expected.
She moves through the conversation with practiced ease, saying exactly the right things while revealing nothing of substance.
But I catch the way her hand tightens slightly on my arm when the Senator mentions her family's charitable work, and I remember how her fingers gripped my shirt when I pressed her against the bookshelf.
We move deeper into the crowd, stopping to chat with key allies and potential enemies. Each introduction is calculated, each smile a weapon in disguise. Isabella plays her part flawlessly, charming everyone we meet while never quite letting them close enough to matter.
The Marchetti family patriarch nods approvingly when I introduce her. "Stunning choice, Matteo. The Callahan girl has excellent breeding." His eyes linger on her neckline with the appreciation of a man who collects beautiful objects.
I want to break his fingers for looking at her like that. The impulse is sharp, immediate, and completely irrational. She's not mine to protect beyond the terms of our arrangement. Not mine to defend from wandering eyes and inappropriate comments.
But my hand tightens on her waist anyway.
"Mr. Marchetti," Isabella says smoothly, offering him exactly the right smile. Neither too warm nor too cold. "I hope you're enjoying the evening."
"Immensely, my dear. Immensely." His laugh is too loud, too appreciative. "You know, your mother was just as lovely at your age. Such a tragedy what happened to your parents."
Something flickers across Isabella's face. Brief, barely visible, but I catch it. A tightening around her eyes, a slight stiffening of her shoulders. The same tension I felt in her body when my hand was wrapped around her throat.
"Yes," she says quietly. "It was."