Chapter 11
Matteo
Ifind her in the kitchen, and the hope in my chest dies instantly.
She's wearing her own clothes again. The tailored black dress and heels from the night I charmed her into my car, every line of her body screaming professional distance.
The click of her heels on the marble countertop as she shifts weight tells me everything I need to know.
My jacket from last night is folded precisely on the back of a chair, the fabric still holding the faint scent of her perfume.
"Good morning," she says, voice perfectly neutral. Pleasant. Like she's greeting a stranger instead of the man who held her while she broke apart.
I pour coffee, the rich aroma filling the space between us. The machine hisses and gurgles, the only sound besides the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Steam rises from the dark liquid as I hand her the mug.
"Sleep well?" I ask, watching her carefully. She won't meet my eyes, won't let our fingers brush when she takes the coffee.
A lie flickers across her face. "Fine, thank you." The porcelain clinks against the marble as she sets the cup down with deliberate care. "I appreciate what you did last night."
I think about the other nights. The ones she doesn't know I've witnessed.
The way she tosses and turns, whimpering in her sleep, calling out for people who can't answer.
The nightmares that leave her gasping awake at three in the morning, her borrowed sleeping clothes clinging to sweat-dampened skin.
"You don't have to thank me for giving a damn about you," I say, leaning against the counter. The cool granite presses against my back.
Something flickers in her eyes, gone too quickly. "Of course not."
The silver coin finds its way between my fingers, the metal warming against my skin. She's shutting me out, rebuilding every wall I thought we'd torn down.
"What's going on?" I flip the coin.
"Nothing's going on. I'm fine." She wraps her arms around herself, a defensive posture that makes the silk of her dress whisper against itself.
"You're scared."
"I'm not scared." But her pulse jumps visibly in her throat, and I want to press my mouth there, feel that frantic beat against my lips.
"Then why won't you look at me?"
She does look at me then, something desperate in her green eyes. The morning light catches the gold flecks I've memorized from watching her sleep. "Because looking at you makes this harder."
Before I can ask what she means, the landline starts ringing. Sharp, insistent. The sound cuts through the peaceful morning like a blade.
Isabella goes completely still. Color drains from her face, leaving her pale as the marble countertop. Her coffee cup rattles against the saucer, and I notice how her fingers tremble as she sets it down.
"I'll get it," I say, pushing off from the counter. But she's already shaking her head, backing away from the sound.
"Don't. Please don't."
"It's just a phone."
"It's him." She backs toward the doorway, and I catch the way her chest rises and falls rapidly beneath the silk. "I know it's him."
I walk to the hallway, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The phone sits on an antique side table, its black surface gleaming. I pick up the receiver, the plastic cool against my ear.
"Hello?"
"Matteo Rosetti." The voice is cold, controlled, absolutely furious. Chase Callahan. The sound makes my jaw clench so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack.
Isabella appears in the doorway, and when she sees me holding the phone, she wraps her arms around herself. The movement presses her breasts together, and even through her fear, I notice how the silk clings to every curve.
"Chase." I keep my voice calm, casual. The coin continues its steady rhythm between my fingers. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Where is my niece?"
"Your niece?"
"Isabella was seen at the gala last night.
On your arm. Looking very comfortable." His voice could cut glass.
Each word is precise, deadly. "She's been missing for a week.
Not answering her phone, not at her apartment, not at work.
And then she surfaces at a Callahan Foundation event, hanging on your every word. "
Isabella makes a small sound, like she's been punched. Her hand flies to her mouth, fingers pressed against her lips. But I notice how her nipples have hardened beneath the thin silk, visible through the fabric. Fear does things to a body that the mind can't control.
"Sounds like she's living her life," I say, catching the coin in my palm.
"Isabella doesn't make choices like that. She's been raised better. She knows her loyalties."
I watch Isabella sink against the doorframe, her legs suddenly unsteady. The way she leans there, silk riding up slightly on her thighs, makes heat pool low in my gut even as fury builds in my chest.
"Maybe she's growing up."
"If she's there by choice, then she's betrayed everything I taught her. And there will be consequences."
The word 'consequences' makes something dark and violent unfurl in my chest. My free hand clenches into a fist, and I have to force myself not to put it through the wall.
Isabella's breathing becomes shallow, quick. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and I can see the moment panic starts to take hold. Her green eyes go wide, pupils dilating.
"She's not available," I say, my voice dropping to that deadly whisper that makes grown men take a step back.
"Make her available."
"I don't think so." The words come out with enough venom to kill.
"This isn't over, Rosetti. Not by a long shot."
The line goes dead with a sharp click. I set the phone back in its cradle, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. My hands are shaking with the need to break something, to find Chase Callahan and show him exactly what happens when he threatens what's mine.
Isabella is trembling now, her whole body shaking like a leaf in a storm. "He knows," she whispers. "He knows I was with you."
"So?" I move toward her, slow and deliberate. She presses herself harder against the doorframe, but I catch the way her eyes drop to my mouth for just a second before snapping back up.
"So?" She stares at me, her green eyes wide with panic. "He thinks I chose to be there. He thinks I betrayed him."
"And that scares you." I take another step closer. She's trapped between the doorframe and me now, and I can smell that sweet scent that drives me crazy.
"You don't understand what he's like when he's disappointed.
" The words burst out, raw and desperate.
She pushes off from the doorframe, but that only brings her closer to me.
For a moment, we're inches apart, and I can feel the heat radiating from her skin.
Her breath catches, and I notice how her lips part slightly.
Then she's moving past me, pacing now. Her heels click against the hardwood in a frantic rhythm, and I watch the way the silk moves with her body, clinging to her ass, her thighs.
"He cuts people off. Completely. From everything."
I pull out my phone to text Milo, forcing myself to focus on business instead of the way she bites her bottom lip when she's nervous. My thumb moves quickly: Need intel on Chase Callahan. What's he been doing this week?
"He's your uncle, not your owner," I say, watching her pace. Every step is graceful, even in her panic. Even terrified, she moves like art.
"He raised me. After my parents died, he gave me everything." She stops in front of the tall windows, pressing her palms against the cool glass. The position arches her back slightly, and I have to dig my nails into my palms to keep from going to her.
"You don't owe him your life."
"Everything I have comes from him. The foundation work, the connections, even my apartment." Her breath fogs the window as she speaks, and I notice how her voice has gone breathy, like she's fighting for air.
My phone buzzes. Emilio: Give me 20 minutes.
"And that's how he controls you." I slip the phone back into my pocket, the movement drawing her attention. When she looks at me, her pupils are still dilated, but now there's something else there. Something that makes my blood run hot.
"He protects me. He loves me." But uncertainty creeps into her voice, making it waver. Making it soft and vulnerable in a way that makes me want to cross the room and show her what real protection looks like.
"Does he? Because loving families don't threaten consequences for independent choices."
She turns from the window, silk rustling. The sound goes straight to my cock. "I didn't make a choice. You kidnapped me."
"But he doesn't know that."
"Which is why I need to go home. Explain." She moves past me toward the kitchen, and I catch a hint of her natural scent mixed with something else. Something that tells me her body is responding to me whether she wants it to or not.
"And you think he'll believe you?"
She stops in the doorway, her hand gripping the frame. Her knuckles are white with tension, but I notice how her chest is still rising and falling rapidly. "He has to."
"Does he?"
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Doubt flickers in her eyes, and I can practically see the moment her certainty cracks.
My phone rings, cutting through the tension. Emilio.
"What did you find?" I answer, watching Isabella's face.
"Chase has been calling Isabella's apartment every day. Multiple times. He's also been calling her work, her friends. Had investigators check her apartment yesterday."
Isabella's face goes even paler. Her hand tightens on the doorframe.
"What did they find?"
"No signs of struggle. No signs she packed. But here's the interesting part—he's been doing this for months. The calls, the checking up. This isn't new behavior."
I look at Isabella, who's watching with growing anxiety. Her free hand is pressed against her stomach, and I can see the moment this information hits her.
"How long?"
"At least six months, that’s how far back I checked. Could be longer."
I hang up and slip the phone back into my pocket. Isabella is staring at me with those wide green eyes, and I can practically hear her world reshaping itself.
"He's been watching you," I say quietly. "Long before you disappeared."
"That's..." She shakes her head, honey-blonde hair slipping from its perfect arrangement. "That's not possible."
"Isn't it?"
She stares at me, war happening in her eyes. Green flecked with gold, swimming with unshed tears. But there's something else there too. Something that makes my pulse kick up.
"I need to go home," she says finally, her voice barely a whisper.
"No."
"Matteo."
"No." I flip the coin one last time, catching it in my palm. The metal is warm from my skin, and I can feel the tension in the room shift. "You're not going back to him."
"You can't keep me here forever."
"Watch me." I take a step toward her, and she doesn't back away. That's when I know I've got her, even if she doesn't know it yet.
"This is insane."
"Maybe. But I'm also right." I take another step, and now I'm close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes, to smell that sweet scent that's been driving me crazy. "You're not ready to face the truth about him yet. But you will be. And when you are, I'll be here."
"What if I'm never ready?"
"Then I'll wait."
"For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
I reach out and trace one finger along her jawline. She sucks in a sharp breath, and I feel her tremble. But she doesn't pull away. Her lips part slightly, and I can see her pulse hammering at her throat.
"You're not his property," I murmur, my voice low and rough. "You never were."
I lean closer, until my mouth is almost touching her ear. Her breath catches, and I can feel the heat radiating from her skin.
"You're mine now, Isabella. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
I pull back just enough to look into her eyes. They're wide, scared, but there's something else there. Something hungry that she's trying to hide.
Then I step away, leaving her standing there with her chest rising and falling rapidly, her lips parted, her whole body trembling with something that isn't entirely fear.
"Sweet dreams, princess," I say, and walk away.
Behind me, I hear her sharp intake of breath, and I smile. She's not ready to choose me over Chase yet. But her body already has.
And that's a start.