Chapter 14
Isabella
The elevator doors slide shut before I can change my mind.
The private elevator rises through the heart of Manhattan, carrying me toward something I'm not sure I'm ready to see.
Glass and chrome surround us, reflecting fragments of my face back at me.
I'm wearing one of my new outfits from yesterday's shopping trip—a structured navy dress that fits like it was made for me, paired with heels that click against the marble floor with each step.
My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, and the emerald pendant he gave me yesterday catches the light at my throat.
I look like I belong here. Like I'm exactly where I chose to be.
The lie sits heavy in my chest, but it's getting easier to carry.
"You didn't have to come," Matteo says for the third time since we left the safehouse.
His hand finds the small of my back as we reach the top floor, his touch burning through the fabric of my dress.
That possessive touch that makes my skin warm and my pulse quicken, even as I tell myself I hate it.
"Yes, I did." I turn to look at him, catching the way his eyes darken when they meet mine. "Last time you left me behind, you came home bleeding. I'm not sitting in that house wondering if you're alive or dead."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. "Worried about me, bella?"
"I'm worried about being stuck in the middle of nowhere with no way home if something happens to you," I lie, but we both know it's not the truth.
The truth is that seeing him hurt, cleaning his wounds with my own hands, made something shift inside me.
Made me realize I care more than I want to admit.
His hand slides from my back to my hip, fingers spreading possessively over the curve. The heat of his palm burns through the silk, and I have to work to keep my breathing steady.
"You're not a prisoner," he says, his voice low and rough against my ear. "But you're mine. Act like it."
The words send heat spiraling through me, and I hate how much I like the way he says it. How much I like belonging to someone who looks at me like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once.
The elevator doors open with a soft whisper, revealing a reception area that screams money and power.
Tasteful art lines the walls, strategic lighting creates an atmosphere of understated elegance, and the receptionist behind the sleek black desk looks like she stepped out of a magazine.
But underneath the polished surface, I can feel something else.
Something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
This is the legitimate face of the Rosetti empire. The mask they wear for the outside world.
"Mr. Rosetti," the receptionist says, her smile never wavering. "Your brothers are waiting in the conference room."
Matteo's hand tightens on my hip, and I can feel his tension through the simple touch. He's bringing me into the heart of his family's business, trusting me with something he's never shared with anyone outside the blood. The weight of that trust makes my chest tight.
The conference room is glass and chrome, just like the elevator.
Modern and cold, with a view of Manhattan that makes me feel like I'm standing on top of the world.
The air smells of leather and expensive coffee, with an underlying metallic edge that speaks of serious business conducted behind closed doors.
Dom Rosetti sits at the head of the polished mahogany table, his presence commanding even in silence.
He's older than Matteo, broader, with the kind of authority that comes from years of making life and death decisions.
When he looks at me, his sharp green eyes are like winter.
"You're bringing her here?" The voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see Rafe Rosetti in the doorway.
Dark hair, broken nose, ice-blue eyes that cut like winter, and a five o'clock shadow that makes him look dangerous even in an expensive suit.
But there's no warmth in his expression when he looks at me. "Chase's blood?"
The words hit me like a blow. Chase's blood. Not Isabella. Not even my name. Just a reminder of who I belong to in their eyes, what I represent.
Matteo steps closer to me, his body a wall of heat at my back.
I can feel the tension rolling off him, the barely controlled violence that lives just beneath his charming surface.
His hand slides down to rest at the base of my spine, fingers splaying possessively over the silk.
The touch sends electricity through me, makes my breath catch in a way I hope no one else notices.
"She's not him," he says, his voice carrying a warning that makes the temperature drop. "And she's with me."
I force myself to stand straighter, to meet Dom's cold stare without flinching.
Years of charity galas and board meetings have taught me how to project confidence I don't feel, how to smile when I want to run.
But this is different. This is walking into a den of predators and pretending I belong there.
"Isabella Callahan," Dom says, my name rolling off his tongue like he's testing the weight of it. "You're smaller than I expected."
"I'm exactly the size I need to be," I reply, keeping my voice steady. The words come out stronger than I feel, and I catch the flash of surprise in his eyes.
Matteo's hand moves to my shoulder, fingers squeezing gently.
The touch sends electricity down my spine, and I have to work not to lean into him.
When his thumb brushes against the sensitive skin at the base of my neck, just above the emerald pendant, I nearly gasp.
The small caress feels intimate, claiming, and from the way his breathing deepens behind me, he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
"She's here because she insisted on being here. Questions?"
The silence stretches between them, loaded with family dynamics I don't understand.
The overhead lights cast stark shadows across the conference table, highlighting the austere beauty of the space.
Everything here speaks of power carefully contained within acceptable boundaries.
Dom studies me for a long moment, and I can practically see him cataloging every detail.
The way I hold myself, the expensive clothes, the fact that I'm not cowering in the corner.
Behind me, I hear Matteo's breathing change, becoming deeper. More controlled. When I glance over my shoulder, his eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my pulse skip. The way he's looking at me—like he wants to devour me whole—sends warmth spreading low in my belly.
"No questions," Dom says finally. "But if this goes sideways, she's your responsibility."
The weight of those words settles over the room, heavy with implication. I can feel all three men watching me, measuring me, deciding whether I'm worth the risk I represent.
A knock at the door interrupts whatever Matteo might have said. A man enters, nervous energy rolling off him in waves. He's thin, sharp-featured, with the kind of eyes that never stay still. I recognize the type—an informant, someone who trades information for protection or money.
"Mr. Rosetti," he says, his voice too loud in the quiet room. "I have news about Chase Callahan."
My blood turns to ice. Whatever this is, whatever information he's bringing, it's about my uncle. About the man who raised me, who gave me everything I have.
The man pulls out a small package, wrapped in brown paper. "This came for you. A gift, he said."
Matteo's hand slides down my arm, fingers intertwining with mine. The contact is warm, grounding, and I realize I'm trembling. "Easy," he murmurs, so quietly only I can hear. The word is rough, intimate, like a caress against my ear.
Dom takes the package, weighing it in his hands. "From Chase?"
"Not directly. But the message was clear." The informant's eyes dart to me, then quickly away. "He wanted you to know he's serious about getting his niece back."
The world tilts sideways. I know, with absolute certainty, that whatever's in that package is meant to send a message. And I know, with equal certainty, that I don't want to see it.
Dom unwraps the package slowly, deliberately.
Inside is a small box, the kind used for jewelry.
He opens it, and even from across the room, I can see the dark stain on the velvet interior.
The metallic scent I noticed when we first entered seems stronger now, more present, as if violence has always been lurking just beneath this room's polished surface.
"A finger," Dom says, his voice completely flat. "With a message."
He pulls out a small card, reading silently. When he looks up, his eyes find mine. "The message is for you, Isabella. It says 'This is what happens to people who forget their loyalties. Come home before more people get hurt.'"
The room spins around me. My uncle, the man who taught me about art and culture and proper behavior, just sent a severed finger as a message. Just threatened more violence if I don't return to him.
And the worst part? I'm not even surprised.
The violence doesn't shock me—I've always known what lurked beneath the surface of our world.
What shocks me is the pretense. The way Chase wrapped brutality in silk and called it civilization.
At least Matteo never pretended to be anything other than what he is.
Matteo's thumb traces across my knuckles, a gentle touch that anchors me to the present. When I look at him, his eyes are burning with something that looks like fury. Not at me, but for me. At the man who raised me to be naive enough to believe in fairy tales.
"You knew," I whisper. "You knew what kind of man he was."
"I told you," he says, his voice gentle in a way that makes my chest tighten. "I told you he wasn't what you thought."