Chapter 30 Isabella
Isabella
The silk nightgown pools around my feet as I step onto the marble balcony, bare toes curling against the cool stone. Italian flows from Matteo's voice below, low and dangerous and completely fluent as he paces the terrace with his phone pressed to his ear.
Business. Even at seven in the morning.
I lean against the railing, morning light warming my shoulders where the thin straps leave them exposed.
It's been three months since the family breakfast, since I stopped pretending this wasn't forever, and I still feel amazed by the simple luxury of belonging somewhere.
Of belonging to someone who treats me like a queen instead of a possession.
The coffee waiting on the small balcony table is perfect. Still steaming, with exactly the right amount of cream. He must have brought it up before his call, careful and thoughtful in the way that still surprises me.
I sit in the cushioned chair, sipping the espresso while listening to his voice drift up from below. He's speaking to someone about security measures for the docks, something about rotating schedules and background checks. All of it in that lethal Italian that makes my pulse quicken.
His voice has become home to me.
Below me on the terrace, Matteo stands with his back to the mansion, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand braced against the stone railing. He's wearing black slacks and nothing else, muscles shifting under tanned skin as he gestures. Auburn hair still messy from sleep and my fingers.
"No exceptions," he says into the phone, voice carrying that edge that means someone is about to have a very bad day. "Anyone who approaches the warehouse gets vetted twice. I don't care if they're carrying papal authority."
I lean against the doorframe, watching him work. Six months ago, I would have been terrified by this conversation. Now I understand what I'm seeing. A man protecting his family, his business, his world. Protecting me.
The possessive satisfaction that thought brings would have horrified the woman I used to be.
He turns, catches sight of me on the balcony above, and whatever he was about to say dies on his lips. His gray eyes rake over me in the silk nightgown, pupils dilating slightly. The phone call becomes secondary to the heat building between us.
"Handle it," he says curtly into the phone, then hangs up without waiting for a response. He disappears from view, and moments later I hear his footsteps on the stairs leading to our bedroom.
When he emerges onto the balcony, he crosses to me in three strides, hands settling on my waist, fingers skimming the silk at my hips.
He kisses me slow and deep, tasting like espresso and promise. When he pulls back, his eyes are soft in a way they never are with anyone else.
"Sleep well?" he murmurs against my lips.
"No nightmares." The words come easily now. Three months of peaceful sleep, three months of waking up safe in his arms. "What time is the meeting?"
"Ten." His thumb traces circles on my hipbone, casual and possessive. "Plenty of time."
But something in his tone suggests we should leave soon. I've learned to read the subtle shifts in his voice, the way business Matteo is different from the man who whispers filthy promises in my ear at three in the morning.
"Important meeting?"
"The kind where you remind people why they pay us for protection instead of seeking it elsewhere." His smile is sharp, dangerous. "Nothing you need to worry about."
Except I do worry. Not because I'm afraid of his world anymore, but because I've become part of it. The Rosettis don't just tolerate me now. They respect me. Look to me for insight, for the kind of strategic thinking that comes from years of navigating Chase's manipulations.
"Should I come with you?"
His eyes sharpen with something that might be pride. "Would you want to?"
But a few months ago, the idea would have sent me into a panic attack. Now I just nod. "If you think it would be useful."
"God, you're perfect." He kisses me again, harder this time. "Dom will love having you there. The Torrino brothers respond better to elegant intimidation than the kind that involves breaking kneecaps."
The casual way he says it makes me laugh. These past months of learning that violence is just another business tool, that the men I've come to love would do anything to protect what's theirs. That I'm part of what's theirs now.
"I'll need to change."
"You'll need to do more than that." His hands slide up to cup my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. "You'll need to put on that mask you wore for Chase. Cool, untouchable, better than everyone in the room."
"I can do that."
"I know you can." His voice is rough with something deeper than lust. "They look to you because they see what I see. Strength wrapped in elegance."
The words settle warm in my chest. Not the empty flattery Chase used to manipulate me, but real recognition of who I've become. Who I always was underneath the fear.
"What time should I be ready?"
"Nine-thirty. Wear that gray Armani." His grin turns wicked. "The one that makes me want to bend you over my desk."
"Matteo."
"What? It's a fact." He kisses my neck, teeth grazing skin. "Though maybe save that thought for after the meeting."
I push at his shoulders, laughing. "Go shower. Let me drink my coffee in peace."
"In a minute." He doesn't move, just holds me against him like he's memorizing the moment. "Isabella?"
"Yes?"
"This. Us. It's not going anywhere, is it?"
The question surprises me. Not because I doubt his feelings, but because Matteo Rosetti doesn't ask for reassurance. He takes what he wants and holds it with both hands until the world bends around him.
But I understand what he's really asking. If I'm here because I want to be, or because I don't know how to leave.
"No," I say softly, meeting his eyes. "It's not going anywhere."
Relief flickers across his features, gone so quickly I might have imagined it. But I didn't. Even dangerous men need to be certain of the things that matter most.
"Good." He kisses my forehead, gentle and possessive. "Because I'm never letting you go."
* * *
The Torrino meeting goes exactly as Matteo predicted. Two hours of careful negotiation disguised as polite conversation, with me playing the role of elegant authority. The brothers defer to me in ways they don't to Dom or Matteo, something about a woman's perspective making them feel safer.
If they only knew how thoroughly Matteo had trained me in reading people's weaknesses.
Afterward, we retreat to his office on the top floor of the building. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the harbor, afternoon light turning the water silver. The desk is massive mahogany, positioned to intimidate anyone sitting across from it.
I automatically note the security camera in the corner, the way he positions himself between me and the door even now. Old habits from both of us—his need to protect, my need to catalog escape routes even when I have no intention of using them.
But I perch on the edge of the desk instead, bare legs crossed, heels discarded somewhere by the door. A display of trust I couldn't have managed months ago.
"How did I do?" I ask, sipping the espresso he made me.
"Perfect." He settles in his chair, hands sliding up my calves to rest on my knees. "Though I spent half the meeting thinking about getting you alone."
"Just half?"
"The other half I was thinking about bending you over this desk." His thumbs trace circles on my skin, sending heat spiraling through me. "Still am, actually."
"Is that so?" I set down my cup and lean back on my hands, the position arching my back slightly. "And what exactly were you planning to do?"
His pupils dilate, hands tightening on my legs. "Everything."
"Matteo." I try to keep my voice steady, but it comes out breathless.
"What?" His hands slide higher, pushing the hem of my skirt up my thighs. "You asked."
"Someone could come in."
"Door's locked." He stands, moving between my legs, hands settling on my waist. "Besides, they all know better than to interrupt when I'm with you."
The unwavering certainty in his voice sends liquid heat through my veins. Months of being claimed by this man, of learning that his control extends to everything around us. Including making sure we're never interrupted when he wants me.
Which is constantly.
"You're still a control freak," I murmur, hands fisting in his shirt.
"And you're still mine." He kisses my neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin. "Utterly, irrevocably mine."
The words make me shiver with want. Not because I'm his possession, but because being his means being treasured, protected, worshipped. It means belonging somewhere I never have to pretend to be anyone else.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks against my throat.
"The future." The words surprise me, but they're true. Once I lived day to day, never daring to plan beyond surviving the next family dinner or charity event. Now I can imagine years ahead. "Growing the business together. Maybe that house in Italy you mentioned."
"Tuscany," he says, pulling back to look at me. "Vineyard, olive groves, no neighbors for miles."
"Sounds perfect."
"For vacations." His hands slide up to cup my face. "This is home. Manhattan, the family, all of it."
I think about the Rosetti mansion, how it felt like a fortress when I first arrived and feels like sanctuary now. Carmela's laugh echoing through the halls, Besiana's quiet wisdom over morning coffee, the way Dom nods his approval when I contribute to strategy discussions.
"I love them," I say, the admission still new enough to surprise me.
"They love you too." He kisses me soft and deep. "You know what Carmela asked me yesterday?"
"What?"
"If I thought you'd want to help plan the charity gala this year. Take point on the whole thing."
The offer makes my chest tight with gratitude. Not just inclusion, but leadership. Trust. The kind of responsibility I've been training for my whole life without knowing it.
"What did you tell her?"
"That you'd probably revolutionize their entire approach and make them twice as much money." His smile is proud, possessive. "Was I right?"
"Maybe." I trace the collar of his shirt, thinking about donor cultivation and strategic partnerships. "I do have some ideas."
"I'm sure you do." He kisses my jaw, working toward my ear. "Speaking of the future."
"Yes?"
"Do you think our daughter will have your temper or mine?"
The words stop my heart for a moment. Our daughter. Not hypothetical children or someday babies, but a specific, imagined future where we build something together.
"God help us if she has both," I say softly.
His laugh is rough against my neck. "She'll be perfect. Brilliant and deadly and absolutely spoiled."
"By her father, you mean."
"By everyone." He pulls back to meet my eyes, and the intensity in his expression makes my breath catch. "I can see her, Isabella. Dark hair, your eyes, causing trouble from the moment she can walk."
The image is so vivid it makes my chest ache with longing. A little girl with Matteo's mischievous smile and my stubborn streak, growing up safe and loved in a world that will bend around her the way it bends around all Rosetti children.
"Someday," I say, the word a promise.
"Someday soon," he agrees, hands sliding down to rest on my stomach. "When you're ready."
The casual assumption that our someday is inevitable makes warmth spread through me. Not pressure or demand, just quiet certainty that we're building toward something permanent. Something beautiful.
"I love you," I whisper against his lips.
"I love you too." He kisses me deeper, hands tangling in my hair. "More than I thought possible. More than I knew how to want."
The admission breaks something open in my chest. This man who spent twenty-nine years avoiding emotional attachment, who kidnapped me to use as leverage and ended up falling so hard he rebuilt his entire world around keeping me.
Who looks at me like I'm the answer to every question he never knew how to ask.
"Take me home," I say against his mouth.
"We are home."
And he's right. Not the mansion, not any specific building, but this. Us. The life we've built from kidnapping and fear and desperate want. The family that claimed me, the man who chose me, the future we're writing together one careful day at a time.