13. Bella
13
BELLA
S unlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the lake in morning gold. For a moment, I forget where I am—then every sensation floods back at once. The delicious ache between my thighs, the slight burn of stubble rash on my neck, the memory of Matteo’s hands and mouth mapping every inch of my body. Heat floods my cheeks as I remember how I responded to him, how I begged for more, how he made me fall apart again and again until I couldn’t remember my own name.
I stretch languidly, feeling muscles I didn’t even know I had protest. The sheets beside me are cold—Matteo must have been up for hours. Typical. Even after sharing something so intimate, he maintains his distance. The thought brings an unexpected ache to my chest.
His dress shirt from last night lies discarded near the bed, a casualty of our passion. I slip it on, inhaling his lingering scent as I button it—spice and sandalwood and something uniquely him that makes my pulse quicken even now. The silk lining still holds his warmth, and memories flash through my mind: how gentle he was at first, then how desperate; the Italian endearments he whispered against my skin; the way he watched me with those intense eyes as he claimed me completely.
In the mirror, I hardly recognize myself. Gone is the scared artist hiding from her family’s world. The woman staring back at me looks…transformed. Dark marks dot my neck and collarbone—Matteo’s way of marking his territory, I suppose. My lips are still swollen from his kisses, and my hair is a riot of waves that no amount of brushing will tame. The massive diamond on my finger catches the morning light, a constant reminder of my new reality.
But something nags at me as I study my reflection. Last night, Matteo finally told me the truth about Sophia—or at least, his version of it. Self-defense, he claimed. She pulled a gun.
But why does something about the story feel off? Maybe it’s the artist in me, always looking for the shadows beneath the surface, the places where light and dark meet to create something deeper.
Voices drift up from downstairs—Matteo’s deep rumble that still makes my body respond even after everything he gave me last night and another I don’t recognize. The second voice is sharp, angry, nothing like Matteo’s controlled tones. Something about the tension in their exchange makes me creep to the top of the stairs, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.
“—doesn’t change anything,” Matteo is saying, his voice carrying that edge of danger I’m learning to recognize. “The deal stands.”
“The deal,” the other voice spits back with barely contained fury, “was based on lies. You think Johnny won’t use this? Won’t tell her everything?”
My heart stutters at the mention of Johnny. Even here, in what should be the safety of the morning after my wedding night, danger creeps in.
“Let him try, Alessandro.” Matteo’s tone drops lower, deadlier. “She’s mine now. Protected.”
That possessive statement should anger me—I’m no one’s property—but something in the way he says it makes heat pool in my belly. Until the stranger’s next words turn that heat to ice.
“Like Sophia was protected?” A harsh laugh follows. “Face it, Matteo. You’re repeating history, and we both know how that ended.”
My foot lands on a creaky board, and the conversation cuts off abruptly. By the time I descend the stairs on shaking legs, Matteo is alone in the kitchen, making coffee as if nothing happened. He’s shirtless, wearing only black pants that ride low on his hips, and despite my growing unease, my body responds to the sight of all that muscled skin marked by my nails last night. His hair is damp from a shower, and water droplets still cling to his shoulders. He looks devastating, dangerous, and entirely too beautiful for my peace of mind.
“Good morning, piccola .” His eyes darken appreciatively as they rake over me in his shirt. “Sleep well?”
The tenderness in his voice makes this harder. How can he be so many things at once—gentle lover, dangerous don, keeper of secrets that might destroy us both?
“Who were you talking to?” I try to keep my voice steady, but fear makes it waver. Everything feels fragile this morning—my newfound trust in him, my understanding of our situation, even my own heart that’s treacherously falling for a man who keeps too many secrets.
He doesn’t insult me by denying it, which I appreciate even as dread pools in my stomach. “Business. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“I’m your wife now,” I remind him, the word still strange on my tongue as I move to the coffee maker. Last night he claimed every inch of my body, yet this morning he’s already shutting me out. “Your secrets are supposed to be my secrets.”
His arms snake around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. The heat of his skin through the thin dress shirt makes my breath catch, memories of last night flooding back. “Some secrets protect you,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear in a way that makes me shiver. “Some would destroy you.”
“Like the real reason Sophia died?” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.
His body goes rigid against mine, every muscle tensing. Before he can respond, both our phones explode with notifications. My hands shake as I reach for mine first, and my breath catches at the headline that changes everything:
Calabrese Heir Releases Shocking Video: The Truth About Sophia DeLuca’s Death.
The security footage shows Sophia in this very house, backing away from someone off camera. Even in the grainy quality, I can see the terror on her face, her hands raised in surrender—not holding a gun like Matteo claimed. She’s begging, pleading for her life. My stomach lurches as I realize the implications.
The man I gave myself to last night, the man I’m starting to fall for, lied about killing his wife in self-defense.
“Matteo?” My voice comes out small, broken. “W-what is this?”
“Don’t.” He releases me, moving to the windows with lethal grace. “Don’t look at it. Don’t read any of it.”
“Why?” I follow him, gripping my phone like a lifeline. Last night I trusted him with my body, my heart beginning to trust him with more, and now this? “What aren’t you telling me? You said she pulled a gun, that it was self-defense. But this footage?—”
“Shows exactly what Johnny wants it to show.” He turns to face me, and something in his eyes—desperation maybe, or fear—makes my heart clench. “Trust me, Bella. Please.”
“Trust goes both ways.” I hold up my phone, hating how my voice shakes. “The video is everywhere . Every family in New York is watching it right now. Whatever truth you’re hiding, it’s about to come out. Wouldn’t you rather I hear it from you?”
For a moment, I see it in his face—the war between truth and protection, between trust and fear. His jaw works as he struggles with something, and I think he might actually tell me everything. Then his phone rings—Antonio’s tone cutting through the tension like a knife.
The color drains from his face as he listens, and my world tilts before he even speaks.
“Get dressed,” he orders, already moving toward the stairs. “We’re leaving. Now .”
“Why? What’s happened?” I struggle to keep up with his long strides.
“Your mother’s dead.”
The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering on the hardwood. The sound seems to come from very far away, like I’m underwater. This can’t be happening. Not my mother. Not now. “What?”
“Someone broke into her penthouse last night. Made it look like a robbery gone wrong.” His voice softens slightly, and the gentleness in it breaks something in my chest. “I’m sorry, piccola .”
The room spins violently. I grab the kitchen counter, my knees threatening to give out. Memories assault me—my mother’s cutting remarks about my art, yes, but also the way she’d brush my hair when I was little, how she’d sing me Italian lullabies, the pride in her eyes at my first art show even as she criticized my clothes.
Oh God, both my parents are gone. In less than a week, I’ve become an orphan.
“The Calabrese family?” I manage through the tightness in my throat.
“Most likely.” He’s already on the phone, barking orders in Italian. “Which means you’re next on their list. We need to?—”
A window shatters upstairs, the sound like ice breaking in my chest. One moment I’m frozen in grief, the next I’m airborne as Matteo tackles me to the ground. Gunfire erupts through the house, the noise deafening in the modern space. Glass rains down around us like deadly diamonds, catching the morning light before turning lethal.
“Stay down!” Matteo shouts, pulling a gun from somewhere and returning fire.
But my artist’s eye, trained to notice details others miss, catches something he doesn’t—a red dot appearing on his chest like a deadly brushstroke. Without thinking, just pure instinct, I shove him hard. We roll behind the kitchen island together just as bullets pepper the spot where he’d been standing.
We land with me on top, his gun pressed between us, and for a surreal moment, all I can think about is how we were tangled together so differently just hours ago. Our faces are inches apart as more gunfire sounds outside. The scent of gunpowder mixes with his cologne, with the coffee he was making, with the lingering traces of our lovemaking—the ordinary and extraordinary colliding in this moment of chaos.
“You saved my life,” he says roughly, brushing glass from my hair with his free hand. Even now, even after the video, after the lies, he’s trying to protect me.
“If I let you die,” I manage through chattering teeth, grief and fear and adrenaline making me shake, “who’s going to tell me what was really on that video?”
His laugh is more breath than sound, ghosting across my face. “When we get out of this alive, I’ll tell you everything. I swear it.”
“If,” I correct, hearing footsteps crunching on broken glass. Oh God, they’re inside now. “If we get out alive.”
His free hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing my bottom lip in a gesture so tender it makes my heart ache. Even with death coming for us, he touches me like I’m precious. “When,” he insists. “Because now I have something worth surviving for.”
The tenderness of the moment contrasts sharply with the violence surrounding us. More windows shatter, and the footsteps are getting closer. I should be terrified—I am terrified—but somehow being in Matteo’s arms makes me feel safe even as my world falls apart. How can I still trust him, still want him, when he’s lied to me? When my mother is dead and I’m probably next?
Before I can sort through my tangled emotions, he rolls us over, shielding my body with his as the kitchen erupts in chaos. His heartbeat thunders against my cheek as bullets fly overhead, and I realize something that terrifies me more than the gunfire—I’m falling in love with a man I’m not sure I can trust, and we might both die before I figure out if that’s wonderful or terrible.
Bullets whiz overhead as Matteo keeps his body curved over mine. The kitchen island won’t protect us for long—already chunks of marble are flying off as bullets strike. The rich smell of coffee mingles with gunpowder and broken glass, creating a surreal snapshot my brain can’t help but catalog even in crisis.
“When I say run,” Matteo breathes against my ear, “head for the garage. Don’t stop, don’t look back.”
I want to trust him completely. Last night, when he was inside me, whispering Italian endearments against my skin, trust seemed so easy. Now, with the video of Sophia fresh in my mind and my mother’s death a raw wound in my chest, everything feels uncertain. But what choice do I have?
“Three.” His arm tightens around me. “Two.” A bullet strikes dangerously close, sending marble shards raining over us. “One.”
We move as one unit, him firing behind us as we sprint for the garage door. My bare feet barely feel the glass cutting them—adrenaline dulls everything except the awareness of Matteo at my back. The garage is thirty feet away. Twenty. Ten.
A figure steps out from behind a column. Without thinking, I grab a heavy crystal vase from a side table and hurl it at his head. The man drops, gun clattering away. Matteo’s approving grunt would make me proud if I weren’t so terrified.
“In!” He shoves me toward the waiting Bentley as more shots ring out. I dive into the backseat as he slides behind the wheel. The engine roars to life just as bullets start pinging off the bulletproof glass.
We burst through the garage door in a shower of splintered wood. As we speed down the private drive, I risk a glance back at the house. Smoke curls from broken windows, and dark figures move through the destruction like shadows. My mother is dead, my father’s murderers are hunting me, and I’m married to a man who might be lying about everything.
“You promised me the truth,” I say as we hit the main road, my voice shaking. “All of it.”
“I know.” His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and what I see there makes my heart stutter. Fear, yes, but also something deeper. Something that makes me want to believe him despite everything. “And you’ll have it. But first, we need to survive.”
The Bentley speeds through the morning light, taking us toward an uncertain future. I press my hand against the window, watching the lake house disappear behind us. Last night I gave Matteo my body. This morning, I saved his life even after discovering his lies. And now, as we flee from people trying to kill us, I realize I’m still willing to give him my heart—if he’s brave enough to trust me with all his truths.
I just pray we live long enough to find out if that’s possible.