6. Antonio
Chapter six
Antonio
M y shoulders are so tense they might as well be carved from the very stone of this fortress. Part of me wants to stay. Just to make sure my daughter is okay.
Nothing more.
But I march away from the wing I should have condemned the moment I confined Isabella within its walls.
The rage I expected to feel at seeing her with Elena never materialized. Instead, something more dangerous took its place. Doubt. Doubt about keeping her locked away. Doubt about whether I've been right all along.
"The shipment has arrived safely," Luca reports, falling into step beside me briefly.
I give a curt nod, offering no further comment. While one successful shipment is a positive development, it barely scratches the surface of our deeper problems. The contract hangs over everything like a guillotine blade, that damned agreement her grandmother crafted that keeps the French and others circling us like sharks.
I veer right, heading to my office. Sunlight bathes the desk as Franco steps in. With a motion, I indicate for him to take a seat. He begins rifling through various files while I find myself pacing beside the bay windows, lost in thought.
Why did the impulse to rush to Isabella's side seize me when she stumbled and fell? And that room—the mold creeping along the walls, the blood-like paint smeared on the floor—it was worse than I'd ordered. Someone's head will roll for that neglect. Not out of concern for her comfort, but because her grandmother's contract requires her well-being, and I need that contract intact.
At least that's what I tell myself.
Isabella remains a curse, one I'm beginning to accept I might never fully escape. Since relegating her to that secluded room, not a single night has passed without dreams of her, her soft moans echoing in my mind, the memory of her surrendering completely to me. This relentless craving for her persists, a stark reminder that I've imprisoned myself as much as I have her. A Beast trapped within the confines of my own making.
Seeing Isabella interacting with Elena? It both sent fire and ice through my veins, down my spine, into my chest.
My daughter has never giggled that freely. She never rushed to hug anyone like that.
When she couldn't stop crying and screaming begging to see Bella again, I almost decided against it. But the sniffles did something to my heart, because it wasn't a tamper tantrum, it was a cry for help. For something I can't offer her. For something I'll never be able to offer her. I've seen the damages our world does. I'll prepare her. I'll keep her safe. I'll protect her.
But I couldn't dry her tears. I don't think I'll ever be able to. I don't have what it takes.
I'm a monster. The Beast. The darkness that never sees the light.
And so, I nodded to Signora Martha and we went back to Isabella.
Her eyebrows shot up; she clearly didn't expect me back so soon. I'd grudgingly allowed their little excursion, and now, watching from the window, I see them in the yard. Isabella's basking in sunlight she hasn't felt in months, while Elena dashes ahead with Cerberus, then looks back to make sure Isabella's keeping up.
What's Isabella up to? Spinning in a pirouette, her laughter floating up to me. That sound, her laugh... it's like a bullet, unexpected, hitting me square in the chest.
I must not forget her betrayal, gripping it tightly to prevent it from turning to ash in my grasp.
The echo of my mother's final words haunts me... my mother...
Her absence is a void that should not exist. She should be here, lavishing my daughter with the affection only a grandmother can, watching Elena with those same hazelnut eyes she passed down to her. Instead, I have her letters—the ones I left with Isabella—constant reminders of what Isabella helped destroy. Of the truth she denies even now.
I clench my hands into fists as Isabella gently guides Elena into a twirl and then shows my three-year old how to raise her arms above her head. And they twirl again like they're in some kind of ballet.
Is she teaching her how to dance?
She definitely is.
Fuck.
That seals it. Now, Elena will always ask for her.
"Boss?" Franco's concerned voice tells me he must have called my name before.
I snap away from my obsession and turn back to him. "What?" I bark and Franco raises an eyebrow like he knows exactly what I was doing.
"The French have postponed the dinner to next week," he informs me. I can hear the underlying tension in his voice. "Rumors are circulating that Isabella's father is maneuvering to win them over again."
The words hit like a physical blow. After everything—after the wedding massacre, after the sabotage, after all the blood we've spilled—that bastard is still outmaneuvering us. The contract's power diminishes with every day Isabella stays hidden away, with every whisper that Moretti is still the true holder of his bloodline's power.
My thoughts spiral. Losing the French isn't an option, but it's crucial we show them our power. Our unity. Our reach.
"What about the Greeks?" The words slip out, my mind flashing back to that night in Milano, pulling Dimitri out of a bind in some shadowy back-alley bar. The Greeks, who notably refused to attend the auction, might be the wild card we need in this deadly game.
Franco raises an eyebrow, puzzled. "The Greeks? We've kept our distance since that fallout in the Balkans."
"Maybe it's time to reconsider."
"Bringing in the Greeks? That's playing with fire," Franco warns, skepticism etched in every word.
I lean back, the weight of leadership heavy on my shoulders. "It's about holding the reins tight, Franco," I say, my voice laced with the steel needed to navigate these treacherous waters. "Isabella's father doesn't have an inch of sway with the Greeks. With Connor by our side, Isabella becomes our ace with the French. But it's not just about holding cards; it's about how you play them." My eyes narrow as I plot our next move. "This isn't about dodging bullets or avoiding a war with the other families. It's about launching a full-scale offensive on him. The Greeks sidestepped the auction for reasons we can exploit. We're going to make sure they're seated at our table next week."
Dimitri owes me. Blood debts never expire in our world. And the Greeks' hatred for Moretti runs generations deep. Something about territory in Sicily and a betrayal that cost them dearly.
My words hang in the room, a testament to the lengths I'll go to protect what's mine. "It's a calculated move, not just for show but a strategic play to secure our hold and send a clear message. We have one week to get them here. And one week to get our shit in order."
I don't add what we're both thinking: one week to make Isabella play the dutiful wife. One week to bring her into the light without letting her escape. One week to present the united front this contract demands while containing the damage she could inflict if given the chance.
And as Franco nods and stands up, my gaze finds the garden again where Isabella and my daughter are now playing with Cerberus.
I can't get distracted.
I won't.
Isabella will need to play her role, too. Show some sort of united front. I wince. How is that going to go?
Three months of isolation hasn't broken her. That much was clear from the steel in her eyes earlier. If anything, captivity has honed her edges, made her more dangerous.
I need to find a way to make her cooperate without rekindling whatever burned between us on our wedding night. Need to balance the contract's requirements with keeping her at arm's length. Need to remember that honeysuckle is just a scent, not a siren call.
But watching her dance in the sunlight, I can already feel the Beast's chains straining.