12. Isabella
Chapter twelve
Isabella
H e didn't move. Not one inch. Not even a halfhearted attempt to offer comfort while the doctor administered the adenosine and the nurses stood by with those terrifying pads—"just in case," they said, like my heart stopping was some casual possibility. While I lay there freaking out, Antonio sat with those ridiculous muscular arms crossed over his chest like he was the one who needed protection from me.
That almost tender voice from earlier? Just another twisted game. Or maybe his way of not showing Elena the truth. How indifferent, dismissive, and vicious the Beast can really be.
I'd hoped he might sit in the front seat on the drive back to the fortress, but no. He's right beside me, too close, filling the backseat with his sandalwood-and-danger scent. My muscles tense like before performances, only this time there's no music to lose myself in, just the quiet hum of the car and Antonio barking orders into his phone.
"I don't care what Moretti's men are saying," he growls to whoever's on the other end. "You keep the shipment moving through Palermo. If anyone tries to stop you—" His voice drops lower, more menacing. "Handle it. Permanently."
He hangs up, immediately dialing someone else. This time, his voice shifts. Still deep, still commanding, but with an undercurrent I haven't heard since our wedding night. A woman answers, her tone playful even through the speaker. I catch a laugh from him that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
Is it Paola? The woman whose body he claimed while making sure I watched? The memory makes my skin prickle with something that definitely isn't jealousy. Definitely not.
God, I want to scream until my lungs give out. But that would take energy I don't have. SVT always leaves me wrung out like a ballet costume after final performance, my body hollowed and heavy. And who knows what I'd end up spilling in this exhausted state? Something he'd just use against me, or mock me for, or turn into another weapon in his arsenal of cruelty.
I yawn loudly, pointedly, but he doesn't even glance my way. Just keeps talking, keeps ignoring the wife he decided was worth bringing to the hospital but not worth acknowledging now that the crisis has passed.
My eyes drift closed against my will, and the image that dances behind my eyelids makes me clench my teeth. It's him—right before we left for the hospital. "I'm not going anywhere," he'd promised, his voice rough with what sounded almost like concern. And yet, once more, I've never felt so completely alone.
My eyes flutter open, latching onto the Italian countryside speeding by. None of this should bother me. For one stupid moment, I'd thought we were making some kind of progress, and I wasn't prepared for the resilient butterflies that fluttered in my chest at his unexpected protectiveness.
Pathetic, really. Like they're Sleeping Beauty, and their wake-up kiss was just one ounce of decency from the man who locked me away for three months.
One. Ounce.
One ounce of decency isn't enough. It cannot be enough. Especially when it's clearly a lie, just like everything else about him. He'd checked my pulse as if I might be faking, as if even my heart's rebellion was some elaborate scheme against him.
I force myself to keep staring out the window as he continues another conversation, this one in English. "The dinner will take place at a secure location," he says, tension threading through his voice. "Of course she's here. She's with me right now."
I swear if he asks me to say hello to whoever's on the line, I'll bite him. Hard. Right through that expensive shirt.
But he just hangs up and starts texting, fingers moving across the screen like his life depends on it. I inhale deeply, counting beats like my cardiologist taught me. The last thing I need is another SVT episode.
At least this time, the adenosine didn't feel like death. The last time they administered it. It felt like teetering on the edge of oblivion. Like I was about to take one final, gasping breath before everything went dark. The dread had been overwhelming, panic crushing my chest worse than any tumor ever could.
This time, I'd glared at Antonio through the whole procedure, focusing my anger on him instead of my fear. Under the sterile, unforgiving lights of the hospital, his scars seemed to tell their own story—a story I still wish I could have prevented. But unlike the fairy tales I used to believe in, I don't have three wishes, and we can't turn back time.
The silence stretches between us as my gaze remains fixed on the passing landscape. A bakery with its warm glow speeds past, then rugged cliffs and the endless Mediterranean—scenes from a life I'm barred from exploring, trapped as I am in that desolate wing of his fortress.
"Drink." He thrusts a bottle of water at me, his voice a command, not an offer.
I scowl, every fiber in me wanting to shove it back at him or open it and throw it in his face. But Dr. Draghi's orders echo in my mind. "Hydration is critical with your condition," he'd said, eyeing Antonio like he was assessing whether the Beast actually cared about his wife's health.
I take the water, unscrewing the cap with more force than necessary.
The doctor's other comments still hang heavy in my thoughts. The beta blockers might not be enough anymore. An ablation procedure might be necessary. And then the question that hit like a physical blow: "Are you currently seeing an oncologist?"
That casual inquiry about routine check-ups, his comments on my good blood work, on not finding any suspicious lymph nodes—even as he reminded me he was no hematologist—had tightened something in my chest that had nothing to do with my heart's rhythm.
Antonio had nodded like he's the one deciding my medical future. I know I need to go back for a check-up, but I loathe those appointments, the way they strip me bare, leaving me more exposed than I ever felt during performances.
I take another sip of water, the cool liquid soothing my throat. Returning to the fortress—I refuse to call it home—brings a flicker of relief. Maybe it's the absence of that clinical hospital smell, or the prospect of seeing Elena and Signora Martha. But then memories of the previous night intrude, the sound of heavy footsteps outside my door sending a different kind of shiver through me.
"Where were you last night?" The question comes out sharper than I intended, catching Antonio mid-text.
His head snaps up, brow furrowing. "Why do you care? I do what the fuck I want." Those dark eyes narrow, assessing me like I'm a potential threat.
"Great. Not my point." I lift a shoulder in what I hope looks like indifference, even as something twists in my stomach at the thought of him being tender and true with someone else. "Spend the night in whatever bed you want. Were you doing rounds or something near my room?"
"What do you mean?" His voice lowers, that dangerous edge creeping in that makes the hairs on my neck stand up.
"I just... I thought I heard steps, that's all." I try to keep my tone casual, not wanting to show how much it had unnerved me. "Might've been dreaming." I wasn't, though. "Or possibly one of the guards on their rounds?"
"Maybe," he concedes, but the single word hangs heavy with unspoken meaning. His fingers pause over his phone before he adds, "If you ever hear anything like that again, you tell me. Clear?"
I can't help but raise an eyebrow. "Sure. I'll use my telepathic powers to chat with you about the weird noises I hear from the jail cell you locked me in. Sounds like a perfect use of abilities I didn't even know I had."
His gaze darkens, dropping to my lips before slowly rising to meet my eyes again. Heat creeps up my neck, unbidden and unwelcome. "From now on, it'll be easier to just tell me," he growls, the words somewhere between a threat and a promise.
Before I can respond, Dean—one of his mother's old friends turned loyal soldier—calls from the driver's seat, "Following your orders, boss, taking the longer road back."
Like I need more alone time with my former stepbrother turned jailer turned... whatever the hell he is now. My husband, technically. As if that word could possibly capture the toxic tangle between us.
I turn back to the window, letting the silence build its walls again. Tomorrow there will be more performances to give—the dutiful wife at his precious dinner, the makeshift fairy godmother for Elena. But for now, in this car with the Beast who refuses to be tamed, I'll focus on surviving one moment at a time.
Just like I learned to do during chemo. Just like I'll keep doing until I find my way out of this twisted fairy tale.
I must have fallen asleep for a bit because Antonio's deep voice stirs me awake. "Assicurati che sia tutto pronto." Something about making sure everything is ready. I pinch my eyes shut because if he thinks I'm still sleeping, maybe I'll hear what plan he's getting ready, maybe I'll even find some sort of way out of this.
Plus, if I'm sleeping, Antonio can't really say anything to annoy me or confuse me or hurt me, but of course, The Beast has other plans. He puts his phone away. "I know you're awake," he rasps out. "You stopped snoring."
Great. I snored. I'd care if he hadn't shattered my heart and danced on the shards he scattered. But I want to know where we are, so I open my eyes as he crosses his arms over his chest, turning his full attention to me. Oh joy.
"We need to discuss the dinner."
"Discuss?" I repeat.
"Yes."
"You do realize that discussing would mean that you listen to whatever I have to say," I inhale deeply, before taking another sip of water. My heartbeat has finally settled—the adenosine worked—but my nerves haven't. I'm trying and failing not to let him get a rise out of me. Maybe it's the fact that for a split second I thought he was going softer on me or that he did care. "You're implying I have some sort of say, when we both know that I don't."
"Fine." He doesn't even pretend to argue with me. "I need to tell you a few things about the dinner."
"And that can't wait until later?"
"Why? Do you have plans I'm not aware of?"
Ouch. "Yes, I want to plan how to stop believing you can be a decent man."
Did Dean's eyebrows raise in the mirror at my words? How much does he know about what's been happening in the shadows?
"You do need to stop believing that," Antonio growls. "Fairytales aren't real, Bell'cenda." The nickname slips out seemingly without him realizing it, and I catch the way his jaw tightens afterward.
"No shit," I reply, and hearing me say shit has Antonio's lips lift into a half-smile. An involuntary one it would appear, since he gives me yet another signature glare.
"We need to show a united front on Saturday evening," he announces, watching my reaction.
I frown. "Why? It's not like everyone doesn't know you paid for my hand. You and all the other men decided that entering a tournament was the best way to get a wife. They know this isn't..." My words stumble but I manage to croak out. "Love."
"They need to believe you are on my side."
"I'm on no one's side. You and my father can rot in Hell for all I care."
"I wouldn't rot in Hell. I have a fucking throne there with my name on it, can't you tell?"
"The Beast. The Devil. What other nicknames do you want? Please do let me know... so I can be sure I can call you by the correct name, dear husband."
I'm not sure if it's the nap I took that's making me spew out whatever comes through my mind or maybe it's the accumulation of everything that has me out of control. I'm like one of those music box ballerinas pirouetting the truth until the music stops and I'm forced into silence once more.
The music hasn't stopped yet. And hearing that he wants me to believe that we have some sort of agreement, when I've been stuck in some sort of dark and moldy room before he suddenly realized I could have better use has me feeling some type of way.
"You know what?" I ask. "Let's make a deal then if you're the Devil."
"A deal?" He looks intrigued and why is my gaze now focused on him uncrossing his muscular arms and his finger tapping on his strong thigh like it's some kind of metronome? "A deal."
My brain searches for some kind of deal that he might go with. "Divorce?"
"Definitely not," he growls like the simple idea is an insult.
"Fine. We'll stay not-happily-married." I pause, thinking. "I want to go visit Naomi."
"In Ireland?"
"Yes."
"Absolutely not."
That was worth a try.
And then he adds, "Plus you'll see her on Saturday." I lean back against the seat, at loss for words.
"She's going to be there? For real?"
"Yes."
I'm really not sure I can believe him, but part of me wants to hang on to hope.
"Then, I want a weekend with her. Here. Elena can join us. Just the three of us. And Signora Martha if she wants."
He pauses for a second. Thinking. And for a moment, I believe maybe, just maybe I might finally get something that I want.
"That doesn't depend on me. Connor may have other plans."
"Then, ask him. You have a phone that you've been using. But that's not the deal I want—this is just common decency."
"Common decency? I'm almost ready to make a concession and that's still not enough?"
His jaw clenches. It seems I'm finally getting under his skin and for some reason, that has me relaxing my shoulders slightly.
If I annoy him, that means there might still be a way to reach whoever he used to be. Not because I believe in happily-ever-after for us, but because maybe, just maybe, he can realize that he's been wrong.
I clear my throat. "Did you ever investigate more about the letter? About what happened?"
"Are you really asking me that?" His tone is thunderous, but I won't back down.
"I am. And that's the deal I want to make with you. I want you to keep me updated about your investigation."
"The one that will reveal you were responsible for my mother's death." His words still sting more than they should.
"I already told you I feel responsible. But I didn't... I didn't set a trap for her. I didn't play a role in trying to get her killed. I told my father more than I should have. But I didn't..." My throat tightens and the words don't want to get out. "I didn't..." I try again and look into the mirror to see if Dean has any reactions. He might know something, too.
Antonio taps his finger faster then stops. "Fine, I'll keep you updated and you'll do as I say during the dinner. You'll be charming and you'll help me win over the Greeks."
I lift a shoulder. "Sure thing. And I want that weekend with Naomi and Elena. We'll be on the grounds. There must be another house on this property."
"We'll see about that."
At least he didn't say no.
But as we drive back toward the fortress, I wonder what exactly I'm going to need to pretend during that dinner and why. Why is it so important we show a united front? But as I ask him the question, he ignores me. Oh, he opens the door for me, giving me a look and whispering, "We have to practice being civil toward one another." And I can't avoid brushing against him as I step out, and for a split second, my body reacts, a wave of longing to lean closer, to hide in the shelter of his firm chest, to breathe in the mix of danger and memories. But I shove down those ridiculous daydreams. I'm too old to play pretend. And the memories of his betrayals are too fresh, too raw, too much. It's like he's finding a new game to keep me on my neuropathic toes.
"Civil. I can do that. But wow, the bar is low." And I stride forward, only to be met by Elena and Signora Martha, smiling at me.
Elena jumps up and down, "Come, come." She takes my hand as Antonio stays behind.
"It's alright, cara," Signora Martha reassures me with a warm smile, but instead of leading me to my usual quarters, she guides me towards the left, in the direction of Antonio's wing. Panic flutters in my chest, urging me to turn and flee. The thought of re-entering that space, after everything, feels like a step too far. Is that his new plan to torture me?
I remember his touch, the way my body responded to him, the way he took care of me to make sure I lost all control. Or rather I gave him control over me. Willingly. Again and again. The feel of his hands on my skin, of his lips finding a spot that had me arching my back, of his body on mine, of him stretching me... It's too much, when the very next day, he threw me away like a used toy he no longer needed, not because he broke it into millions of pieces but because breaking me was the point.
"I need to go back to my room," I find myself whispering, voice barely there, as Cerberus greets me with his familiar enthusiasm, sniffing around as if trying to piece together where I've been.
But Signora Martha opens the door next to Antonio's room, a place I've never stepped foot in. The moment I cross the threshold, my breath catches. This room is something out of a dream I didn't dare to dream. There, through the door ajar, I catch a glimpse of a bathroom boasting a bathtub with an unobstructed view of the ocean, promising solace in solitude. The room itself, bathed in light from the towering windows, feels like a breath of fresh air, a sharp departure from the moldy space I've grown accustomed to. It's meticulously clean, the air hinting at a recent polish, and there, dominating the space, is a bed so vast I wonder what it must feel like to sleep in it.
And next to it? My eyes widen and my heart skips.
The shard I kept hidden beneath the mattress stands against the lamp on the nightstand. What does this mean? My confusion must be as transparent as glass because as I swiftly tuck away the shard, ensuring it's out of Elena's curious reach, Signora Martha's smile tries to reassure me. "This is your room now," she says, and there's a softness in her voice that almost makes the room feel like a promise, instead of a threat.
But I know better.
Elena's joyous clapping cuts through my haze of thoughts. "So close now," she chirps, her happiness echoing around the vast room.
Antonio, whom I hadn't noticed entering, leans against the doorframe. "This way, I can keep a better eye on you," he says, nodding towards the side door. "It's a connecting door."
Great. Fantastic.
Definitely not what the doctor ordered.