15. Antonio
Chapter fifteen
Antonio
I don't slam the door, though every muscle in my body screams for violence. For release. The sound would be too final, too fucking weak, like I need the barrier between us to keep from crawling back to her.
The image of her on that bed burns into my retinas like acid. Legs parted, skin flushed, those scars I traced with my tongue glistening with sweat. Mine . Still mine, despite everything. The way she arched into my touch, like her body remembers what her mind wants to forget.
Christ. My cock's still hard enough to cut glass, already aching to be buried inside her again. To claim that tight, wet heat that was made for me. Only me.
Fuck .
I close the connecting door without looking back. If I catch one more glimpse of her—trembling, tear-stained, and still so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at her—I'll shatter whatever control I've managed to claw back.
This room, my fucking space, feels like a cage. Her honeysuckle scent is everywhere, seeping into my pores, into my fucking bloodstream like the most addictive drug. I should shower, scrub her from my skin, but the thought of washing away her taste makes something primal roar in protest.
Her broken voice follows me like a ghost. That sob when she said, "I was hoping for you." The way she pushed me away when I tried to hold her. Like venom in an open wound, that pathetic, dying hope that flared between us.
It reminds me of another time she cried. The day flames and steel carved their lessons into my flesh. The day her father made sure I'd never be the man she used to know.
" Fuck ," I snarl, the word ripping from my throat like a bullet. My fist connects with the wall, pain lancing up my arm. Better. Pain makes sense. Pain I can control.
I pace the room like a beast in a cage, each step taking me farther from her door, then closer, then farther again. The weight crushing my chest makes breathing a conscious effort. My hands can't stay still, rubbing the back of my neck, clenching until knuckles turn white, reaching for something, anything to ground me.
She hopes. After everything, after three months locked in that stone prison, after I showed her exactly what kind of monster I've become, she still fucking hopes .
Not at her. At her father. At the world.
No. Not at the world.
At myself.
A groan tears from my chest as I grab the letters from my nightstand. Her father's laughter echoes in my memory, cold and calculating as flames ate my flesh. I remember the burn of ropes around my wrists, the helplessness, the scent of my own skin cooking. The pain that should have broken me but instead forged something harder, something deadlier.
I heard her scream my name that day. I thought, fucking fool that I was, that she might follow me into the darkness. That she might choose me over him. But she never came. Never answered a single message I sent after.
Her betrayal sliced deeper than her father's blade ever could.
"She means something to you," my mother had said once, that knowing smile on her face that saw right through my bullshit. And like the arrogant kid I was, I'd shrugged it off, made some joke about Isabella being just another pretty face.
When her father branded me, he thought he was teaching me my place. Breaking me down. What he didn't understand, still doesn't understand, is that he didn't tame me. He unleashed the Beast.
And the Beast doesn't lose.
I throw the letters back into the drawer like they burn my fingers. Part of me wanted her to press that shard deeper against my throat, to give me the proof I need that she's exactly what I've convinced myself she is. The enemy. The traitor. The girl who stood by while her father destroyed my life.
Or maybe I wanted her to beg me to stay. To give me an excuse to bury myself in her again, to lose myself in the sweet oblivion of her body until nothing else exists. Not revenge. Not hatred. Not the gaping fucking hole where my heart used to be.
The moonlight streams through windows that have witnessed centuries of violence, turning everything silver-blue. I still want her. Will probably always want her. That's the hell of it. My body doesn't seem to give a shit that she helped destroy everything I loved.
What if she's not the enemy?
The thought slithers through my defenses before I can stop it. What if I've been wrong? What if…
No. My mother died with Isabella's name on her lips. That has to mean something. Has to justify every moment I've spent planning this revenge.
This time, I do slam the door, hard enough to wake the dead, as I stalk from the room. The fortress corridors stretch before me like a throat waiting to be slit, every shadow another memory I can't outrun.
The gym's stench of stale sweat and violence welcomes me like an old friend. I wrench open the small window, letting salt air flood in, but it doesn't cool the inferno raging under my skin. Nothing will, except maybe her touch. Her taste. Her surrender.
My fist connects with the punching bag. Once, twice, again and again until the rhythm of my knuckles against leather drowns out her voice in my head.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My muscles scream as sweat soaks through my shirt, trickling down my back, stinging the cuts opening on my knuckles. Blood smears across the bag's surface. The pain should center me, should bring the clarity I need, but all I can see is her face when I made her come. The way she looked at me afterward, like I was still worth saving.
Isabella may be alone in that room, but her ghost follows me here. Dancing around me, just out of reach. Ballerina mia . She's forged her way into my veins, into whatever's left of my soul, and no matter how hard I punish this bag, how hard I punish myself, I can't shake the sound of her voice when she told me to go.
It cut deeper than her shard ever could. Because part of me—the part I've tried to burn away—still aches for her. Still wants more than her body beneath mine. Still wants what we glimpsed on our wedding night.
I was right all along.
Being around her is Hell, and my fucking throne is made of flames and agony. She's my damnation. But the worst part? She sits on the throne right beside me. My damned Queen I can't seem to overthrow.
Or want to.
Because even as everything in me scalds and scorches, I crave her. Her fire that burns like pure lava. Just her.
And that's the cruelest torture of all.
My muscles scream like they've been carved with Henrik's blade, punishment for pushing too hard in last night's workout. But physical pain is a fucking luxury compared to the nightmares that chased me through what passed for sleep, ghosts dragging me through memories I've tried to burn away.
And now? The morning light doesn't do shit to burn away the primal need for Isabella that's dug under my skin like shrapnel. Her words from last night still echo in my skull, impossible to silence.
She talked about hope. She talked about hoping for me. The bitter fucking irony, she was hoping for a man who died in flames, replaced by the monster I've become.
I slam my fist against the desk, making the papers Franco's been nagging me about jump. Charts, data, projections. Turns out running an empire requires more than just knowing where to cut and when to kill. The numbers blur together, bleeding red across the page. Supply chain's moving like it's drugged, and the discrepancies in the books smell like betrayal waiting to happen.
We might be winning some battles, but the war's far from over. The philanthropic work that keeps our territory loyal needs funding, and my men require both payment and respect. Without both, loyalty shatters faster than bone.
But that fucking word keeps circling like a vulture over carrion: Hope.
Who was my mother hoping to meet? Who betrayed her?
She couldn't have orchestrated an escape by herself, not in our world where walls have ears and shadows have knives. Someone has to know the truth. Someone who was there, who saw the pieces before they burned.
"I need to talk to Dean," I bark, cutting Franco off mid-sentence.
He stiffens, that muscle in his jaw twitching—the one that says he's pissed but too smart to show it. "I was explaining that there might be a serious issue with our club in Messina. One of our main cash flows." His voice stays level. The calm before the storm. "And now you want to talk to your mom's driver?"
"Is there a fucking problem?" Ice coats every syllable. "If you've got something to say, say it." My hand drifts to the scar bisecting my face, tracing the line that divides the man I was from the Beast I've become.
Before Franco can answer, Elena's laughter floats through the window like music, piercing through stone walls like they're paper. Christ, what kind of tactical genius designed this office with a direct view of the garden?
I stride to the window, ready to slam it shut against the distraction, but my body freezes at the sight below.
Isabella's with Elena, their hands linked like it's the most natural thing in the world. Her curls catch the morning light, a halo of fire around features that shouldn't still haunt me. She's wearing nothing special. Black sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt. But my cock hardens like she's wrapped in nothing but silk and sin.
This reaction isn't normal. It's some kind of poisoned response, blood redirected from my brain to my groin. My body doesn't seem to give a fuck about betrayal when it comes to her.
My eyes track the curve of her neck, and my mouth waters with the need to taste her skin, to bite down hard enough to mark her as mine. I want to drag her against me, bury my face in her scent—that intoxicating blend of strawberry shampoo and honeysuckle that's carved into my memory like another scar.
They're examining flowers, Elena bouncing between patches of color while Isabella watches with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. There's an ocean of sadness lurking there, a depth of pain that makes something twist in my gut. Is this another performance? Another way to worm under my defenses?
Franco clears his throat, dragging me back from the edge. "So, about the club?" His voice carries a hint of concern that should piss me off more than it does.
Tearing my gaze away from my wife feels like removing a blade, necessary but excruciating. Isabella's settled on a stone bench now, Elena tucked against her side like she belongs there. She's whispering something to my daughter, something that makes Elena nod with solemn understanding.
What lies is she feeding her? What promises that can't be kept?
Or is she offering the comfort I don't know how to give?
"Boss?" Franco prompts, and this time there's no mistaking the worry in his tone.
I drag a hand over my face, forcing myself to focus on business instead of the storm of want and suspicion raging inside me. "The club's been bleeding problems for months. We put Stefano in charge, but if he can't handle it, put Adelina at the helm."
"A woman?" Franco's eyebrow lifts, not in judgment but surprise at the shift in tactics.
I turn from the window, letting ice replace the heat in my veins. "Yes, a fucking woman. She was raised in places like that, survived to build something from it. She's got steel where it counts and isn't afraid to call bullshit when she sees it." My jaw tightens as I think of Stefano's methods. "She'll diagnose the real problem instead of just putting bullets in it. Stefano's kill-first approach is attracting too much attention, putting us deeper in debt to the polizia. There's always a risk one of them grows a conscience or gets a better offer." I slam my palm on the desk, decision crystallizing. "Actually, put her in charge now. Today."
Franco whistles low but nods. "Done."
He gathers the papers, hesitating before adding, "About the dinner. Do you want me to prep Isabella? She needs context about why this matters. For you. For her."
I roll my neck, the tension making my muscles crack. Elena's laughter has faded, leaving a silence that feels wrong. "I'll think about it," I mutter, then add more firmly, "Now get me Dean." I pause, letting the Beast's threat color my next words. "Unless you want to keep telling me how to use my fucking time."
Franco sighs but knows when to back down. "I'll get Dean. You want me to stay for it?"
"No." He's got enough on his plate, and implementing what I just ordered takes precedence. "If Stefano gives you any shit, let me know. I'll handle him personally." The promise of violence feels like the only true thing in this moment.
"Yes, Boss." He moves toward the door, and I'm already turning back to the window, drawn to the sight of Isabella like a criminal returning to the scene.
"Franco?" I call after him, the idea forming before I can question it. "Get Isabella too. She might be able to help."
"You got it." The hint of approval in his voice should irritate me, but I'm too focused on what comes next to care.
As soon as the door closes, I inhale deeply, but the breath does nothing to relieve the pressure building inside me. My shoulders feel carved from stone, my spine rigid with tension I can't shake. The tightness in my chest intensifies with each heartbeat, thoughts racing back to her like bullets finding their target.
My wife. La mia moglie. Mine to hate. Mine to want. Mine to break. If I repeat it enough time, maybe I’ll fucking remember it.
Spending more time with her is like putting a blade to my own throat. Like she did last night. Dangerous and possibly fatal. But she might catch what I've missed. She might hear something in Dean's words that I've failed to notice through years of rage.
I've spent nearly a decade plotting revenge based on what I thought I knew. Yet I didn't even realize my mother planned to take Isabella with us. What other truths lie buried beneath the ashes of what burned?
The knowledge sits like acid in my gut. I've been standing in darkness thinking I held all the cards, when really, I was just another piece on someone else's board.
Isabella believes in hope.
I'll show her why that's the most dangerous poison of all.