16. Isabella
Chapter sixteen
Isabella
T he weight of his gaze burns through me from the window of his office like a physical thing. Antonio watches us—no, not watches, studies —like a predator tracking prey, those thunderous eyes making my skin prickle with awareness despite the distance between us. I can feel him even when I'm not looking.
My treacherous heart performs its own dangerous dance, skipping beats it can't afford to lose. And there it is again, that stupid flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with my SVT and everything to do with the memories from last night that refuse to stay buried: his mouth on my body, his fingers mapping territory he has no right to claim anymore, the way he tasted me like I was the last meal he'd ever have.
No. No no no.
I force my attention back to the roses in front of me, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck.
"T-this is a rose," I manage, kneeling beside Elena in the garden. My voice catches embarrassingly, and I clear my throat. "Una rosa," I add, my feeble attempt at Italian still making me sound like I'm gargling marbles. We're doing some impromptu English-Italian lesson—another fragile bridge between worlds that shouldn't meet but somehow do.
Elena smiles up at me, her face lighting with understanding. "Rose." Then, proudly, "Beautiful rose."
I nod encouragingly. "Yes."
"Bella rosa," she continues, switching effortlessly between languages in the way only children can, making me feel like the student rather than the teacher.
"Bella rosa," I repeat, mimicking her perfect accent. My pronunciation must be atrocious because she giggles, clapping her hands with delight, and for a second, I forget the Beast in the tower watching our every move.
I glance back toward his window. half expecting to see the hulking shadow of the man who only yesterday made me come undone with just his tongue. But he's gone.
Yet I still feel him. Still feel the rough scratch of his stubble grazing my inner thigh, his calloused hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his growl vibrating against my most sensitive flesh. The memory alone has my body humming with a need I hate myself for feeling.
Get it together, Bella. For God's sake.
I mentally slam the brakes on that runaway train of thought. I've spent three months in stone isolation building walls brick by brick, meticulously constructing a fortress against him in my mind, only to have it all crumble with one touch, one kiss, one taste.
When did I become this weak? Was it during those long nights in the hospital when I fantasized about him coming back? When I pictured him holding my hand during treatments? Or was it on our wedding night when he mapped my scars with reverent fingers, treating each one like a masterpiece instead of medical wreckage?
I inhale deeply and focus back on the little girl beside me. Elena's questions about flowers, many I can't fully understand with my limited Italian, keep me grounded in reality instead of spiraling into memories of his touch. They prevent me from running back inside the fortress and locking myself in the bathroom, the only space where I might have true privacy from those eyes that see too much, that spark something in me I thought cancer had stolen.
"My mom..." Elena whispers in English, and the word makes me hold my breath, giving her my complete attention. She rarely speaks about her mother, and her chin quivers as she tries to continue, clearly fighting tears. My chest tightens at the sight, at the pain this child carries.
"Credi che..." She pauses, speaking slowly in Italian now. "Forse anche mia mamma amava i fiori?"
I struggle to understand her question; my Italian lessons with Signora Martha haven't progressed far enough. As if summoned by my confusion, Signora Martha, standing nearby, whispers a translation: "She's asking if you think her mother loved flowers too."
My heart fractures at the simplicity of the question, the profound loss behind it. Elena has mentioned her mother so rarely that every reference feels significant, a small window into the grief she carries alongside her childhood joy.
"Non lo so. I don't know," I admit, taking her tiny hand in mine. "I wish I did." We settle onto one of the stone benches that must have witnessed countless moments throughout centuries, lovers, fights, secrets, reconciliations. How many women before me sat here, hearts torn between hatred and desire? How many waited for men who never changed?
I refocus on the present, on the little girl watching me with eyes too wise for her years. "You know, maybe you could draw something for your mom," I suggest gently. "Something that makes you think of her. And you can tell me things you remember, and I'll write them down for you."
I attempt to reinforce my suggestion with hand gestures when my Italian vocabulary fails me. Signora Martha has stepped back a bit, but she's watching to ensure Elena understands.
Elena nods solemnly but stares at the ground, sadness weighing her small shoulders until Signora Martha calls our attention to a bird perched on the garden wall.
We both look up, and I can't help wondering what it must feel like: to be free to fly away from stone walls and painful memories, from prisons both literal and figurative. To soar above all this mess below, to leave behind the sweet torture of a man who claims to hate you while his tongue paints love letters against your skin.
"My mom called me her little bird," Elena murmurs, a mix of Italian and English flowing together. "Because I like to sing and dance. She really knew how to sing." Her voice drops even lower, vulnerable as an open wound. "Do you think she can hear me if I sing to her?"
The question hits me like a physical blow. What am I supposed to tell her? What words could possibly fill this void without creating new scars? I don't know what happened to Elena's mother, but it sounds like whatever it was, she didn't choose to leave. Unlike my own mother, ripped away by a drunk driver on a rainy day. Unlike Antonio's mother, who was planning an escape only to disappear entirely.
I wrap my arm around her shoulders, and she burrows against me like she belongs there. "I think she'll always be in your heart," I say carefully, managing a few words in Italian that Signora Martha nods approval at. "And if you sing, she'll hear you right there."
"Okay." Elena lifts her head to look at me again, her eyes swimming with tears that break my heart all over again.
God, I wish I could fix this for her. Take away her pain. Build a ladder to that bird so we could both fly away somewhere the Beast's shadow doesn't reach. Yet even that thought feels hollow; would I really want to leave him if I could? Or am I just as drawn to his darkness as I am repelled by it?
"It's okay to cry," I whisper, and when a sob escapes her, it feels like someone's performing grand pliés on my chest. I hold her tighter as Cerberus, sensing her distress, comes charging across the garden, tail wagging frantically.
He stops abruptly in front of us, nudging his wet nose against Elena's hand. When she whispers his name, he immediately flops onto his back in a ridiculously dramatic display that would put every diva at Juilliard to shame. Elena slides off the bench to pet him, the distraction working its magic. Cerberus rolls back to sit up, nudging her again, and Elena throws her arms around his neck.
As she inhales deeply against his fur, her lips form a small smile.
"It's also okay to be happy," I tell her softly, hoping the words translate across our language barrier.
"Good boy," she says in English before adding in Italian, "He's the best dog. He's my friend. You're my friend too."
"We're friends," I agree, warmth spreading through my chest despite the chill in the air. "And he's the best boy."
He's also a traitor who should be sleeping outside Antonio's door rather than mine. But he's got good taste in women, at least.
The moment shatters as Franco approaches, his stride purposeful but not threatening. Though his expression remains serious, there's something almost benevolent in the way he looks at us, enough to keep my heart from performing that dangerous staccato it favors when I'm stressed.
"He wants to see you," Franco states simply.
My throat constricts at those four words, heat prickling across my skin like wildfire. I've always hated how my body betrays me around Antonio, like there's some pre-programmed response my mind can't override, like my body remembers him even when I wish it would forget. The memory of his breath mingling with mine, his eyes locking with mine before his mouth claimed the most intimate part of me...
I bite my lower lip hard enough to taste copper, forcing myself back to reality. "Not on your life," I want to say, but the words stick in my throat.
Franco must notice something in my expression, probably the flush creeping up my neck, because he adds, almost gently, "Dean will be there too."
I nod, grateful for the implied assurance that I won't be alone with Antonio. That I'll have a buffer against whatever this is that keeps pulling us back into each other's orbits despite the hatred and pain between us.
"Can I come too?" Elena chirps, bouncing on her toes.
Signora Martha shakes her head immediately. "Oh, but we have to make some tiramisu for dessert. Isabella loves it."
"You do?" Elena's eyes widen with renewed interest.
"I definitely do," I confirm, thankful for Signora Martha's intervention. The last thing I need is a three-year-old audience for whatever power play Antonio has planned. It's bad enough I can still taste him on my tongue, that I woke up this morning with my hand between my legs, chasing the ghost of his touch.
God. I'm pathetic.
"Okay. Then we'll make the best one." Elena skips ahead toward the kitchen door, momentarily free from her sadness.
Signora Martha gives me a knowing look and whispers something in rapid Italian that I don't catch, probably something about being strong or standing my ground. She's been more ally than jailer these past days, though I still can't quite let myself trust her fully.
Franco's mouth quirks into a rare smile. "She said to keep your head high and that he knows what he could lose."
I almost laugh at that. "I guess Signora Martha and I will have to agree to disagree, but I'll keep my head high," I mutter, not adding that Antonio has neither clue, desire, nor will to hold onto me. You can't lose what you never valued in the first place. That's just wishful thinking on my part. More evidence of the dangerous, dying hope I can't seem to extinguish.
I stand, automatically trying to tame my rebellious curls into a ponytail, but they're too wild this morning—cancer's parting gift, growing back with a vengeance and a mind of their own. My fingers smooth down my black sweatpants as if appearing presentable matters after everything that's happened between us.
Once I realize what I'm doing, I stop abruptly and clench my hands into fists. I'm straightening myself up for the same man who locked me away for three months, who told me I killed his mother, who made me come undone with his mouth before calling me a viper. The same man I held a shard against, whose blood I almost spilled.
I square my shoulders like I used to before stepping on stage. No, it's worse than stage fright. It's like facing the oncologist after a suspicious scan, that feeling of your life hanging in the balance of someone else's judgment.
This shouldn't matter. He shouldn't matter. Not after all he's done.
But my body betrays me again with another rush of butterflies. My heart, too. That stubborn, cancer-surviving, wildly irregular organ that still skips beats it can't afford to lose whenever he's near.
I've cried enough tears over a man who can't see past his own scars to recognize he could be both the Beast and so much more.
A man who refuses to realize I'm not the enemy he's determined to destroy.