20. Antonio
Chapter twenty
Antonio
" I need you to get in touch with all the florists in Chicago. All of them. Every fucking one." My fingers grip the phone until my knuckles turn white. "Ask about the flowers my mother got. Every detail. Who ordered them. Who paid. Who delivered." It's 1pm in Chicago, perfect timing to hunt answers while I'm trapped in this stone fortress with her scent still clinging to my skin. "And be ready. I might need you for more soon. Much more."
I end the call with a slam that makes my desk rattle, stalking toward the window like a predator in a cage too small to contain the rage building inside me. The sun glints off the Mediterranean, mocking me with its serenity when everything inside me is chaos.
The afternoon passes in a blur of demands and commands – organizing shipments, plotting territory expansions, reassuring lieutenants who still eye me warily after hearing about the mess with Isabella. But beneath every strategic decision, every calculated move, there's a current of something unfamiliar corroding my thoughts.
Remorse. Bitter as bile on my tongue.
I've had my share of regrets – moves I should have anticipated, men I should have killed sooner, opportunities missed. But remorse? That's new. That's dangerous. The Beast doesn't second-guess. The Beast doesn't look back. The Beast certainly doesn't wonder what else he's missed while blinded by hatred.
But here I am, revisiting memories I've buried deeper than bodies. My mother was planning something more complex than escape. Something that involved Isabella. Something important enough to die for.
I brace my hands against the windowsill, my reflection fractured in the glass – scarred face, hardened eyes, the monster her father created. I remember the first time he put me in a ring, fourteen and terrified, facing off against men twice my size. I fought until my knuckles split, until blood filled my mouth, until my vision blurred. And when I was on the ground, lungs struggling for air, he stepped into the ring himself.
The sickening crunch of my nose breaking under his fist still echoes in my nightmares.
"This is your welcome to the family, son."
Son . The word tore through me like his blade would years later. I'd spent my life starving for belonging, and he knew exactly how to manipulate that hunger.
I remember the college girl, too. Dark hair like Isabella's, eyes wide with terror when they dragged her in. Isabella's father ordered me to take her – to break her – as retaliation against her family. When I refused, his smile promised violence. But instead of slitting my throat as threatened, he made me watch as his men did what I wouldn't.
The metallic scent of her blood filled the room as her body hit the floor. I fought against the hands restraining me, bile rising in my throat, heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst through my ribcage.
"You did that," he snarled, grabbing my chin, forcing me to look at her lifeless form. "I gave you a choice, and you made the wrong one. You need to remember: you are the choices that you make." His grip tightened painfully. "She was going to kill my daughter. As payback. They're never innocent. Remember that."
His voice softened to something almost paternal: "Son."
And God help me, that word was all it took. That scrap of belonging, that hint of acceptance – it had me straightening my spine, lifting my chin, something warm and dangerous unfurling in my chest. The need to be claimed, to be someone's priority, to matter – it overrode everything, even as the dead girl's eyes stared accusingly from the floor.
Was he lying? Did that girl really threaten Isabella? Or was she just another pawn sacrificed in his game?
Everything that bastard did was calculated. Every. Fucking. Thing.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache as another memory surfaces – the first time I saw Isabella dance. Fifteen and radiant, her body telling stories more eloquent than any words. Her father had summoned me to his office, but when I arrived, he wasn't there. Instead, I passed the studio where Isabella practiced, impossible to miss with its glass walls.
He had to know I'd see her. Had to know I'd stop, transfixed by her grace. Had to know how desperately I was trying to hide my fascination with his daughter.
He used her against me from the beginning. Her innocence, her light – she was the flame I couldn't resist, the one I wanted both to protect and possess. And now? Now I've tried my damnedest to extinguish that flame, to break her like her father broke me. Yet she still burns. Despite him. Despite me. Despite everything.
My chest constricts, each breath suddenly a battle, as if someone's wrapped barbed wire around my lungs and is pulling it tighter with every inhale.
A sharp knock cuts through my spiral. "She's waiting for you in the dining room," Franco calls, his voice carrying a warning I'm not in the mood to acknowledge.
"I'll be right there," I reply, the steadiness in my tone a fucking miracle given the storm raging inside me.
The Greeks arrive tomorrow. The Irish, too. And the French have gone silent – never a good sign. I'm not sure what Isabella's father is planning, but I know it'll be brutal. The bastard doesn't lose gracefully. Some of my allies are already nervous about gathering so soon after what they're calling our Red Wedding, whispering that it's tempting fate.
Maybe it is. But fate's been my enemy since the day I was born, and I've never been one to back down from a fight.
I'm alone in the office, night pressing against the windows as the ocean roars its fury below. The sound matches the chaos in my head, thoughts colliding like waves against jagged rocks.
"Fuck it," I growl, driving my fingers through my hair, feeling the familiar pull of scar tissue as my face tightens. I yank open the first drawer, my hand betraying me with a slight tremor. Under my mother's picture are letters I've written over the years – confessions, rage, questions that still haunt me. Letters never sent because there's no one left to receive them.
And tucked beneath them, there's another picture. One I stole from her father's office after a beating that left me pissing blood for a week. Isabella and her mother, both laughing, heads together like they're sharing the world's best secret. It should be hers. One of the few pieces of her mother that bastard didn't destroy.
I straighten my spine, adjust my cuffs, armor myself against whatever's waiting for me in that dining room. Whatever this dangerous softening is that keeps threatening to crack the Beast's facade.
The moment I enter, my breath catches somewhere between my lungs and my throat. Isabella sits like a queen in exile – spine straight, chin raised, eyes holding a challenge even as exhaustion paints shadows beneath them. The chandelier catches her curls, turning them to fire, and my gaze drops to the scars peeking above her shirt collar – wounds I once traced with my tongue, that I worshipped with my mouth on our wedding night.
The need to touch her again hits like a physical blow, my cock hardening despite every warning bell clanging in my head. Her scent is everywhere – that damn honeysuckle that's become both my torment and my craving.
"I'm ready for the dinner lesson," she says, her voice steady but cold, gaze unflinching as it locks with mine.
The sadness in those eyes – eyes that once looked at me like I hung the fucking moon – cuts deeper than any blade. A splinter of doubt works its way under my skin, the first crack in the foundation of rage I've built my revenge upon. What if I've been wrong? What if she's been telling the truth? What if this whole time, I've been burning down what could have been redemption?
I swallow hard, battling back the weakness. There's no room for doubt in this world. Not in our world. But even as I steel myself, pressing that doubt into submission, the question lingers like smoke after a fire:
What if Isabella isn't my enemy after all? What if she's been another victim in her father's twisted game? What if I've become exactly the monster he wanted me to be?
And that realization – the possibility that I've spent years playing my part in her father's grand design, that my revenge has been nothing but another move in his game – that terrifies me more than death ever could.
Because it would mean I've lost before I ever began.