26. Antonio
Chapter twenty-six
Antonio
H er gaze is fucking glued to the picture, and I can see a thousand emotions warring on her face. But when she looks back up, wariness wins. Wariness and the question of whether she should trust me. It's in the tilt of her head and the way she worries her lower lip between her teeth. I didn't expect her to fully believe me. After all, I fucked up.
Majorly.
More than once.
But telling her what happened to my little brother feels like ripping open a wound that never healed. The pain is still raw, throbbing beneath my skin like a second pulse. I drag in a breath that doesn't fill my lungs, the weight of those memories pressing down on my chest, crushing me from the inside out.
"The Greeks won't be swayed easily," Franco reminds us before closing the door behind him. We skipped the full Italian course—could have added a soup for the primo, but we're sticking with fruits and cheese. Cheeses from all over Italy. The rich aroma fills the air, mingling with the scent of flickering candles and her—that honeysuckle that's been driving me insane since the first moment I locked her away.
I watch as Isabella takes a small bite, her lips parting slightly. Christ, the way her tongue darts out to catch a crumb has my cock hardening against my zipper. Just like that, my mind drags me back to the past—to the memory of her skin under my hands, her scars beneath my lips, the way she fucking trembled when I buried myself inside her.
And those memories? They're enough to bring me to my goddamn knees. I can't tear my eyes away, can't stop my mind from going places it has no right to go. Not anymore.
I remember her taste—like sin and salvation mixed together. I remember the sounds she made—those little whimpers when I hit just the right spot. I remember the way she trusted me, her body arching into mine like it was begging for more. And I fucking hate myself for it, for the way I took something so goddamn pure and beautiful and tainted it with my lies, my betrayal.
But even now, even after everything I've done, I can't stop wanting her. The need for her mingles with my guilt, eating away at me like acid. I crave her touch like a junkie needs his next fix—desperate, consuming, fucking inescapable.
Just months ago, she looked at me like maybe there was still some shred of goodness buried beneath all the shit I pulled. Even just a couple of days ago, when I first brought her to the hospital, before I again pulled her under like a deadweight, she seemed to believe I could be a decent man.
I'm a monster, a fucking abomination that only drags her down into the darkness with me.
But the way she makes me feel... it's like nothing else in this godforsaken world. I want to pin her against these ancient walls and make her scream my name until she forgets every fucking moment of pain I ever caused her, until all she knows is pleasure and ecstasy.
I want to lose myself in her, to let her consume me until there's nothing left but the two of us, skin on skin, heart to fucking heart, my cock buried so deep inside her that neither of us knows where one ends and the other begins.
But I can't. I know I can't. Because the thing between us? It's not trust. Fuck no, I'm not delusional enough to think she trusts me. Or that she could ever love me again. What we have is a delicate balance based on the need to protect those we care about. It's a fragile truce that could shatter like glass at any moment. No matter how much I believe a dissonant chord doesn't have to destroy a composition, there are too many discordant notes in our past to create a harmonious symphony. And I'm the one who played every fucking one of them.
So I clench my fists until my nails bite into my palms, until the pain drowns out the need. I force myself to look away from the temptation of her skin, the invitation of her scars, and focus on what really matters.
"I didn't... couldn't tell you before. I buried it so deep it festered. Fuck, I know it festered and I know I'm the one who let it eat me away." Her eyes are my anchor. Even with their clouds, they pull me back to the moment right here and now.
She frowns and when she speaks again, hearing her voice feels like something I should never take for granted—because she could have died. She went through so much. Alone. And I just piled more shit on top of everything she suffered. "But see... what I don't understand is that you still don't fully believe me and yet..."
Her words hit me harder than a fucking bullet to the chest.
"I..." The word sticks in my throat like a shard of glass, a pitiful attempt at an explanation. What can I say? How can I make her understand the war that's raging inside me? The battle between the man I want to be and the monster I've become?
"Don't lie to me," she snaps, and the fire in her eyes has my blood running hot. Goddamn, even her anger turns me on. "Not now. Not after everything you shared. There's still a part of you that thinks I did play a bigger role in your mother's...d-d-death." She clears her throat as if she refuses to lose control and I get that. Control can feel like the only thing we have—even if it's control over what seems trivial like the tone of our voice. But when everything else is wild and stormy, that's something.
I wait a few seconds before answering, because for once, I do something I haven't tried in a while: I try to be fucking truthful. Because I meant what I said, she knows everything now. My deepest and darkest secrets. They're hers. And part of me expected her to jump up from her seat and tell me that I deserved everything that happened to me. That I should have saved my brother. That I could have done more. Because this is the mantra that has been my lullaby ever since his last breath left him. It's been the melody of my life ever since I watched him die.
"Maybe," I say slowly, my voice rougher than I intend. "Maybe, I can't believe that anyone in our world could be blameless. Maybe... I..." I inhale deeply, the air burning in my lungs. "Maybe if I didn't blame you, I'd have imploded because what does this say about me?" Fuck it, here's my deepest, darkest secret.
This time, the words tear at my throat, each syllable a jagged edge that cuts me from the inside out. I can feel the fear, cold and sharp, twisting in my gut like Henrik's blade finding home. It's a fear that's all too familiar, a constant companion that lurks in the shadows of my mind.
"I failed again. I failed my mother, like I failed my brother and if we continue with the truth." I look into her eyes, wanting, hoping, needing her to believe me even if I have no right to ask her for a fucking thing. "I'm scared shitless that I'll fail you, too."
There's a second of silence that stretches back to before the fortress was even built. The tension between us crackles like electricity, like the air before lightning strikes. My entire body is wound tight, every muscle coiled and ready to spring. One wrong move from either of us could ignite something we can't control—something that would consume us both.
And then she says, "Franco says the Greeks have to believe we trust each other. You and I both know how to act. You did it with me. I did it on stage." She pauses, and our eyes lock in a battle of wills, of need, of everything left unspoken between us. "Let's just act, Antonio."
But the way her pulse jumps at her throat—the way her eyes dilate when I lean closer—tells me it's not just acting on her mind. And fuck me, it's not just acting on mine either.