27. Isabella
Chapter twenty-seven
Isabella
A cting sounded like a good idea when the dinner wasn't less than thirty minutes away. Now? I'm frantically flipping through the file Franco brought me this morning, my pulse doing that dangerous flutter that has nothing to do with my heart condition and everything to do with the impending disaster waiting downstairs.
The tense practice dinner of the century—my oh-so-clever name for yesterday's train wreck—left my stomach in knots tighter than any ballet bun I ever wore for performances. The air between us was so thick with unsaid accusations and barely restrained fury that I could've pirouetted on it. I kept holding my breath, waiting for the next bomb to drop, the next secret to explode like those confetti cannons they used during curtain calls.
But we agreed to rules—keep it as close to the truth as possible:
We had a pretty big crush on each other as teenagers. (Understatement. I used to literally stop breathing when he walked into a room.)
We only reconnected at the auction. Where he definitely didn't lure me to see him and Paola. No. Definitely not. Clearly, acting like we trust each other is going to be a piece of cannoli.
He was there for revenge. (No acting required on that front.)
We had "issues"…. understatement of the millennia.
But our "love" was too strong—Ha! That's where things get tricky. And yep, we totally trust each other. Totally.
I run my fingers over tonight's outfit, the tulle soft and familiar beneath my fingertips. It sends me spinning back to those endless hours in the studio, when my body was still mine to command, before cancer tried to steal every dream I'd ever had. I close my eyes, drinking in the sensation against my skin—how something so delicate can feel like armor, holding me together when everything inside is shattering.
The dress he chose for me—another calculated move in this chess game we're playing. This wasn't just any dress; it was specifically designed to make me look the part of the adoring wife. Antonio had it delivered this morning with a note that simply read: "For tonight." No signature needed. I'd recognized that sharp, commanding handwriting anywhere.
Elena stayed with me as I got ready—playing with dinosaurs who were apparently attending a ball. When she saw me twirl in the dress, she clapped and told me I was going to the ball, too. I wish I could have stayed with her—playing pretend with dinosaurs attending a formal event seems more realistic than what I'm about to do.
I square my shoulders, inhale deep into lungs that remember what it's like to fight for every breath, and arrange my curls in the mirror. My makeup is minimal—focusing on the eyes. My hair got a refresher cut. I'm used to my curly short hair now and feel like it's more me. More the woman who survived cancer. More the woman who survived the Beast.
Another deep inhale and I check the file on the desk. The rugged, handsome faces of the Greek brothers stare back at me and I wonder if my mother knew their family.
What if they could tell me more about her? The memories I have are fading. They used to be in technicolor and now they're black and white... The sound of her laughter is something I wonder if I imagined. Maybe it was just me replaying fairytales in my mind at the hospital, a way to push through treatments that felt endless. One of my nurses warned me that my memory could be affected by my stem cell transplant, but I didn't expect the fog, the months it took to read a single book, those crucial memories now out of reach... while others dig their claws into my mind, refusing to let go.
Maybe if I had forgotten how my heart used to perform its own dangerous choreography every time Antonio was near, I would have been able to forget him. At the thought, something akin to panic tightens around my throat. As if forgetting Antonio would be the worst plot twist in this twisted world.
The door opens without warning, and Antonio's scent—sandalwood and danger—hits me before I even turn around. I feel him like a physical presence against my skin, that electric current that's always sparked between us suddenly live-wire dangerous.
"They're waiting," he says, his voice like gravel over velvet, rougher than usual.
I turn slowly, trying to control my treacherous pulse, and nearly stagger backward.
Christ. The way he fills that suit should be illegal. Every inch of him screams power and barely contained violence—the kind that makes my breath catch and my thighs press together despite everything he's done. His scars catch the light like battle maps, somehow making him more magnetic, not less. The tattoos peeking from his collar tell stories of pain transformed into power, and my fingers itch with the memory of tracing them.
His midnight eyes lock onto mine and time stops, stretches, contracts. There's fury there, and hunger, and something darker that makes heat pool low in my belly. When his gaze drops to my dress, trailing over the skin revealed by the sweetheart neckline, I could swear the temperature rises ten degrees. His jaw clenches tight enough to crack stone, the muscle there jumping like he's physically restraining himself.
Though he chose this dress himself, his reaction is something I didn't expect. It's like he's seeing me in it for the first time and regretting his decision—or perhaps regretting that others will see me in it too.
"Perfect," he says, but the word sounds like it's being strangled. His eyes continue their journey, taking in every inch of silk and tulle that clings to my body. "It's better than I imagined."
I lift my chin, defiance masking the way my pulse pounds beneath my skin. "You chose it. Having second thoughts?"
He rakes a hand through his hair, looking like he wants to tear something—or someone—apart. "Ti sei guardata allo specchio? Sei bellissima, dannazione." The Italian flows rougher, darker, like he's unaware he's slipped languages. Have you looked in a mirror? You're beautiful, damn it.
"What's wrong?" I ask, even as I catalog every micro-expression flickering across his face—the tightness around his eyes, the way his nostrils flare slightly, the tension radiating from every muscle. This isn't the calculated response of a man who selected this specific dress as a prop. This is raw, unfiltered Antonio, and something about it makes me feel more naked than if I were wearing nothing at all.
He moves closer, his steps those of a predator who knows his prey can't escape. "Nothing's wrong with the dress, Bell'cenda." My old nickname falls from his lips like a caress and a curse combined. His hand reaches out, hovers near my bare shoulder without touching, and I swear I can feel the heat of his skin like a brand. "It's that I didn't consider how it would feel to see you in it. How every man downstairs will look at you."
The possessiveness in his voice shouldn't send that dangerous thrill down my spine, but it does. I'm not his. I'll never be his again. So why does my body betray me with each breath, each heartbeat, each moment in his presence?
"Isn't that the point?" I gesture to the deep green silk that hugs my curves before floating away in layers of tulle. "We're supposed to be madly in love, remember? Isn't this what your wife would wear?"
His eyes darken further, something feral flashing in their depths as they drop to my lips. "My wife," he repeats, the words carrying a weight that makes my knees weak. "Would wear exactly that. And every man downstairs would know she's mine."
The air between us crackles with something dangerous and electric, memories of his hands on my body, his mouth claiming mine, flashing through my mind with merciless clarity. Heat floods my cheeks, my neck, lower still.
"I should be the only one who sees you like this," he growls, his voice dropping to that place that turned my insides to liquid fire on our wedding night.
My breath catches as he steps even closer, close enough that I can count his eyelashes, feel the heat radiating from his body. "Then who exactly are we putting on this show for?" I whisper, hating how breathless I sound.
"Everyone and no one." His gaze drops to my throat, to the pulse hammering there. "Maybe even ourselves."
I swallow hard, fighting against the magnetic pull between us. "I thought you hated me."
"I do." The words rumble from his chest, vibrating in the scant space between us. "But hate and want have never been mutually exclusive for us, have they, Bell'cenda?"
No. They haven't. And as his eyes track every micro-expression on my face, as his scent surrounds me like the most decadent prison, I know tonight isn't just about pretending for others.
It's about the lie we keep telling ourselves that whatever burns between us can be controlled, contained, conquered.
And based on the inferno building with each breath we share, that might be the biggest lie of all.
His warm and calloused hand finds mine, and his touch doesn't just scorch through me—it brands me. Every callus, every ridge of his fingerprints feels like they're being etched into my skin. My breath hitches in my throat, the sound embarrassingly audible in the quiet hallway. When our fingers interlock, electricity surges up my arm, and it shouldn't feel this right, this necessary, this inevitable. Yet here I am, clutching his hand like it's the only anchor in a storm I've been drowning in for months.
This isn't some teenage fantasy where the bad boy finally notices the good girl. We're in a goddamn fortress in Italy, surrounded by killers and liars, about to perform the greatest deception of our lives. And my traitorous body can't stop responding to him like he's oxygen and I've been suffocating.
I force my mind to stop its dangerous wandering, but it's nearly impossible when he leans closer. His cologne—that spiced, earthy scent that's uniquely him—wraps around me like a physical caress. Each inhale fills my lungs with memories I've tried to burn away: his mouth on my scars, his hands claiming every inch of me, his voice rough with need as he whispered Italian against my skin.
If I turned just slightly, I could press myself against his chest, feel those muscles I've memorized with my fingertips, my tongue. I could bury my face in the crook of his neck where his pulse beats strong and steady. I could taste him again, feel those demanding lips claim mine until I forget why I should hate him.
"Isabella," he rasps, my name like a prayer and a curse in his mouth. His voice drops an octave lower, vibrating through me like the deepest note on a cello. "You're thinking too loud."
Desire doesn't just shoot up my spine. Oh no, it consumes me, spreading like wildfire through my veins. Heat pools low in my belly while goosebumps scatter across my skin like stars. The butterflies in my stomach aren't gentle flutters—they're a hurricane of need and want and fear all tangled together.
And the tightness in my throat is more than anxiety. It's need. Raw, primal need I've been denying for months.
Tonight isn't just about playing happy couple. I'm going to see Naomi again, and that thought carries its own weight of responsibility. If we mess this up, what happens to her? To Connor? To whatever fragile safety they've managed to carve out?
And Elena... God, Elena. Her laughter earlier was pure sunshine, untouched by the darkness surrounding us. If I fail at this charade, if I slip up even once, she could pay the price. The thought wraps iron bands around my lungs, squeezing until each breath feels like a battle.
"You got this," Antonio says, his voice deep and steady. The sound wraps around me like the warmest cashmere—soft, comforting, and impossibly tempting. His thumb traces circles on my palm, each swirl sending sparks shooting up my arm. "I'm more worried about me fucking this up than you. Remember when you danced through a twisted ankle?"
"It wasn't a great idea," I mutter, remembering the searing pain, the doctor's stern warning that I could destroy my entire career. The memory pulls me back from the dangerous precipice of wanting him.
"Or when you thought Pavarotti was lost but you still danced your heart out, pretending everything was fine..." His voice softens on the edges, like he's handling something fragile.
"I cried behind the curtains." The memory stings, fresh tears threatening. Pavarotti. My fluffy companion through chemo, through sleepless nights, through everything. Does he even remember me? Does anyone from my old life? The grief cuts deeper than any scalpel ever could.
His cologne fills my lungs with each breath, both intoxicating and infuriating. That scent was once as familiar to me as my own heartbeat, as necessary as air. Now it's a reminder of everything I lost.
"You know how to act, too," I remind him, my voice catching on the jagged edges of truth. "I have the scars to prove it. They may not be visible like yours, but they're there—bright red and burning beneath my skin." My eyes lock with his, refusing to look away. "And you know how to hide things. How did you keep what happened to your brother for so long?"
He tilts my chin up with one finger, the touch feather-light but commanding. My lips part instinctively, my body responding to his proximity like it's been programmed from birth. His eyes— those midnight pools that drown me every time—darken as they focus on my mouth.
"Because if I talked about it, I wouldn't have just shattered or lost my shit." His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes my core clench with need. "I would have turned into a fucking atomic bomb, destroying everything in my path, leaving radiation for decades." The raw honesty in his tone scrapes against my defenses, finding chinks I thought I'd sealed.
He inches closer until our breaths mingle, until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now," he growls, each word vibrating through me like a physical touch. "How much I wish we could turn back time and burn the world differently..."
My pulse thunders everywhere: my throat, my wrists, between my thighs. Each beat echoes like music begging to be danced to, a rhythm my body is desperate to follow.
But the splinters he left behind still pierce too deep. A fault line running through my heart that threatens to crack wide open whenever he's close.
"But that's the thing." My voice emerges as both plea and warning. "If we jumped back in time, who knows if it would be better or worse?" His brow creases, but there's understanding beneath the frustration. "How many other lies would we have told? How many other deaths? You and I... we're not just fire—we're a goddamn inferno that could consume everything in our path, including each other."
I don't shy away from his gaze, even as his fingers tighten around mine possessively. "Fire may warm us from the inside out, but flames aren't enough. Flames are attraction and lust..." The next words slice my throat raw as they emerge. "They're not trust. They're not love."
I expect him to withdraw, to dismiss me with cold indifference. Instead, his free hand rises to cradle my face, his calloused thumb stroking along my jaw with devastating tenderness. My body both trembles and steadies under his touch, caught in the contradiction that defines us.
"One day..." He leans in until his lips brush the shell of my ear, his voice a dark, velvet promise that sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs. "One day, I'll fucking prove you wrong, Isabella. I'll show you that some fires aren't meant to be extinguished. They're meant to be controlled, channeled, savored."
My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape and throw itself at his feet. My breathing is shallow, quick little gasps that can't fill my lungs properly. For one dangerous moment, I sway toward him, moth to flame, knowing I'll burn but unable to resist the pull.
But I can't surrender to this spell again—this particular magic that morphs so easily into torment. I force myself to step back, though every cell in my body screams in protest.
"We need to go," I whisper, my voice husky with want I refuse to acknowledge. "Our guests are waiting."
As we exit my room, his hand finds the small of my back, fingers splayed possessively over my spine. Each step down the hallway echoes with unspoken promises and unresolved hunger. The ballroom appears before us, transformed into something from another era—crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light, soft music weaving through the air, candles flickering like captured stars.
Antonio must sense the tension thrumming through me because his arm slides around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. His lips brush my temple, sending shivers cascading down my spine.
"Together," he growls, the single word both command and vow.
I nod as all eyes turn to us, scanning the room with practiced nonchalance while my heart performs gymnastics behind my ribs. Can they see through this facade? Can they sense the storm raging beneath my carefully arranged smile?
Naomi stands with Connor, her eyes lighting up when she spots me. Questions pile up in my throat—is she safe? Happy? Surviving?
But Antonio's fingers dig into my hip in subtle warning. "They're here," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.
My gaze shifts to where the Greek brothers stand together in the corner of the room, and my mouth goes desert-dry. Pictures didn't do them justice—in person, they're like something carved from sin and temptation.
All three turn toward us in perfect unison, their eyes raking over me with such blatant hunger that I instinctively press closer to Antonio, seeking protection from the predators circling.
Alexandros, the eldest, exudes power with silver-threaded dark hair and eyes like arctic ice—calculating, piercing, stripping me bare with clinical precision. Each movement he makes speaks of controlled violence held in careful check.
Nikos, the middle brother, wears a smirk that says he knows exactly what I look like naked and has already planned twelve ways to make me scream. His emerald eyes dissect our performance like he's looking for flaws to exploit. His suit clings to muscles that promise both pleasure and pain in equal measure.
And Stefanos, the youngest—with his deliberately tousled golden hair and Mediterranean-blue eyes—watches me with the focused attention of a man who collects beautiful things and breaks them for sport. His smile is boyish charm wrapped around a wolf's hunger.
"Welcome to our home," Antonio announces, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. His arm wraps more fully around me, fingers digging into my hip with possessive force. The message is clear to everyone watching: Mine. Touch her and die.
"We thought about meeting elsewhere—especially after what happened during our wedding." His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes my thighs clench involuntarily. "But my lovely wife reminded me we're stronger here—in our fortress."
Without warning, his mouth finds that sensitive spot beneath my ear, teeth grazing skin before his tongue soothes the sting. A gasp escapes me—not acting, not pretense, but pure, startled pleasure. My body arches into him before I can stop myself, heat flooding my cheeks.
"Sometimes, he actually listens," I manage to say, fighting to keep my voice steady when all I want to do is either slap him or beg him to do it again. "Perhaps marriage does change people after all."
His answering smile—genuine, almost boyish—catches me completely off guard. For one heartbeat, I glimpse the man he might have been without scars, without betrayal, without the Beast's chains. That smile hits harder than any physical blow could.
Everyone chuckles, and I exhale slowly, letting my perfectly manicured nails dig into Antonio's arm, a silent warning to behave.
We can do this. We can fool them all. We can—
Alexandros clears his throat, the sound carrying through the room like a thunderclap. My shoulders tense, preparing for whatever test comes next.
His ice-blue eyes never leave mine as he raises his glass in salute. "To the newlyweds," he says, his Greek accent making the words sound like both blessing and threat. "May your union be... productive."
The way his gaze lingers makes my skin crawl and burn simultaneously. What does he know? What is he implying?
Antonio's arm tightens around me, and I lean into him, seeking strength for whatever comes next.
Because something in Alexandros's eyes tells me this dinner is just the opening move in a much more dangerous game.