28. Antonio
Chapter twenty-eight
Antonio
T he moment the Greek brothers walk in, I catch them eye-fucking my wife. It's not subtle—the way their gazes drag over her curves before settling on her face like they've been goddamn hypnotized. They think they're being discreet, hiding it behind diplomatic smiles. Amateur hour. I invented that look before flames carved a permanent reminder into my face.
My fists clench at my sides, knuckles white, the battle scars from last night's session with the punching bag still raw. Every predatory instinct I've honed over the years roars to life, blood singing with the need to claim what's mine. To throw her over my shoulder, carry her upstairs, and remind her exactly what my cock feels like buried deep inside her until she's screaming my name like she did on our wedding night.
But she's not mine. Not really. Sure, she wears my ring, bears my name, sleeps one fucking door away. But I shattered whatever was growing between us the morning after I made her mine. I made damn sure of that, didn't I? Ripped out whatever softness was left in both of us, leaving nothing but honeysuckle-scented ashes.
It's this fucking weakness spreading through me like cancer. Every time I breathe her in, every time she smiles at Elena, every time she defies me with those eyes that see too much, I feel myself cracking open. The Beast, tamed by a ballerina who can barely walk a straight line some days. It's like standing on the cliff edge outside my fortress with the ground crumbling beneath my feet, the Mediterranean waiting to swallow me whole.
I drag in air that tastes like expensive champagne and her perfume, trying to focus on the strategic importance of this dinner instead of how the silk of her dress clings to thighs I've tasted, hips I've gripped, curves I've mapped like territory I was claiming.
Alexandros leans forward, elbows on my imported mahogany table, voice dipped in authority I recognize because I've cultivated the same fucking tone.
"We've heard rumors," he says, and I can already tell he's a man clawing his way to the top while keeping his family in line. Not an easy balance. Respect for that, at least.
I bite back the urge to tell him to hurry the fuck up, let the tension stretch just enough to establish who really controls this room. My eyes betray me, drifting back to Isabella like she's magnetic north and I'm a compass that can't point anywhere else.
"I heard your wedding isn't the only one happening," Alexandros finally continues.
Connor, the Irish bastard who's somehow become my most reliable ally, lets out a low chuckle. "People get married all the time. Look at me. Who would have thought?" His eyes find Naomi, something complicated passing between them that I file away for later analysis.
"My father." Isabella's voice cuts through the room, soft but sharp as Henrik's blade. I hear the slight tremor she's fighting to control, the one that reveals how deeply this still hurts her despite everything her father's done.
Just like that, Alexandros's gaze shifts. The primal hunger replaced by something rarer—respect. Like he's suddenly seeing beyond the fantasy he's been constructing, glimpsing the steel beneath her silk.
He nods slowly. "Your father is getting re-married. Did your spies tell you? Or a friend?"
Isabella's laugh is a hollow sound that scrapes against my chest like broken glass. Christ, that's on me—I cut her off from everyone, locked her in that forgotten wing with nothing but stone walls and my mother's letters for company. Made her more alone than she was fighting cancer.
"I don't need a spy or a friend to tell you my father believes in those century-old traditions that a wedding can make him gain more influence." Her hand finds mine under the table, fingers sliding between my own like they were fucking designed to fit there. Her skin—softer than it has any right to be, warm against my calluses, grip firm enough to tell me she needs this connection.
That single touch sends fire through my veins, straight to my cock, which clearly doesn't give a shit about revenge or strategic alliances or anything beyond burying itself deep inside her again. I can smell her—honeysuckle and desire and something uniquely her that's burrowed under my skin and made a home there.
"I mean, my father can be right sometimes," she continues, voice steady now, "but how does the saying go? Even a broken clock is right twice a day?"
Alexandros tilts his head, murmuring something in Greek that makes his brothers exchange loaded glances.
"He's getting married to Mrs. Lefevre," he finally says, dropping the bomb as casually as ordering another drink.
The air rushes from my lungs like I've taken a bullet to the chest. My mind races, recalculating every chess move, every power play. Isabella's father—the man who carved my face with flame and steel—marrying the French matriarch who's been circling our territory for years? The same woman who lost two heirs in a matter of days?
I can feel Isabella's composure fracturing, even as her face remains perfectly neutral—a performance worthy of the ballerina she once was. But I know her body now, the way her fingers tighten around mine like she's drowning and I'm the only thing keeping her afloat, the almost imperceptible clench of her jaw, the way her pulse hammers at the base of her throat where I buried my face last night.
She's falling apart inside, and for the first time since I locked her away, I want to pull her against me, shield her from this world that keeps taking and taking and taking.
Well, fuck me sideways with a rusty blade.
I did not see that coming.