46. Antonio
Chapter forty-six
Antonio
T wo fucking days gone, and I'm nowhere near done. Time's slipping through my fingers like blood, and there's not enough of it in this godforsaken world to keep Bella safe. Not by a long shot.
The punching bag swings wildly as I lay into it, each hit reverberating through my bones. My knuckles scream beneath the wrap, blood seeping through the fabric, but I don't give a shit.
Sweat pours down my back, soaking my shirt, the salt stinging the fresh cuts on my hands. The sea salt air doesn’t do anything to calm my thumping heart in this room that’s more open air than any other place in this fortress.
"Listen Boss, I got it under control," Franco says, his voice barely audible over the thunderous pounding of my fists.
I bark out a laugh, harsh and humorless. "It's not enough," I snarl, slamming my fist into the leather again. The impact jolts up my arm, a welcome distraction from the storm raging in my head. If I don't get this rage out here, those Greek assholes are going to be picking their teeth out of orbit.
Franco holds the bag steady, his face a mask of calm that only pisses me off more. "We've got a team there. I've got a list of ways to contact you. And that doc in Greece? He owes you more than his life. He owes you his family's life. Remember how the Fixer found 'em before Isabella’s father could?"
I pause, chest heaving, and let the memory wash over me. Rafe, the Fixer, his efficiency helped me more than once. The satisfaction of watching the Moretti's plans crumble, of keeping my word and setting Rafe's sister free. For a moment, I can almost taste the whiskey we drank that night, feel the weight of gratitude in Rafe's handshake.
He's in some small-town in the US now. We keep tab on each other. He knows he can ask for my help. Anytime.
And he’s the one who reminded me of the doctor when I reached out to him for intel on the Greeks two days ago.
Two days.
Fuck.
We only have a bit more than twenty-four hours before Isabella is supposed to leave.
And the memories of the Fixer fades, replaced by Isabella's face. Are her eyes going to be wide with fear as she boards that private jet to Greece? My gut twists, a mix of rage and something dangerously close to panic.
"Run through our contacts again," I growl, my fists finding their rhythm on the bag once more. "I need more dirt on her mother, on all of them. We need something to make those fuckers shake in their designer jeans if they so much as look at Isabella wrong."
Franco nods, giving me a look I don't want to fucking analyze before he steps away. Each retreating footstep echoes in the cavernous space, leaving me alone with my demons.
I’m the Beast who her father and mother should fear more than Hell.
I keep punching, each hit a thunderclap in my ears. Images flash through my mind like a fucked-up slideshow - my mother's broken smile, Isabella's tear-stained face, every goddamn mistake I've ever made. They blur together, a tornado of regret tearing through my gut.
"Thanks for the pharmacy's worth of beta blockers you're packing for Greece, but I don't think I'll need a lifetime supply."
Her voice cuts through the chaos in my head, soft yet sharp enough to freeze me mid-swing. I turn, and there she is. My wife.
Isabella stands in the doorway, backlit by the sun, a vision that knocks the wind right out of me. Her curly short hair catches the light, creating a halo effect that's so at odds with the darkness of our world. My eyes trace the curves of her body, committing every inch to memory. The workout gear she's wearing clings to her in all the right places, and I'm suddenly aware of how dry my mouth is, how my heart's pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the punching bag.
Her scars, the ones I can see and the ones I know are hidden beneath her clothes, call to me. Each one a story of survival, of strength. And that smile... Fuck, that smile I want to claim as mine and mine alone. It's small, tentative, but it hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.
"You said you wanted to show me a few moves," she says, her eyes never leaving mine. There's a challenge there, a spark of the old Isabella that makes my blood run hot.
I stalk towards her, every muscle in my body coiled tight. The distance between us feels like miles, every step charged with an electricity that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"I do," I manage to growl out, my voice rougher than I intended. "But there's not enough time-"
"We have one more day," she cuts in, her chest rising and falling faster as I close the distance between us. I can see the pulse fluttering in her neck, smell the faint trace of her shampoo mixing with the sea air.
"And one more night," I rumble, finally close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. My hands itch to touch her, to pull her against me and never let go.
Naomi and Connor are leaving after dinner. I convinced the Irish to give me this extra time, knowing it'd make Isabella happy. He needs me to succeed too - he's got his own shitstorm brewing back home.
But right now, all I can think about is Isabella, here, now. How I'm going to make every second burn into her memory, sear my touch into her skin until she can't remember a time before us. I'll teach her every move I know, not just to protect her, but to bind her to me in every way possible.
Because when she leaves for Greece, she's taking my shriveled and dark heart with her. And I'll be damned if I let anyone take her from me again.
Even I know I’m the one who fucked up in the first place.