48. Antonio
Chapter forty-eight
Antonio
I step out of the shower, skin still flushed from the scalding water and the unsatisfying release I've just given myself. Even as I spilled over my fist, all I could think about was Isabella – her lips parted in ecstasy, her nails digging into my back, the way she gasped my name earlier in the gym.
Instead of striding out after, I imagined pounding into her, feeling her clench around me. The fantasy was hot as hell, but it only left me aching for the real thing even more.
The tension – from the day, the month, the fucking decade – still coils inside me like a wound spring. My body might've gotten off, but my mind's still racing, caught between desire and the constant dread of what tomorrow might bring.
I dress quickly, trying to shake off the lingering frustration, and head to find Franco. We go over the final preparations for tomorrow, including the tracker I need to install in Isabella's wedding ring come morning. It's another layer of protection, but asking for her ring, telling her about the tracker – it all sits like lead in my stomach. She needs to know, but will she see it as care or control?
As I make my way through the hallway, the sound of giggles and music drifts from Elena's room. I pause at the doorway, my hand on the cool metal of the handle, and take in the scene before me.
I push the door open, and the sight before me stops me dead in my tracks. Isabella's there, looking like sin in a casual black dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. It's nothing fancy, but fuck if she doesn't make it look like it costs more than most people's cars. Her hair's styled in those messy curls that make me want to run my fingers through them, and she's wearing just enough makeup to make her eyes pop.
And her shoes are forgotten by the door.
She's twirling Elena around, both of them laughing as they attempt some kind of half-assed ballet routine. My daughter's face is lit up like a Christmas tree, her eyes glued to Isabella like she hung the moon and stars.
I get it.
"Papa!" Elena spots me, waving her little arms. "Come dance with us!"
I hesitate, caught between the urge to join them and the nagging voice in my head telling me I don't deserve this moment.
But then Isabella turns, flashing me that smile that could bring me to my knees. "Yeah, come on, Antonio," she says, a little breathless. "Show us your moves."
Before I know what I'm doing, I'm in the middle of their makeshift dance floor. Elena's balanced on my feet, her giggles vibrating through me as we move. Isabella's hand finds mine, and it's like a jolt of electricity straight to my core. The scent of her perfume hits me, and I have to resist the urge to pull her closer.
For a few minutes, we're just... us. No mob shit, no danger lurking around every corner, no impending separation hanging over our heads. Just me, my kid, and the woman who's got me tied up in knots. Elena's laughter rings out, sweeter than any symphony I've ever heard.
As the song winds down, I catch Isabella's eye over Elena's head. There is warmth there. Warmth and is that happiness? This is what I'm fighting tooth and nail for. What I'm fucking terrified of losing.
"Time for bed, principessa," I tell Elena, planting a kiss on her forehead. My voice is rougher than I intended, thick with emotions I can't even begin to name.
As Isabella tucks Elena in, I'm struck by how natural this feels, how right. And how fucking scared I am of it all slipping away.
Once Elena's asleep, Isabella steps closer, and for a moment I think she might kiss me. Instead, she squeezes my hand. "We should go. We’re going to be late for dinner," she whispers, her breath warm on my neck.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
As we head to dinner, I reach for her hand. My fingers intertwine with hers, and it's like a fucking time machine. Suddenly I'm that idiot kid again, wanting nothing more than to hold her hand as she talked about her dreams of dancing on the biggest stages. The memory hits me like an uppercut to the throat - how fucking blind I was back then, not seeing what was right in front of me. We were meant for this, for each other. I was too stupid, too caught up in the bullshit, to realize it. But now? Now I know. And I'll be damned if I ever let go again.
This dinner's a fucking breath of fresh air compared to the last one. For a few precious hours, we're not drowning in talk of blood, revenge, and all the shit that usually weighs us down.
For once, we're sitting at the smaller table. Isabella is next to me, so close my leg brushes against hers as we chat.
Because we're shooting the breeze about movies and, of all things, interior decorating. Who'd have thought?
"I'm sorry," Naomi pipes up, "but who's decorating those mansions you all have? Do you just hire some random person and hope for the best?"
Isabella damn near chokes on her water. "I know, right?" she says, eyes dancing. "I mean, don't get me wrong, some rooms clearly haven't seen a living soul in years, but others..."
"Are you talking about your room?" I cut in, unable to help myself. "Because I orchestrated that..."
"Piano player and interior designer..." Isabella quips, and fuck me if her laugh doesn't do something to my insides.
Connor leans back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Speaking of hidden talents, Antonio, why don't you tell them about that time in Monaco?"
I groan, knowing exactly what he's referring to. "Really. Do we have to bring that up?"
Isabella perks up, curiosity written all over her face. "Oh, now you have to spill."
I shoot Connor a glare, but he grins wider. "Our boy here," he starts, ignoring my warning look, "managed to charm his way into the most exclusive casino in Monte Carlo by posing as a world-renowned classical pianist."
"You didn't," Naomi gasps, clearly delighted.
I shrug, trying to play it cool. "What can I say? Chopin’s Waltz in A-flat major, Op. 69, No. 1 can open a lot of doors.”
Isabella's looking at me with a hint of pride. “You do play like a magician sometimes. It’s like you only think about the music when you play.”
“Well, Chopin wrote that one to say goodbye to someone he loved. Maybe, I relate every single time I play those notes.”
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, it's like we're the only two people in the room.
Naomi clears her throat, breaking the spell. "Alright, my turn for an embarrassing story. Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally set off the fire alarm at a gala?"
As Naomi launches into her tale, I feel Isabella's hand find mine under the table. I give it a squeeze, savoring this moment of normalcy.
But the peace doesn't last long. Connor's voice cuts through the laughter, bringing us crashing back to reality.
"Speaking of rooms," he says, his tone suddenly serious, "the safe house in Athens is ready. My contact there did an additional sweep like you asked."
The mood shifts, reality crashing back in. Isabella's smile falters for a moment, but she recovers quickly. "Thank you, Connor. I appreciate that."
There's a moment of heavy silence before Connor clears his throat. "Right then. Let's enjoy this meal, shall we? God knows when we'll all be in the same room again without someone trying to kill us."
It's a grim joke, but it breaks the tension. We laugh, because what else can we do?
As the evening wears on, I catch Isabella's eye. There's determination there. Fear, too. But she’s not hiding behind it. She’s not letting it take over.
Tomorrow, she leaves for Greece, and all this - the laughter, the easy conversation - it'll feel like a distant dream.
But for now, for these few hours, we let ourselves pretend. We're just friends having dinner.
And if I hold onto Isabella's hand a little tighter under the table, playing with her ring, well, nobody needs to fucking know.
Except me and my wife.
As the night wraps up, Connor and Naomi start saying their goodbyes. That's when I catch it - a look passing between Isabella and Naomi. It's quick, but loaded with meaning. They step aside for a moment, speaking in low voices. There's no giggling. Instead, they clasp hands, a firm shake that looks more like sealing a deal than a casual farewell.
I glance at Connor, and his eyes narrow slightly. We both know that look - it's the one that precedes a plan being set in motion.
The women embrace, holding on for a beat longer than necessary. When they pull apart, there's a steely determination in Isabella's eyes. I know that look. It's a look that means business, and it sends a jolt of both admiration and unease through me.
As we watch Connor and Naomi drive away, Isabella turns to me. Her face is a mask of calm, but there's an undercurrent of something... more. "I'm going to turn in," she says, her voice steady. "It's been a long day."
I nod, giving her the space she needs, trying to read between the lines. What the fuck is she up to?
I make my way to my room, my mind racing. Whatever Isabella's planning, I know it's going to be a game-changer. And as I push open my door, I can't shake the feeling that this night is far from over.