Chapter 6 #2
We pull through the gates, iron grinding against iron as they close behind us.
The long gravel driveway curves toward the compound, flanked by stone columns that rise out of the ground like ancient stone gods watching every move.
The house looms ahead, all mirrored glass and reinforced steel dressed up as luxury.
Every inch of it screams wealth, but it was built for war.
Vito slows the car and parks it neatly at the steps.
I don’t wait.
I’m out the second we stop, the door slamming shut before the engine takes its last breath.
Two of my men stand there, eyes straight ahead, hands close to their weapons. One of them steps forward and opens the front door to the house without uttering a word.
I climb the steps. Every move precise, controlled. It’s the only thing keeping my anger in check.
I walk into my house with a jaw like iron and eyes sharp enough to cut steel.
The scent hits first.
Dark roast. Colombian. Strong enough to wake the dead and slap the soul back into them.
Carlo only brews that shit when he’s trying to impress someone. And unless he’s developed a sudden crush on the security team, I know exactly who the fuck it’s for.
Isabella.
I turn the corner, my footsteps slowing. The faint clink of porcelain echoes through the air, and then I see her.
Perched on the marble bench like it’s a damn throne. Legs crossed, foot bouncing in a lazy rhythm. One hand scrolling her phone, the other wrapped around a porcelain mug as if she’s lived here for years instead of just one day. Steam curls from the rim of her cup. She takes a sip.
Not a single sign of guilt shows from her for being in my space less than ten minutes ago.
There’s a smirk on her mouth—the kind of smirk that makes men ruin empires just to see it again. And all I can think about is wiping it off her damn face with my mouth. Or my cock.
Carlo catches my eye from across the kitchen and takes the hint. He nods, wipes his hands on his apron, and slips out the back door before the tension in the room erupts into something unholy.
Smart man.
I need answers, and I need to see her face when she realizes I know exactly what she did.
“You want to tell me something, Bella?” My voice cuts through the quiet with a calm that gets men killed.
Isabella just sets her cup down slowly, as if she has all the time in the world, and drags her eyes over my chest. Stops at the buttons of my shirt. Lets her gaze rise until it meets my eyes.
“Good morning to you too, husband.”
That fucking mouth.
That smug, spoiled little tilt of her lips that dares to be ruined.
She wants me to be angry. She wants to see what I’ll do about it. And fuck, I’m right on the edge of showing her.
I cross the room. “You were in my office.”
She shrugs as if I just asked if she took the last piece of cake. Cool, dismissive. Fingertips brushing imaginary lint off her thigh, even though there’s not a speck on her.
“You left the door open.”
My eyes narrow as my voice sharpens. “You picked the fucking lock.”
“Did I?” she says, all sugar and sweet, lifting her cup again. “I must be smarter than I thought.”
My hand slams against the bench. “That room is not for you.”
Her lashes flick upward and her mouth twitches.
“And those bags weren’t for me either, were they?”
I freeze, confused. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
She stands, rage dripping from every motion. That calm she once had is gone, burned to ash by something colder.
“You sent someone into my room while I was sleeping.”
And then, it hits. She’s talking about the suitcases, the ones I had delivered earlier today.
“First of all, it’s my room,” I say, straightening up. “And I trust my men.”
“Well, I don’t,” her voice snaps. “And in case you forgot, your world isn’t mine. In my world, when a stranger walks in while I’m asleep, I’m not wondering if they’re bringing my fucking wardrobe. I’m wondering if I’m next to have my throat slit.”
Something twists in my gut because, in her world, under her father’s roof, death isn’t a threat—it’s a fact.
A knock on the door at midnight. A shadow in the hallway.
A favor owed paid in blood. She’s spent her whole life waiting for blood to spill, waiting to see if she’s the message someone sends to her father.
I should have fucking realized. Especially considering what happened to my family.
But I didn’t because this is my place.
Because I walk these halls without looking over my shoulder. Because the men who answer to me know better than to breathe wrong in my direction. And mainly because I forgot that not everyone lives in a world where power equals safety.
She doesn’t trust me yet.
It’s not enough to know that kind of thing would never happen to her under my roof. That I’d tear apart anyone who even looked at her sideways. That I’d spill blood without blinking if someone crossed that line.
But trust isn’t built in a day.
“You think I’d let anyone touch you?”
Her chin lifts. Eyes wild. Shoulders squared as if I’m not the man every other man and woman has learnt to fear.
“I don’t know you,” she spits, her gaze narrowing. “Or your men. I don’t know what the fuck kind of empire you’re trying to run, Lorenzo, but I’m not a pawn in it. I think you’re used to barking orders and expecting everyone to fall in line.”
My name sounds sinful coming from her mouth. I grip her chin, forcing her head up higher.
“Are you done?”
She tries to jerk back, but I won’t let her. I fist my free hand in her hair, pulling until her spine arches.
“You think you’re the first person to go toe-to-toe with me, Bella?” I murmur, voice dropping into something darker. Something that bites.
My eyes drift over her face, settling on that perfect mouth. A weapon coated in pink gloss. “You’re not. But fuck me if you aren’t the only one I’ve ever wanted to lose to.”
She stills for just a heartbeat. I catch it and watch the flicker in her eyes—that tiny crack in the armor she wears better than most soldiers I’ve buried.
“Then maybe you should’ve kept your dick in your pants, Lorenzo, and those fucking bags out of my bedroom.”
Fucking hell.
I stare at her, fury and heat bubbling beneath my skin. She’s got a mouth that could start wars, and I’m standing here, half-hard and completely obsessed.
I press my mouth to hers because it’s the only way to silence her. She tastes of coffee and war—bitter, hot, and perfect.
Her hands hit my chest, not to push, simply to remind me she’s not backing down.
I walk her backward until her spine hits the bench. She breaks the kiss, panting.
“Is this how you settle arguments?” she gasps.
“No,” I growl, sliding my hand up her thigh, fingers dragging rough over the nylon. “But it’s how I fuck difficult wives who don’t listen.”
She hisses when I reach the heat between her legs, my fingers pressing harder, finding the damp patch already blooming through the tights.
“I’m not your obedient bride, Lorenzo.”
“Good,” I snarl, gripping her hips and spinning her around so fast her palms slap against the marble. “I’d get bored.”
She gasps, her spine arching as I push her forward, her tights stretching taut over her perfect ass, seams begging to be split.
I hook my fingers into the waistband, yanking them down to her knees in one sharp motion, dragging her panties with them.
She’s soaked.
“Fuck,” I mutter, breath hot against her ear. “You’re gonna pretend you hate me while you’re this fucking wet?”
“I’m not,” she says.
“Liar,” I mutter, voice thick with heat, with control slipping thread by thread. “Your mouth lies…” My hand slides between her thighs again, fingers pressing into the slick heat. “…while this cunt’s fucking desperate for me.”
Her breath stutters. That sharp little sound escapes when she wants to deny it but knows she can’t. Not when I feel how wet she is. Not when her body begs for what her mouth won’t admit.
I unbuckle my belt with one hand, the metal clinking loudly in the charged silence. My cock springs free, heavy and aching, rage and desire tangled so tight I can’t tell one from the other.
I grip her hips, drag her back an inch, line my cock up at her entrance and slam into her in one brutal thrust.
Her cry pierces the room. Sharp. Raw. Fucking beautiful.
“Fuck,” she gasps, her palms pressing against the marble, her body arching beneath me, taking everything I give her and still craving more.
I grab her hair with my fist, pull her head back until she’s crying out again. I go deeper, burying all of myself inside her, my body pressed against hers, her tights twisted around her thighs, her nails scraping across the marble.
“Still mad at me, Bella?” I growl into her ear.
“Fuck you.”
I slam into her harder.
“Don’t worry, that’s the fucking plan.”