Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Isabella
Four months pass by in fuck yous and silent dinners.
I’ve never seen that softness from Lorenzo again. Not once. That crack in his armor sealed itself shut the moment he walked out of the kitchen, and he’s made damn sure it stays buried.
Whatever I glimpsed that day, whatever tenderness slipped through his defenses, he’s locked it away so deep I’ve started to wonder if I imagined it. If I invented that gentle touch, that vulnerable look in his eyes, because I needed it to mean something more than just another way to break me.
He’s colder and more controlled now, as if revealing that part of himself was a mistake he won’t make again.
Instead it’s heat soaked nights where he pulls me apart with his mouth, his tongue working between my thighs until I’m shaking and begging for more.
His fingers are ruthless and knowing, curling with devastating precision until my bones forget how to hold me upright.
He fucks me against walls, over desks, in our bed with the door locked and the lights on.
He makes me come so hard I see stars. Wrings every desperate sound from my throat.
Learns every sensitive spot on my body with single minded focus.
Then daylight arrives, and he won’t look at me, let alone touch me.
He won’t even breathe near me. As if the sun resets everything we become in the dark.
As if the woman whose neck he buried his face in hours ago is nothing more than a stranger he passes in the hall.
He’ll sit across from me at breakfast, eyes glued to his phone or some papers, acting as if he didn’t have me screaming his name into my pillow at three in the morning.
I’ve figured out how to navigate his world without flinching.
I learn which men won’t meet my eyes out of respect and which ones watch me too closely, as if testing boundaries, and trying to see if Lorenzo’s wife is fair game or off-limits. Now, I can read the weight of their stares, knowing when to stand my ground and when to walk away.
I understand the rhythm of the house, how it breathes and shifts with Lorenzo’s moods. When he’s calm, the staff moves with easy efficiency. When he’s on edge, everyone walks quieter, works faster, and hides in corners until the storm passes.
Carlo brews strong coffee when Lorenzo is about to lose his shit, when the atmosphere turns tense and dangerous, and everyone braces for impact.
He leaves dinner in the warmer and heads home early on nights when Lorenzo’s meetings run late.
The guards change shifts at six, and the east wing is always empty between two and four in the afternoon.
I now understand how to navigate the silence between Lorenzo and I, to exist in the spaces he allows me without demanding more.
I stop trying to provoke him during the day, stop pushing for reactions I won’t receive.
I settle into a routine that is almost normal if I don’t think about it too much.
Mid-morning, I drink coffee alone in the sunroom.
Afternoons are spent reading in the library or walking the grounds with nothing but my thoughts and the weight of this gilded cage.
Evenings are spent waiting for him to come find me, or not.
I sleep in his bed, and wake up alone, only to pretend it doesn’t bother me.
I don’t ask questions, even though I want to.
I want to know if he’s fucking someone else when he doesn’t come to me those nights.
Is he with another woman instead? My father used to do that to my mother.
I saw her pretend not to notice the lipstick stains, the late nights, the smell of perfume that wasn’t hers.
I know my brother does the same, cycling through women as casually as changing his suit.
Why would Lorenzo De Luca be any different?
He’s got that look—dangerous, bad boy charm that pulls women in and then tears them apart.
Dark hair that’s always a bit too long, falling over his forehead in a careless way that somehow makes him seem more lethal.
His sharp jaw, covered in perpetual stubble, brushes against my thighs when he’s between them.
Ink covers his forearms, dark lines and symbols that tell stories I don’t understand, peeking out from under rolled sleeves and giving him a more streetwise vibe than a corporate one.
He’s the kind of man mothers warn their daughters about. The kind who looks at you and makes you forget every smart decision you’ve ever made. Rough around the edges in a way that screams trouble, danger, and ruin. The kind of beautiful that comes with a body count.
So yeah, I wonder if he’s got someone else on the nights he leaves me feeling cold. If there’s some woman out there who receives the soft version of him more than once. Who doesn’t have to fight for every bit of tenderness. Who he actually wants beyond just the physical.
But I don’t ask because asking shows I care. And caring in this world—in this marriage—is a weakness I can’t afford.
He doesn’t offer answers. Not even for the way this all started, for the trap that brought me here.
It’s a war with rules now. Boundaries we’ve silently agreed upon.
Territories we’ve carved out and claimed.
He has my body at night. I find my solitude during the day.
He demands my obedience in front of his men.
My sharp tongue behind closed doors, which seems to turn him on.
We’ve found a rhythm in the chaos, a twisted kind of balance that shouldn’t work but somehow does.
And just when I begin to understand its shape, just when I think I’ve figured out how to survive this, my father sends me a message.
No greeting. No concern. No pretense that he cares about how I am or what I’ve been doing for the past four months. Just an order.
The Devil: Come home.
I’m in the bedroom when I get the text, sunlight spilling across the floor in golden streaks, the house unusually quiet around me. My fingers curl around my phone, knuckles whitening as old instincts snap awake in my spine.
That familiar dread. That old, bitter rage. This is how it always begins. A summons. A command disguised as a blood obligation, as if sharing DNA with that man means I owe him anything after what he’s done.
I stare at the screen until the words become blurry.
Part of me wants to ignore it, to delete the message and pretend I never saw it.
I want to stay here in this strange new life I’ve created, this war with rules that I’m only beginning to understand.
Lorenzo might be cold, distant, and impossible to read, but at least he doesn’t pretend to love me.
At least he doesn’t hide his cruelty behind false affection and call it family.
But I know my father won’t give up. He’ll keep pushing and tightening the screws until I submit. And if I refuse to go willingly, he’ll find a way to drag me back. He’s got his hooks in me whether I want to admit it or not.
I’m torn. Caught between my loyalty to my new life with Lorenzo and the anger that’s been brewing in my chest ever since my father took my beautiful Ethan from me. Since he decided my life was a bargaining chip, something he could use whenever it suited him.
I hate him. God, I hate him with a force that weighs heavily in my bones and tastes bitter on my tongue every time I think of him. Every future he reduced to ash. Every piece of myself I lost because he decided his empire was more important than my happiness.
But he’s still my father. And in this world, that still matters, even when I wish it didn’t.
I close my eyes, breathe in, and type a single word back.
Isabella: When?
The response comes immediately.
The Devil: Now.
Of course it’s fucking now.
I dress in silence. Pull on boots with enough heel to make a statement but sturdy enough to run in if I need to.
Hair scraped back into a sleek ponytail, not a strand out of place.
Lips painted too red for a family visit, bold and defiant, but I don’t tone it down.
Let him see I’m not the same young girl who used to sit outside his office waiting for approval that never came.
Let him fucking see what he made me into.
I examine my reflection once more. Cold. Composed. Unapproachable.
Perfect.
Four of Lorenzo’s men are close to the front door when I walk down the stairs.
One leans against the marble column with casual arrogance, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, watching me descend with dark, assessing eyes.
I hate the way he looks at me, like I’m something he’d help himself to if Lorenzo wasn’t in the picture.
His gaze drags over my body with predatory intent, starting at my legs, crawling up slowly, pausing at my tits where his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
Then higher, to my mouth, my neck, back down again.
Undressing me. Violating me with just his eyes.
He doesn’t even try to hide it, doesn’t bother with subtlety or respect.
Just stares like he’s got every right to.
My stomach turns. My skin prickles with revulsion.
Those eyes make me feel dirty, unsafe in my own house.
Another checks his weapon in full view of the staff, sliding the magazine out and back in with practiced ease, the metallic click echoing through the foyer.
The other two stand shoulder to shoulder near the entrance, eyes forward, jaws set, muscles coiled and ready.
They don’t speak. Don’t move except to track my approach.
I don’t ask names. I don’t need to, they’re Lorenzo’s men, not mine.
I move outside.
“We’re leaving,” I say flatly, not bothering to explain where or why.
They exchange glances but don’t question it. One of them pulls out his phone and makes a quick call. Within minutes, a black SUV pulls up from the garage. He opens the door while I slide into the back seat.