Chapter Sixteen
Isla
A drian pulled his neon green Lamborghini up to the curb at a well-known fancy restaurant in town.
I ran my damp hands down my dress, fighting the urge to make a run for it, knowing my family was already in there.
The restaurant's exterior had warm, golden light and sleek, modern architecture, inviting yet exclusive.
Through the large windows, I could see elegant tables spaced generously apart, offering a mood that was hopelessly, offensively calm compared to the riot in my stomach.
“Ready, angel?” Adrian’s fingers squeezed mine, warm and reassuring. Even under the streetlights, his green eyes flashed with mischief.
His hair was artfully messy, damp at the temples, and the forest green shirt hugged his broad shoulders.
He was a study in lethal beauty if you ignored—no, if you noticed the tattoos curling over his wrists and peeking up his throat.
I nodded weakly. “As I’ll ever be. ”
The valet hustled over, professionalism cracking as he took in the neon supercar and its tattooed owner.
Adrian unfolded his massive frame from the driver’s seat with lazy confidence, handing off the keys with a wink and a threat disguised as a joke.
“If there’s a scratch, I’ll know.” He said it, grinning, but the valet paled and nodded like he’d threatened his life.
Adrian circled to my side, opening my door with a showman’s bow that made me smile. "Your chariot awaits," he winked, offering his hand.
The moment I stepped out, his arm slid around my waist, possessive and protective.
The white ribbon at my throat felt suddenly tighter, a reminder of who I belonged to now. Adrian's thumb brushed over it briefly, his eyes darkening with satisfaction.
"You look beautiful," he murmured, bending down to speak directly into my ear after kissing it. "They're gonna love me. Everyone does."
The confidence in his voice made me laugh despite my nerves. "My family isn't exactly used to men like you."
"Men who look like art?” Adrian suggested, his free hand settling at the small of my back as we approached the entrance. "Or men who are wanted in three different countries?"
I stumbled. "You’re what?"
He winked. "Kidding. Mostly."
Inside, the hostess’ eyes bulged as we approached, her gaze darting from Adrian's tattooed hands to his face and back again.
"Good evening," she said, recovering quickly. "Do you have a reservation?"
“For Adrian,” he told her, charm cranked to eleven. “We’re joining the Hills party.”
Recognition flashed across her face. "Of course. They arrived a few minutes ago. Right this way. "
As we followed her through the restaurant, I felt the weight of stares on us.
Adrian seemed to take up more space than physically possible, his presence commanding attention from every corner. His hand never left the small of my back, guiding me with gentle pressure.
Heads continued to turn. Forks paused midair. A hush rippled over white tablecloths as the tattooed embodiment of “bad decisions” escorted me to my suburban family table.
There they were… My family was seated at a corner table, partially secluded by decorative screens and lush plants.
They were set up like royal observers waiting to meet their… wayward daughter and her criminal boyfriend.
Mom looked elegant as always in a powder blue dress that matched her eyes—my eyes. My father, silver-haired and distinguished in his navy blazer.
And Crew, my baby brother, slouched in his chair with the typical teenage senioritis that vanished the moment he spotted us.
His eyes went comically wide, jaw dropping as he recognized Adrian. He grabbed my father's arm, pointing, words clearly failing him as his mouth literally hung open.
"HOLY SHIT!” he blurted, loud enough to startle nearby diners.
"Language, Crew," Mom admonished, giving me a wary smile.
"Isla,” she greeted, rising with a warm smile that faltered slightly when her gaze traveled up and up and up to Adrian.
My father stood, momentarily speechless, as he took in the man accompanying his daughter. Crew remained frozen, mouth still hanging open, eyes bulging as if he might pass out.
"Mom, Dad, Crew," I managed, my voice high and lost. "This is Adrian."
Adrian stepped forward, extending a hand that made my six-foot-tall father look almost small.
"Adrian. Pleasure to meet you, sir." His voice was warm, respectful, though I could see the amusement dancing in his eyes .
"James," my father rumbled, visibly pulling himself together as he shook Adrian's hand. "That's quite a grip you've got there."
"Occupational hazard," Adrian replied smoothly, turning that megawatt smile on Mom. "Mrs. Hills, seems your daughter failed to mention where she got her beautiful eyes from."
My mother, never one to be easily flustered, actually smiled, charmed. "Please, call me Ivette. It's lovely to meet you, Adrian."
All this time, Crew had remained motionless, gaping like a fish. Adrian turned to him last, extending his hand. "And you must be Crew. Heard you're a soccer star in the making.”
Adrian pulled out my chair, guiding me onto it by my nape, before taking his own seat between Mom and me.
Crew, whose mind was clearly exploding, made a strangled noise that might have been an attempt at words.
He managed to lift his hand for the limpest handshake in history.
"You—you're—" he stuttered, face flushing crimson. "You're Adrian, the CATALYST! Boxing LEGEND! You knocked out Santana in twelve seconds!"
Adrian's smile turned sly, showing just a hint of teeth. "Eleven-point-five, but who's counting?"
"OH MY GOD," Crew finally managed at full volume, causing several nearby diners to turn. "When Isla said 'Adrian,’ I thought… I mean—I never—YOU WORE A GLITTERY CROP TOP TO THE WEIGH-IN!”
Dad closed his eyes. Adrian just boomed a laugh, delighted and amused. “Yeah, sponsors were not thrilled. But honestly, you only get one shot at icon status. Worth it.”
He winked at Crew, who looked like he might actually faint.
Mom cleared her throat, trying to reel things in. "Adrian, Crew tells us you two met rather... recently?" The question was delicate, her way of asking what exactly was happening without being too direct.
Adrian’s massive frame made the restaurant chair look child-sized in comparison. He stretched an arm along the back of my own, fingers brushing my shoulder in a clear and obvious claim.
"Love at first sight, Mrs. Hills," he said with absolute sincerity, though his eyes glinted with mischief. "Took one look at your daughter and knew I'd met my match. I had to chase her down a bit—she played hard to get."
I nearly choked on my water. "That's not exactly?—"
"She ran away," Adrian continued, grinning at my family like he was sharing a delightful secret they wouldn’t find insanely concerning. "Literally ran. But I'm pretty fast for a big guy."
My father's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "Is that right?" He turned to me. "Isla?"
Before I could answer, Crew leaned across the table, completely ignoring the conversation.
"Is it true you have pet piranhas? And that you once fought with a dislocated shoulder? Do you really?—”
“Crew, let’s order, shall we?” Mom interjected, somehow both sweet and steel.
The waiter arrived, looking frazzled as Adrian turned his attention to the menu.
"Bottle of your best champagne," Adrian said smoothly. "We're celebrating."
"We are?" my father asked, bemused.
Adrian's other hand found mine under the table, thumb tracing circles on my palm as he smiled at my family.
"Meeting the people who raised this angelic woman? Absolutely worth celebrating."
My mother's expression softened, and even my father seemed to relax slightly. Crew, however, was still bouncing in his seat, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Can I get a picture after dinner?" he blurted. "None of my friends will believe this. One always said your last fight was fixed, but I told him?—"
"So Adrian," my mother said, carefully setting down her flute and smoothly cutting off Crew, "Isla mentioned you're quite successful in your career. How did you get started in boxing? "
Adrian smiled, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I started as a teenager when I met my forever family. I had lots of energy and figured out I was pretty good at hitting things."
My father nodded appreciatively. "Impressive. I've caught a few on TV. That knockout last spring was something else."
"Thank you." Adrian's thumb traced circles on my skin, the casual intimacy making it hard to focus on my pasta. "I got lucky later in life.”
Crew, not having the emotional intelligence for any level of modesty, jumped in.
“Luck? You have one of the highest knockout percentages in the league! And your footwork—did you invent that sidestep, or…?”
Adrian laughed. “Appreciate the support, little man. If you're interested, I can take you to the gym sometime, show you a few moves. That’s if your sister keeps me in her good graces.”
Crew looked ready to propose marriage. "Seriously? That would be awesome!"
My mother smiled, but I noticed something careful in her expression as she glanced between Adrian and me.
"It's wonderful to see Isla so happy," she said, her voice gentle. "She hasn't always been... lucky in relationships."
I tensed, knowing exactly where this was going. "Mom…"
"It's true, honey,” she continued, her tone apologetic but determined. "After what happened with Noah, we worried about you."
I knew she was trying to protect me, her way of letting Adrian know to be careful with me.
Adrian's hand tightened on my shoulder. "Noah?" he asked, his voice still pleasant, though something sharper flickered in his eyes.
"Her ex," Crew supplied, his expression darkening. "He seemed nice at first, you know? Brought flowers, remembered stuff. But he was always... I don't know how to explain it. Just off ."
"Crew," my father warned, but the dam had broken.
"What? It's true!" Crew continued, emboldened by Adrian's attentive expression .