Chapter 6
"Who the fuck hurt her?" My words come out forced, like they are caught in my throat.
"If I have to repeat myself…"
The words come out low, quiet enough that the air itself seems to pause. My men freeze, the room locked in silence.
My pulse thrums in my ears. My hand still grips her wrist, skin hot beneath my palm.
And that's when I notice—
I'm shaking.
Her pulse beats wildly under my thumb. I run a finger along it, slow, tracing that delicate rhythm like it's the only sound I can hear.
Alive. She's alive.
I shouldn't care.
I should let my men answer, finish what I started, and keep my distance.
But the moment I saw the blood on her temple, something inside me fractured.
It means everything to protect her.
I don't know when it happened.
I just know that somewhere between studying her picture and hearing her name come through Lorenzo's phone, something in me shifted—and now she feels like mine to guard.
The men glance at one another, nervous energy thick in the room. Finally, one clears his throat.
"Boss, she—uh—she fought back."
Another jumps in. "Yeah, kicked Giovanni right in the ribs."
"She bit me," someone else mutters.
"She wouldn't stay down. We tried to be careful but—"
They start talking over each other, the noise chaotic, every word grinding against the pulse beating behind my eyes.
I look at her again.
Her head held high.
Eyes like defiance and fire.
Blood drying on her skin.
I raise a brow.
She shrugs. "What did you expect me to do? Say thank you?"
For a second—just one—I almost laugh. The audacity of her, standing here in my world, shaking but still ready to burn.
Then she starts again—voice rising, full of that same fire that got her into this mess.
"I don't care who you are or what kind of throne you think you sit on. You can drag me to your castle, lock me in your fucking tower, but I will still run the story. I will still tell the truth. And none of this—" she gestures around wildly, eyes flashing "—none of you will scare me away."
She steps closer, chin tilted, fury rolling off her like heat. She's so close I can feel her breath against my chest.
I still haven't let go of her wrist.
Every muscle in my body tells me to pull back—to end this before I do something I can't take back—but I can't.
Something about her draws me closer, not farther.
And then she stops.
Freezes.
Her eyes go wide—not at me, but at the sound behind me.
A small voice.
Soft. Sleepy.
"Papà?"
My heart drops straight through me. I release Isabella's wrist and turn fast.
Sofia stands in the doorway in her princess nightgown, curls falling over her shoulders, holding her favorite stuffed rabbit by the ear.
"Principessa," I exhale, running a hand down my face. "You're supposed to be asleep."
"I was," she says with a tiny yawn, rubbing one eye. "But I needed a drink."
I sigh, every ounce of fury bleeding out of me. I step toward her, but before I can say another word, she spots the woman behind me.
"Hi." Her voice is small and polite. "I'm Sofia."
Isabella blinks, caught off guard, but then smiles—softly, gently. "Hi, Sofia. I'm Isabella."
Sofia tilts her head. "Bella?"
Isabella's smile falters. "Most people call me Isabella."
"Well, I like Bella better." Sofia nods once, like it's settled law. "Are you friends with my Papà?"
The question hangs in the air.
Isabella looks at me, eyes wide and uncertain, before turning back to my daughter.
Sofia grins up at her, completely unfazed by the tension strangling the room. "You have to be his friend," she says solemnly. "Only his friends get to come to our home."
My throat tightens.
Then Sofia notices Isabella's hand—swollen, bruised. She gasps and takes her other one.
"You're hurt."
"It's okay, sweetheart," Isabella says softly, voice gentler now.
Sofia shakes her head. "No. I'll help you get all better. And my Papà will find out who hurt his friend Bella and make them say they're sorry."
The world stills around me.
My men stand silent.
Isabella looks down at my daughter as if she's never seen anything so pure in her life.
And me? I can't breathe.
Because seeing them together—my world and my weakness—shatters something I didn't know I was still holding together.
"Principessa," I manage, "why don't you go get that drink? I'll take you back to bed in a minute."
She nods, trusting and sweet, and pads toward the kitchen.
I turn back to Isabella, forcing my composure.
"Bella," I say quietly, tasting the name, watching the way it changes her eyes. "Go sit in the living room. I'll be right there."
I reach out, brushing a fingertip against her temple again. Her breath hitches, but she doesn't move.
Then I turn away—slow, deliberate—and walk straight up to the man closest to the door.
He stiffens when I stop in front of him.
"I want the names," I say softly, calmly. "Of the men who put their hands on what's mine."
Then I walk past him, the sound of my footsteps echoing through the penthouse, fury rising with every one.
Sofia's hand is small in mine as I walk her back toward the kitchen.
The room still hums behind me—quiet voices, fear, the sound of a heart that doesn't belong to mine still echoing in my head.
She looks up at me, sleepy-eyed, curls wild. "You're mad, Papà."
I stop, crouching in front of her. "Why do you think that?"
"Your face." She presses her little palm to my cheek. "You do the jaw thing when you're mad."
I exhale, forcing the tension to break just a little. "You notice everything, Principessa."
"I notice you." She smiles, then looks over her shoulder toward the other room. "Is Bella staying with us?"
The question hits me harder than it should.
I don't know the answer. Not yet.
"Maybe for a little while," I say quietly.
"She's nice," Sofia says, filling a cup of water from the fridge. "Even though she's hurt."
I swallow hard. "Yeah. She's… strong."
"Like you?"
I shake my head. “No, Principessa. Stronger."
She beams at that, like it's the right kind of story to hear before bed.
I retake her hand and walk her back down the hall, the one with the family portraits she doesn't remember posing for—her mother's face frozen in time beside mine. Sofia stops at that picture like she always does.
"Do you think Momma would like Bella?"
The question rips something straight out of my chest.
I manage a steady tone. "Your momma liked anyone who made me less of a nightmare."
She giggles. "Then she'd like her lots."
I tuck her into bed, smoothing the blanket up to her chin. "Go to sleep, Principessa."
"'Kay," she whispers, half-dreaming already.
When I turn off her lamp, the faint glow of the nightlight softens everything—the stuffed rabbit, her slow, steady breathing, the piece of my soul I have left.
And then, just as quietly, I close her door and walk back into the storm.
The penthouse is dark except for the city bleeding in through the windows. The men are gone. Good.
In the living room, Isabella sits on the edge of the couch, head tilted back against the cushion, eyes closed.
Her hair's fallen from its bun, dark strands framing her face. The bruise at her temple stands out stark against her skin.
I should be thinking about what to do with her.
Where to move her? Who to question first?
Instead, all I can think about is how small her wrist felt in my hand—and how wrong it felt to let it go.
She opens her eyes when she hears me. "Your daughter's sweet," she says softly.
"She is."
"She shouldn't see this," she adds, gesturing around the room, the blood still on her skin.
"She's seen worse," I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyes flash. "That's not something to be proud of."
I drag a hand through my hair and sink into the armchair across from her, elbows on my knees. "You should be more careful with your words, Bella."
"I should be a lot of things," she says, "but quiet isn't one of them."
The sound of her calling me out like that should irritate me. It doesn't. It steadies me somehow, forces me to look at her—not the journalist, not the liability—but the woman bleeding in my home, still daring me to see her as untouchable.
Her hand trembles where it rests on her lap. She tries to hide it.
"Does it hurt?" I ask.
She scoffs. "What, the kidnapping or the hand?"
I arch a brow. "Both."
"Take a guess."
I stand. She watches me warily as I cross to the bar and pull the first aid kit from the cabinet. I kneel in front of her before she can protest.
"You don't have to—"
"Stop talking," I mutter, opening the kit.
Her breath hitches when I take her hand again, careful this time, cleaning the cut. The bruise looks angrier in the light.
She studies me like she's trying to solve a puzzle. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you're bleeding in my living room."
"That's not the answer I was looking for."
"It's the only one I have right now."
I wrap her hand, the bandage neat and firm. When I glance up, she's already staring at me—too close, too much.
"I'm not your enemy," she says quietly. "I don't want to destroy you."
"Then stop digging where you don't belong."
She shakes her head. "You're scared of the truth."
"No, Bella," I say, voice dropping. "I'm scared of what the truth will do to you."
Something flickers in her eyes—confusion, curiosity, maybe a spark of understanding.
I stand, needing distance that doesn't come. "You'll stay here until I say otherwise. Lorenzo will bring you clothes. Nicole will arrange anything you need."
Her brows lift. "House arrest, then?"
"Protection," I correct.
"From who?"
I meet her gaze, the weight of it heavy between us. "From everyone."
She laughs softly, tired but fearless. "Including you?"
"Especially me."
The words taste like confession, and I leave before she can reply, before I do something neither of us can take back.
In the hall, I stop beside the elevator and let the tension bleed out through my fists.
Her name echoes in my head—her voice.
And Sofia's words—his friend Bella—still linger like a promise I don't deserve.