Chapter 7 – Isolde
I stand barefoot in my room at the D’Angelo estate, the hardwood cool beneath my feet, my silk blouse sticking to my skin as a restless energy pulses through me.
My thoughts rage like a wildfire, untamed and fierce, dwarfing any storm that might loom outside these walls.
My thighs tremble with a deep, sweet soreness from last night—Azrael pinning me to that alley wall, his body driving into mine, his release spilling hot and wild, leaving a mark I can’t erase, a memory that sears me with every step and breath, a secret I can’t silence.
I pace to the window, staring out at the gardens, my fingers feeling my lips where his kiss bruised me after he’d filled me up.
That café, that alley—it was reckless, insane, everything we shouldn’t be.
I told him it was worth it, and I meant it, but now, in the harsh light of day, dread coils in my gut.
Father’s orders echo, to break him. Instead, I’m breaking—cracking under the weight of duty and the pull of him, a man I should hate but can’t.
The war’s simmering, Leonardo’s itching for blood, and I’m caught in the middle, my loyalty fraying with every heartbeat.
The door bangs open, and Marcella strides in, her golden skin flushed, brown eyes wide with urgency. She doesn’t sit—just stands there, hands on her hips, staring at me like I’ve grown horns. “You’ve got that look,” she says, voice sharp. “What the hell happened last night?”
I laugh—short, brittle—and turn to her, leaning against the sill. “You don’t want to know, Marcella. It’s a mess.”
“Oh, I do,” she says, stepping closer, her gaze piercing. “You disappeared after that café talk—don’t bullshit me. It’s him, isn’t it? Varela?”
I hesitate, then nod, heat creeping up my neck. “Yeah. We… met up. Things happened.”
Her jaw drops, then she grins, wicked and unrestrained. “Things? Spill it, Isolde—don’t leave me hanging.”
I groan, pacing again, the ache between my legs flaring as I move. “We fucked, alright? In an alley, against a wall—hard, messy, no holding back. Been wanting it since Venice, and it was—fuck, it was everything.”
She whistles, low and slow, flopping onto the chaise. “Holy shit. You’re in deep—how was it?”
“Rough,” I say, voice dropping, a smirk tugging my lips. “Big—his cock stretched me so wide I felt it in my spine. He marked me—bit my neck, sucked my tits, came inside me. I’m still dripping him, Marcella.”
“Jesus,” she mutters, fanning herself, half-laughing. “You’re fucked—literally and figuratively. What now?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, stopping by the desk, papers scattered—intel, plans, all blurred by him. “Father wants me to betray him, but I can’t. Not after that. We’re allied against Salucci, but this—this is more. It’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous is an understatement,” she says, softer now, standing to face me. “Your brother’s out there stirring shit, Isolde. Leonardo’s planning something—he’s been ranting about hitting the Varelas hard. You’re playing with fire, and he’s about to pour gasoline on it.”
My stomach sinks, cold despite the heat. “What’s he doing?”
“Don’t know specifics,” she says, shrugging. “But he’s got that wild look—reckless, stupid. You need to watch him, or this whole thing blows up.”
I nod, dread tightening my chest, but before I can answer, the door flies open again—Leonardo this time, his dark hair wild, green eyes glinting with a manic edge. He’s in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, a gun tucked in his waistband, and he’s grinning like a kid who’s burned down the playground.
“Get ready, sis,” he says, voice loud, too eager. “We’re hitting a Varela stronghold tonight—Palermo docks, their main stash. Gonna light it up, show ’em who owns this game.”
My blood runs cold, but I keep my face blank, crossing my arms. “You’re insane, Leo. Father know about this?”
“Father’s too slow,” he snaps, pacing, restless like the wind outside. “I’m taking charge—gonna gut them before they gut us. You in or out?”
“Out,” I say, sharp, stepping closer. “This is reckless—you’ll start a war we can’t win.”
“War’s already here,” he sneers, leaning in, his breath hot with whiskey. “You’re soft, Isolde—always have been. Stay home, play your little chess games. I’ll handle the real fight.”
He storms out, slamming the door, and I’m left staring at it, heart pounding. Marcella grabs my arm, voice low. “He’s gonna get himself killed—or worse. What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, turning to her, the storm outside rumbling closer. “But I can’t let him ruin everything.”
***
Midnight cloaks the Palermo docks in chaos, rain hammering the concrete, thunder cracking overhead like the sky’s splitting open.
I’m soaked—boots splashing through puddles, coat plastered to me, hair dripping—as I sprint toward the Varela stronghold, a sprawling warehouse lit by flickering floodlights and bursts of gunfire.
Leonardo’s attack’s in full swing—smoke billows from a torched truck, flames licking the night, and I hear shouts, screams, the sharp pop of bullets.
My brother’s a fool, a reckless bastard, and he’s dragged us into a war I can’t stop—but I can try to save him from himself.
I duck behind a crate, knife in hand, gun tucked at my hip, scanning the chaos.
Leonardo’s men—five, maybe six—dart through the shadows, firing at Varela guards, but they’re outnumbered, outgunned.
Then I see him—Azrael—black shirt soaked, blood on his knuckles, a pistol blazing as he takes down one of Leo’s crew with a shot to the chest. His gray eyes gleam, wild and lethal, a predator in his element, and my stomach twists—fear, want, a mess of both.
He saved me, fucked me senseless, and now he’s here, tearing through my family’s attack like a storm of his own.
Leonardo bursts from the smoke, a manic laugh cutting through the rain, gun raised.
“Varela!” he roars, firing wild, bullets pinging off metal.
Azrael spins, dodging, and charges—tackling Leo into a stack of crates, wood splintering under their weight.
They’re a blur—fists flying, grunts and curses—until Azrael pins him, knee on Leo’s chest, gun pressed to his forehead.
“Stupid fuck,” Azrael snarls, blood dripping from a cut on his lip, rain streaking his face. “You think this wins you shit?”
“Go to hell,” Leo spits, thrashing, but Azrael’s stronger, unyielding, finger tightening on the trigger.
I’m moving before I think—sprinting out, heart in my throat, rain blinding me. “Azrael, stop!” I shout, voice raw, skidding to a halt beside them. His head snaps up, eyes locking on mine—shock, then something darker, deeper.
“Isolde?” he says, voice rough, gun wavering but not lowering. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Let him go,” I plead, stepping closer, hands out, rain soaking my words. “He’s my brother—please, don’t.”
“Your brother?” He laughs—harsh, bitter—glancing at Leo, who’s glaring, blood on his teeth. “This prick just torched my docks—killed my men. Give me one reason.”
“Because I’m asking,” I say, voice breaking, stepping into his space, close enough to feel his heat through the wet. “For me, Azrael—spare him.”
His jaw clenches, eyes searching mine—gray storms clashing with green fire—and the gun trembles, rain dripping from the barrel. “You’re begging for him?” he mutters, low, just for me. “After last night—after us?”
“Yes,” I whisper, hand rubbing against his arm, fingers curling around the muscle, slick and tense. “I can’t lose him—not like this. Please.”
He stares, breath heaving, and I see it—the war in him, duty versus me, the woman he fucked against a wall, the one he’s breaking every rule for. “Fuck,” he growls, shoving off Leo, gun dropping to his side. “Get him out of here—now—before I change my mind.”
I nod, grabbing Leo’s arm, hauling him up. He’s snarling, spitting curses—“Traitor bitch, sucking up to him”—but I drag him back, rain stinging my eyes, heart pounding. Azrael’s men close in, guns raised, but he waves them off, his glare burning through me as I pull Leo into the shadows.
We stumble to a car—mine, parked a block away—and I shove him in, slamming the door.
He’s bleeding, bruised, but alive, and I lean against the hood, rain washing the adrenaline from me, shaking with what I’ve done.
I begged Azrael—exposed us, our bond, in front of Leo—and it’s a crack neither family can ignore.
“Fucking Varela,” Leo mutters, slumping in the seat, wiping blood from his lip. “You’re too soft, Isolde—should’ve killed him.”
“Shut up,” I snap, sliding into the driver’s seat, hands trembling on the wheel. “You started this—nearly got us all killed.”
He laughs—cold, unhinged—and I drive, rain blurring the windshield, the storm raging outside and in.
Azrael spared him—for me—and it’s not just gratitude flooding me; it’s something deeper, a bond forged in that alley, strengthened here.
I can still feel him—his cock inside me, his hands on me, his breath on my neck—and now this, his mercy at my plea.
It’s secret, forbidden, and it’s tying us tighter, pulling me from my family into something I can’t name.
Back at the estate, I shove Leo inside—he staggers, cursing—and collapse in my room, soaked and shaking, the humid night pressing in. My phone buzzes—Azrael: He’s alive. You owe me. I stare at it, heart racing, and text back: I know. Thank you.
I begged for my brother, but it’s Azrael I’m tied to, and that’s a truth I can’t outrun.