Chapter 10 – Isolde
The late morning air clings to me, humid and thick, as I stand in my room at the D’Angelo estate, the gray sky outside pressing down like a shroud waiting to burst. My silk blouse sticks to my sweat-damp skin, my auburn hair loose and tangled.
I can feel the bruise on my neck—Azrael’s mark, a purple bloom from his teeth last night when he fucked me raw on that table.
My body’s a map of him—thighs sore from his grip, pussy still tender from his cock stretching me, tits aching where he sucked and bit.
I can still feel him—thick, pulsing, unloading inside me, his cum dripping down my legs—and taste him on my tongue, a filthy, sweet mix from when I licked our mess off my fingers.
It’s an obsession now, a fire I can’t put out, and it’s burning me alive as I pace the hardwood, barefoot, my pulse a restless drumbeat.
Last night was a mistake—a glorious, shattering mistake.
We agreed to stop Salucci, to end this war together in secret, but it turned into more—his hands, his mouth, his cock pounding me until I screamed his name, until we drowned in each other.
I told him it was worth it, and it was, but now, in the harsh light of day, dread coils tight in my gut.
Father’s suspicions echo louder, and the war’s spiraling, a beast we’ve unleashed with no leash.
I’m caught—duty pulling me one way, Azrael dragging me another—and I don’t know how to untangle it without breaking something, someone, myself.
The door creaks, and Marcella slips in, her golden hair pulled back, brown eyes wide with a mix of worry and knowing.
She’s in a loose dress, barefoot too, and drops onto the chaise, staring at me like I’m a bomb about to blow.
“You didn’t come back last night,” she says, voice low, cutting through the humid silence. “Where were you?”
I stop pacing, turning to her, my cheeks flushing despite myself. “With him,” I admit, voice rough, leaning against the desk. “Azrael. We met—talked Salucci, then… it happened again.”
Her jaw drops, then she grins, sharp and wicked. “Again? Jesus, Isolde—details, now. Don’t skimp.”
I laugh—short, shaky—and run a hand through my hair, the ache between my legs flaring as I speak.
“On his table—hard, messy, no holding back. He ripped my clothes, spread me wide, fucked me so deep I felt him in my bones—came inside me, Marcella, filled me up till I was dripping. Been wanting it since the alley, since Venice, and it was—fuck, it was more than I imagined.”
“Holy shit,” she mutters, fanning herself, half-laughing, half-stunned. “You’re obsessed—you’re both obsessed. What’s the plan now, lover girl?”
“There’s no plan,” I say, sinking onto the bed, hands trembling. “We’re working together—secretly—against Salucci, but this—this thing between us—it’s a fucking mess. Father’s watching me, Leo’s a loose cannon, and Azrael… I can’t stop needing him.”
“Needing him’s gonna get you killed,” she says, voice softening, standing to face me. “Or worse—caught. Your father’s not stupid, Isolde—he’ll figure it out. What then?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, staring at my hands, the memory of Azrael’s grip on them flashing—rough, possessive, anchoring me. “He spared Leo for me—gave me that. But Father’s threat—if he finds out, if he knows…” I trail off, dread pooling cold despite the heat.
Before she can answer, the door bangs open, and Alessandro D’Angelo storms in, eyes blazing with a fury that freezes my blood.
Marcella mutters a quick goodbye and bolts, leaving me alone with him as he slams the door shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
He steps closer, towering, his shadow swallowing the room, and the humid air turns suffocating, the gray sky outside a mirror to his rage.
“Isolde,” he says, voice low, venomous, a blade drawn slow. “You’ve been lying to me.”
My heart slams against my ribs, but I force my face blank, standing to meet him. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb,” he snaps, pulling a folded paper from his pocket—crumpled, stained—and shoving it at me.
I take it, hands shaking, and unfold it—a photo, grainy but clear: me and Azrael in that alley, my back to the wall, his hands on me, our mouths locked, mid-fuck.
My stomach drops, bile rising, and I look up, his eyes boring into me, cold and unyielding.
“Explain this,” he growls, stepping closer, voice rising. “My daughter—my blood—fucking the Varela heir, the enemy, in some filthy alley like a whore. Tell me it’s not true.”
“It’s—” I start, voice faltering, but he cuts me off, slamming a fist on the desk, papers scattering.
“It’s true,” he roars, leaning in, his breath hot with rage. “I had you followed—watched you sneak off to him, not once, but twice. You warned him about that ambush, begged him to spare Leonardo, and now this—spreading your legs for him. Where’s your loyalty, Isolde? Where’s your fucking spine?”
I flinch, heat flushing my face, but I hold his gaze, fists clenching. “I’m loyal—to this family, to what we’ve built. Azrael’s not—”
“Azrael,” he spits, cutting me off, his voice a sneer. “You’re on a first-name basis with the bastard who’s bleeding us dry? You’re a traitor, Isolde—a disgrace. And I won’t have it.”
He steps back, crossing his arms, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You’ve got a choice—prove your loyalty, or you’re out. Kill him—Azrael Varela. Bring me his head, or you’re no daughter of mine. Cast out, disowned, nothing. Decide now.”
The room spins, his ultimatum a hammer to my chest, and I’m choking on it—kill Azrael, the man who’s seen me, fucked me, spared my brother, or lose everything I am.
“Father—” I start, voice breaking, but he turns, storming out, the door slamming shut, leaving me trembling, the photo crumpled in my fist.
I sink to the floor, breath ragged, the humid day pressing in, dark sky heavy with rain that won’t fall.
Azrael’s face flashes—gray eyes fierce, cock pounding me, voice warning me: “We’re fucked if they find out.
” They’ve found out, and now I’m trapped—love versus legacy, him versus blood, and I don’t know how to choose without shattering myself.
***
The evening grows dark around the quiet parts outside Rome, a warm, sticky night covering the secret hideout in a light rain that spots my jacket as I step inside.
The small stone building sits hidden in wild bushes and tall grass.
My knife stays in its holder on my leg, my gun tucked under my arm, but my hands shake a little because Father told me to kill him or lose everything, and it feels like a knot in my chest.
I texted Azrael an hour ago, telling him to meet me here fast, and I got here early, walking back and forth on the broken concrete floor.
The air feels wet and smells old, like something rotting.
My body still remembers him—my chest hurts from his strong hands last night, my insides ache from how he took me, and I can still feel where he left his mark, while my heart’s all mixed up, stuck between wanting him and the family falling apart.
The door makes a low sound as it opens, and Azrael Varela walks in, his wet hair messy over his forehead, his black shirt sticking to his big, solid chest. His gray eyes, sharp and deep, look right at me, and my heart beats faster.
He’s handsome, tough, the spark I’ve wanted since Venice, and I hate how my skin gets warm and my body reacts, even with everything going wrong.
He shuts the door with a soft bump, locking us inside while the rain taps on the roof. That quiet noise feels like a wall, keeping out the mess of the world breaking around us.
“D’Angelo,” he says, voice rough and low, stopping a foot away, his gaze raking over me—lingering on my flushed cheeks, my trembling hands, the tension in my stance. “What’s urgent? You look like you’re about to run—or fight.”
“Varela,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel, stepping into his space, needing his heat to anchor me against the storm inside. “We’re fucked—he knows. Father—found out about us.”
His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing to slits, but he doesn’t flinch—just grabs my arm, pulling me closer, his scent flooding me—leather, smoke, and that raw edge of him that’s branded into my skin. “How the hell did he—”
“Photos,” I cut in, voice low, pulling the crumpled alley shot from my pocket and shoving it into his hand. “He had me followed—the alley, us together. Saw everything. Gave me an ultimatum: kill you to prove my loyalty, or I’m out—disowned, nothing left of me in this family.”
He unfolds it, staring at the grainy image and curses, low and harsh, a guttural “Fuck” that echoes in the dim space.
He crumples it in his fist, gray eyes flashing back to mine, dark with something between rage and dread.
“My father called me this morning. Same fucking deal—kill you, or I’m dead to him, cut off, no Varela legacy.
They’re closing the trap, Isolde—boxing us in. ”
My stomach lurches, his words a mirror to mine, and I let out a laugh—bitter, jagged, scraping my throat raw—as I lean into him, my forehead pressing against his chest, feeling the hard thud of his heart through his damp shirt. “Trapped—love or legacy, us or them. What the fuck do we do, Azrael?”
He doesn’t answer right away—just slides his hand to the back of my neck, fingers curling into my hair, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
His eyes blaze into mine, gray storms swirling with a fire that’s kept me tethered since that first night in Venice.
“Love,” he growls, voice low and fierce, his thumb brushing my lower lip, rough and possessive, sending a shiver down my spine despite the weight crushing me.
“We’ve got Salucci to stop—this war’s bigger than their petty ultimatums. But this—” His grip tightens, pulling me closer, close enough to feel his breath, warm against the chill seeping through the walls.
“This doesn’t end. Not for them, not for anyone. ”