Chapter 18
ISABELLA
T he light above the vanity cast a soft, golden glow across the suite, but I barely saw it. My eyes were fixed on the mirror, on the reflection staring back at me, unblinking.
The dress clung to me like a second skin, black silk molding to my frame, dipping low in the back, the serpent embroidered across it winding around my ribs with a single red thread looped through its eye. It was elegant—dangerously so. And somehow, it felt like armor.
I lifted my hand, fingers brushing along the curve of my neck the air felt heavier tonight. Everything did.
Behind me, Kellan sat in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. He hadn’t said much in the last ten minutes. But his silence was louder than anything.
Ash was by the window, leaning on the frame with a scowl that hadn’t moved since I walked out of the bathroom.
“You really gonna go with him looking like that?” Kellan finally asked, voice low and irritated.
I didn’t look away from the mirror. “Yes.”
“He didn’t even tell us what this gathering is about,” Ash added. “You know that, right? You’re walking blind into a den of men who want your ‘boyfriend’s’ head on a spike.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snapped, the word slicing out sharper than I intended.
Kellan scoffed. “You sure about that?”
I turned then, just enough to meet his gaze over my shoulder. “This isn’t about Rafael. This is about getting answers. You know that.”
Ash pushed off the wall, his expression hard. “And if those answers cost you everything?”
I didn’t answer right away. My hand moved to where the small bruise was on my wrist—faded now, but not gone. Neither were the memories tied to it.
“I’m not a child,” I said quietly. “I knew what I was doing when I stepped into his world.”
“And yet here we are, watching you walk off into a lion’s mouth without us,” Kellan muttered.
I turned fully now, facing them both. “You’re not going because you’d make it worse. You’d draw too much attention.”
“And Rafael won’t?” Ash challenged. “He’s already on thin ice with the Italians. Now he’s showing up with you on his arm?”
I didn’t flinch. “Exactly.”
They didn’t respond. They didn’t need to.
I turned back to the mirror, adjusting the strap of the dress.
My hair was pulled into a soft, elegant updo, pieces curled perfectly around my face.
The makeup was darker than I usually wore—smoky eyes, wine-red lips—but it fit.
Tonight wasn’t about blending in. It was about power.
And I needed to look like I belonged beside Rafael Romanov.
Even if half of Italy wanted him dead.
I reached for my clutch, slipping the pendant inside, the cool metal brushing against my fingers.
The knock at the door was sharp. Three quick raps. Kellan moved before I could, peering through the peephole and then opening the door without a word.
Rafael stood there, dressed in all black, his jacket tailored to his frame, dark shirt open at the collar. His eyes found mine instantly.
And he didn’t look away.
My pulse quickened. He didn’t say anything—not yet. Just looked. And that was enough.
Kellan stepped back without a word. Ash didn’t move at all. I crossed the room slowly, letting my heels echo against the marble, and when I reached Rafael, I tilted my chin up and looked him in the eyes.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice rough and quiet.
I nodded once, the fire in my chest steady and unshakable.
“Then let’s go,” he said.
And I stepped out of the suite without looking back.
The soft click of the door closing behind us echoed too loud in my chest. The hallway stretched before us, but I barely felt the marble beneath my heels—just the heat of Rafael’s presence beside me, the silence crackling like static between us.
His hand brushed my lower back, featherlight, barely there. Yet the gesture lit something low and warm in my stomach.
“You look…” He paused, eyes sweeping over me slowly, deliberately. “Like danger dressed in silk.”
I glanced up at him, my lips twitching. “And you look like the kind of danger people run from.”
His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. “They usually should.”
We reached the elevator, the doors sliding open with a whisper. As we stepped in, silence settled again—familiar now. Comfortable in its tension.
The elevator chimed and opened on the ground floor. Waiting by the entrance were Nikolai and Yuri, both dressed sharply in dark suits, their presence impossible to ignore.
Yuri gave a long, low whistle. “Damn, bella . You sure this gathering’s not in your honor?”
I rolled my eyes, but my lips betrayed me with a hint of a smile. “Don’t be jealous I clean up better than you.”
“Please,” he grinned, “I was born cleaned up.”
Nikolai, as always, was quieter. His eyes flicked between Rafael and me before settling ahead. “Let’s just keep it simple tonight. No bodies. No blood. We don’t need fireworks in Italy.”
“No promises,” Rafael said under his breath.
We stepped outside, the air thick with the warmth of the night. A black car waited at the curb, sleek and polished, the kind of luxury that whispered power instead of screamed it.
Rafael opened the back door for me himself, and I slid in, the leather cool against my thighs. He followed, sitting beside me, his thigh brushing mine.
Yuri took the passenger seat, Nikolai behind the wheel.
As the car eased away from the hotel, Naples unfolded outside the window—old, beautiful, haunting. Shadows curled along cobbled alleys, moonlight glinting off domes and old glass.
I turned slightly toward Rafael. “Have you been here before?”
He nodded once. “Business. Years ago. Never stayed long.”
“And tonight?”
He looked at me. “We’ll see.”
I leaned back into the seat, fingers resting on my lap, eyes drifting to the blur of lights passing by. I could feel the tension radiating from all of them—silent, controlled, but tight beneath the surface. Something was waiting at this gathering. I could feel it in my bones.
“Try not to stab anyone tonight, prin?es? ,” Yuri said, glancing back at me with a smirk.
“No promises,” I replied softly, not even looking at him.
Rafael’s low laugh rumbled beside me, and my pulse betrayed me again—quickening, drawn in by the sound even when I didn’t want it to.
I looked forward again, and then I saw it— Villa Cimbrone.
Perched above the coast, it loomed like something out of a gothic dream. Candlelight flickered in its windows, soft and golden, but the air around it felt heavy, charged.
As the car curved toward the gates, my breath caught in my throat.
Showtime.
The car rolled to a smooth stop, the low purr of the engine fading into the hush of the Italian night.
Nikolai shifted into park, glancing back at us once. “We’re here.”
Rafael opened his door first. The moment the night air touched my skin, a different kind of chill sank into me—not cold, just electric, like the city was holding its breath. Then he appeared at my door, tall and composed, one hand extended toward me.
No words. Just him.
I slipped my fingers into his without hesitation. His grip was firm, warm, grounding—not for comfort, but for command.
The gravel crunched softly beneath our feet as we walked toward the entrance of Villa Cimbrone .
I didn’t feel nervous. I should have, maybe.
I was walking into a gathering filled with power, danger, and legacy.
But there was something almost sacred in the way the wind moved through the cypress trees, the way the stars hung heavy in the sky, like they were watching.
I looked up at the building. It was breathtaking.
The villa stood like something pulled from a dream, ancient stone walls veiled in climbing vines, warm light pouring from arched windows.
The grand staircase at the front curved upward like a slow exhale, leading toward tall, carved doors that were already open.
And the people. They were everywhere. Scattered across the sweeping courtyard and inner halls, dressed in tailored suits and silk gowns, voices soft and sharp all at once. Wine glasses shimmered in their hands like weapons. Laughter hovered at the edge of tension.
Every glance was calculating. Every smile had teeth.
I stepped forward with Rafael beside me, our strides in sync, the gravel giving way to smooth stone beneath our feet as we climbed the stairs. My fingers still rested in his, and I didn’t let go.
He leaned closer, his voice low, brushing my ear. “If you’re going to draw blood tonight, do it with your words.”
I smiled faintly. “You just want to see who bleeds first.”
His smirk was barely there, but I felt it.
Inside, the air changed. The ceiling rose impossibly high, adorned with faded frescoes that told stories of gods and monsters.
Chandeliers hung like captured galaxies, casting soft golden light over marble floors and velvet tapestries.
There were flowers—white orchids and blood-red roses—woven through the ironwork and stone, like the villa had dressed itself for war.
And then the people turned. Not all at once, but gradually—eyes drifting toward Rafael, toward me. Some subtle. Others blatant.
A tall man with silver hair and a deep scar across his brow stepped forward, offering Rafael a nod. “Romanov. Glad to see you’re still alive.”
“Much to your disappointment, I’m sure,” Rafael replied evenly.
The man chuckled, then turned to me. “And this must be your… date.”
Rafael’s hand dropped from mine, sliding to my lower back with possessive ease. “Isabella.”
The man looked at me like I was a riddle he hadn’t decided how to solve yet. “You’ve got the kind of eyes that don’t flinch. I’d say that’s rare in rooms like this.”
I held his gaze. “Maybe you’ve just been looking in the wrong rooms.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Keep her close, Romanov.”
“Oh,” Rafael said, voice silk over steel. “I intend to.”
We moved on. More men. Some older, some young. All power in different shapes—measured gazes, slow nods, veiled comments that meant more than they said.