Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Isabella
My eyes snap open to a ray of sunlight that spears through the curtains.
Pain hits me before I even remember. My hips feel bruised from how tightly he gripped me. And the ache between my legs. It’s not a whisper of him. It’s a fucking brand.
I close my eyes and let it hit me.
He didn’t fuck me slowly or build it up to anything sweet.
He took what he wanted, through every filthy word he muttered between gritted teeth that still echoes in my mind.
I let him. No worse than that, I wanted it.
I clawed at him and begged for it, even when I pretended I wasn’t.
I felt every thrust in my bones. I feel them still.
I roll onto my side and freeze.
His side of the bed is empty—the kind that shows he didn’t just slip out for water. He’s been gone long enough for the sheets to forget him. Long enough for me to realize how fucking stupid I am for noticing.
What did I really expect? That Lorenzo De Luca would stay?
That he’d kiss my shoulder, wrap an arm around me, pull me into his chest, and whisper things into my ear that didn’t sound like war because I mattered to him.
He’s not a man who stays or a man who comforts. He’s a calculated weapon in an Armani suit. My supposed husband. We don’t make love, we fuck, we burn. And last night, we burned the whole damn room down together.
I push up on shaky elbows and hiss as pain shoots up my spine. I don’t even want to look in the mirror. I already know what I’ll see—bruises shaped like his hands, a mouth swollen from his kiss, and my inner thighs in red and purple. Proof that he was there and I let him ruin me.
But the worst part is... I loved every second of it.
My fingers trace the bite mark on my collarbone as I breathe through the twist in my gut.
Shame’s a fucking bitch. It sits beside pleasure and doesn’t flinch.
Because what does that make me? A girl who gets off on the roughness.
Who craves the control he takes without asking.
Who fucking liked being broken open and filled again and again until I forgot who I was.
I close my eyes.
Ethan would never have touched me like that.
He was soft kisses, careful touches, and the whispers of “I love you” against my lips. He was patient—the kind of boy you give your heart to because you know he’ll hold it gently.
Lorenzo isn’t soft nor will he ever be. He’s all brute force and unspoken rules. The kind of guy who fucks like he’s punishing me for something I haven’t done yet.
I reach for his side of the bed again.
“Fucking idiot,” I mutter to myself. I hate that a twisted part of me was hoping he’d still be here.
I sit up, wincing, my skin rubbed raw. My thighs ache, and my ribs burn. There’s a deep purple bruise on the inside of my thigh.
He fucking branded me, stamped me like I’m his property.
My eyes flick to the foot of the bed where two bags sit.
They weren’t there before when I was half-naked and completely exhausted. When I collapsed onto this mattress hours ago, with Lorenzo’s fingerprints still burned onto my skin, my thighs sticky with the memory of what we did.
So, that means someone came in here while I was asleep.
A sharp surge of anger builds in my throat.
“Fuck. That.”
I push the sheets off, every inch of my body aching as I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
I don’t give a shit if I’m wearing a De Luca ring now or if Lorenzo’s name is inked on my fucking soul. This world plays dirty, and sleep is when they slit your goddamn throat. Vulnerability isn’t a weakness. It’s an invitation.
And the fact that someone came in here while I was out cold makes my body shiver.
Lorenzo is going to hear about this.
Loudly.
Violently.
Maybe with broken dishes.
One bag is matte black leather, sleek and luxurious. The other’s a soft, casual duffle.
I grab the leather bag first and unzip it. Inside are rows of neatly folded clothes—silk, cashmere, tailored blouses, fuck-me heels, and high-end lingerie still in tissue paper.
There’s a black dress with tags I don’t recognize, probably stitched by someone’s mistress in Milan.
I lift it out. It’s so soft it drips between my fingers.
Beneath that, I find a deep red dress that looks like it was made for public sex, and a matching set of lingerie that screams “fuck me now” louder than I ever could.
I turn to the second bag.
It contains something entirely different: stretchy tights, designer jeans, crop tops, soft T-shirts in charcoal and black, a couple of hoodies, and even a sports bra that’s somehow exactly the one I’d choose if I had the luxury to pick. Comfortable underwear.
None of it belongs to me. But whoever chose this has good taste.
I’d packed three bags to bring with me, but in all the chaos of last night, they never made it here.
We lasted an hour after the ceremony.
One. Fucking. Hour.
After the little stunt I pulled off standing in front of a thousand Serrano eyes in a black funeral dress, ripping their sacred traditions to shreds, my father was foaming at the mouth. The kind that promises blood later.
Lorenzo was finished with the performance. He took my hand and pulled me toward the front doors. One command. “We’re leaving.” No arguments. No debate. When my father stepped in his way and questioned him, Lorenzo shut it down cold.
The room went quiet.
Men who had been laughing minutes earlier suddenly remembered how to hold their breath. Every soldier was on high alert. My father stood there, with his eyes blazing, unable to do a damn thing about it. And Lorenzo simply walked me out anyway.
I grab a pair of black tights from the bag, a cropped tank top, and a zip-up hoodie soft enough to feel stolen. I don’t bother folding anything. I just take what I need and go.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me.
I step into the warm water and let it wash over my skin, cleansing away the sweat, the mess, and all the noise in my mind. I reach for the body wash on the ledge without thinking. The scent hits me instantly. It’s unmistakably him. Lorenzo.
I scrub myself down with it, slower than I intend, annoyed by how much I like that the scent lingers. As if he’s still here. As if I didn’t wake up alone.
I shut the water off before I overthink it and quickly get dressed. I run my fingers through my wet hair before pinning it up and heading for the door. I’m not hiding in this room. If this is my life now, I’ll face it head-on.
I pad barefoot through the house, the silence swallowing each step.
The hallway seems endless, adorned with large paintings. Everything shines with a sense of old wealth and carefully cultivated influence.
The kitchen is a gallery by itself. Sleek, sterile, and so spotless it could be a showroom.
At the kitchen island stands a man—mid-forties, broad shoulders, dark hair silvering at the temples, a pressed white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
An apron is tied around his waist. His stance is military-like, and the way he uses the knife is surgical.
Upon hearing my approach, a smile spreads across his face.
“Signora,” he says, and there’s warmth in his voice. “I’m Carlo. Lorenzo said you’d be joining us.”
Us.
I arch an eyebrow and glance around.
“And where is his royal highness?”
“He had business to attend to.” Carlo gestures toward the stool. “Breakfast?”
I glance at the spread already laid out for me.
Soft and creamy scrambled eggs, a grilled tomato sliced perfectly and charred at the edges, ribbons of paper-thin prosciutto that glisten with fat, and two slices of thick-cut sourdough toasted to a golden brown. My stomach growls.
“I guess,” I mutter, sliding onto the stool, trying not to look too eager.
Carlo pours the coffee without asking and places the cup in front of me.
I take a sip, expecting it to be wrong—either too bitter or too sweet—but it’s perfect. Just the way I like it.
I watch him over the rim of the mug, wary. “So, do I get a rundown of the rules around here? Or is this one of those figure-it-out-yourself kind of prisons?”
He chuckles softly. “This is not a prison, Signora.”
“Then why does it feel like one?”
He doesn’t answer.
I dig into the hot, buttery eggs, with just the right touch of salt.
Carlo props himself against the counter, watching me eat like I’m a puzzle he’s halfway through solving.
“So, you want a tour of the house,” he finally asks. “Or would you rather find your own way around?”
I swallow. “I’m fine. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You’re not supposed to do anything,” he says simply, pushing off the bench. “Except breathe. I’ve worked for the De Luca family a long time. Mr. Lorenzo looks after those he cares about.”
I pause, my fork hanging halfway to my mouth. “He doesn’t care about me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“No,” I say quietly. “I’m here because of a contract. I’m basically a transaction. A name signed under his to lock in an empire. That’s all I am to him.”
Carlo’s smile softens. “I’ve known Mr. Lorenzo most of his life. He doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to. Not in business. And definitely not when it comes to women. Enjoy your breakfast, Signora.”
He wanders off, whistling softly, the sound strangely out of place in a house built to intimidate.
I finish eating at my own pace. Let the food sit heavily in my stomach. Sip the last of the coffee and feel the warmth spread, grounding me. I try to let my body relax into the space, to pretend this is just another morning. But it isn’t.
My eyes never stop moving—corners, doorways, windows, reflections in polished stone. I effortlessly catalog every exit and count the blind spots. Old habits don’t die in a world like this.
I set the empty cup down before standing.
Time to explore.