Chapter Twelve
The evening was a careful performance, a waltz of power and deception played out in the grand ballroom of the DeLuca villa. Isla had expected as much. These events were never just about celebration—they were about control, about shifting alliances, about proving who held dominance over the room. And tonight, Matteo owned every glance, every whispered conversation, every ounce of fear woven into the air.
But Isla refused to be just another piece in his game.
She had played her part all night, the perfect wife with the perfect smile. Yet beneath the surface, rebellion simmered. Perhaps it was the way Matteo had touched her earlier, a possessive brush of his fingers at her waist, a silent warning. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, no matter how much control he wielded, she could still push him.
And so she did.
The music shifted to something slower, sultry. Couples moved onto the dance floor, bodies pressed close, whispering secrets between the notes of the melody. Isla didn’t wait for Matteo to offer. Instead, she turned toward Luca, his ever-present smirk lighting up as she extended a hand.
“Dance with me?” she asked, her voice lilting, teasing.
Luca hesitated, flicking his gaze toward Matteo across the room. But when Isla arched a brow, challenging him, he took her hand.
The moment she stepped into his arms, she felt the shift in the air. A heat on her back. Matteo was watching. She could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy, dangerous. Still, she let Luca lead her, let his hands settle lightly at her waist, let herself laugh softly at whatever charming quip he offered.
It was a game. And she was playing to win.
“You like trouble, don’t you?” Luca murmured, guiding her across the floor with smooth confidence.
Isla let her lips curve into a smirk. “I like reminding certain people that I’m not a possession.”
Luca chuckled, but there was an edge of wariness in his expression. “Careful, sweetheart. Matteo doesn’t like to be reminded of things he already knows.”
As if summoned, Matteo moved.
He was on them in an instant, his presence slicing through the space like a blade. Without a word, he took Isla’s wrist and pulled her from Luca’s grasp, his movements controlled, measured—but beneath them, a storm raged.
“Enough,” he murmured, his voice low, possessive.
Luca raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk never quite fading. “She asked me, boss.”
Matteo didn’t respond. His hand was already guiding Isla onto the dance floor, his grip firm, his body close. He didn’t just lead—he commanded, forcing her to follow. His palm pressed against the small of her back, his fingers splayed over the silk of her dress, possessive, warning.
“Jealous?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Matteo’s dark gaze burned into hers. “Careful, wife.”
She tilted her head, a smirk dancing at her lips. “Or what?”
His fingers tightened slightly, sending a shiver up her spine. “Or I’ll remind you who you belong to.”
The words should have enraged her. Instead, they sent heat curling low in her stomach. She swallowed hard, but Matteo saw it—saw the way her breath stuttered, the way her pulse betrayed her.
The dance continued, their movements slow, deliberate. Each step was a battle neither of them wanted to win.
Then he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Do you like tempting me, Isla?”
She exhaled sharply, her fingers gripping his shoulder tighter. “I like reminding you that you don’t own me.”
Matteo’s hand at her back shifted lower, the touch burning through the silk of her dress. “Then why do you let me touch you?”
Her lips parted, but no words came. She didn’t have an answer, not one she wanted to admit. The pulse between them thrummed with something raw, something dangerous. She could see it in his eyes—the restraint, the battle between possessiveness and control.
The song began to fade, the final notes lingering in the air. Matteo’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, he held her for a fraction longer, just enough to remind her of the pull between them.
Then, with a calculated slowness, he released her, stepping back, but not before whispering, “Be careful, wife. Games like this have consequences.”
She watched him walk away, her heart hammering against her ribs, her body still humming from his touch.
And for the first time, she wondered if she had underestimated just how dangerous Matteo DeLuca could be.
****
But the night wasn’t over.
As the hours passed, Isla found herself circling the ballroom, exchanging pleasantries with people who knew exactly who she was, yet pretended otherwise. She danced with men who sought to test the limits of Matteo’s claim, men who wanted to see if the Marino girl would stray.
And Matteo watched.
Every step, every glance, every calculated smile. She could feel his eyes burning into her, the tension between them coiling tighter with every passing moment.
Then, it happened.
A man—tall, charming, dangerous in his own way—reached for her waist as they danced. His touch was light, playful. A challenge. Isla knew what he was doing. And she let it happen.
Matteo didn’t.
One second, she was in the man’s arms, the next, she was yanked away, her back colliding with Matteo’s chest as his arm wrapped around her waist. The room seemed to still, the weight of his fury thick in the air.
The man smirked. “Protective, aren’t we?”
Matteo’s grip tightened. “Careless.”
The man’s amusement flickered into something closer to unease. Matteo didn’t need to raise his voice. His presence alone was enough to make even the boldest men rethink their choices.
Isla could hear the thrum of his heartbeat against her back, steady but fierce. His lips brushed her ear, his voice meant for her alone. “You’re playing with fire, wife.”
She turned her head slightly, enough to catch his gaze. “Maybe I like the burn.”
Matteo exhaled sharply, then, without warning, spun her fully into his arms and crushed his lips to hers.
Gasps rippled through the room, but Isla barely registered them. Matteo kissed her like a warning, like a brand—like he was staking his claim in front of an audience that didn’t need the reminder.
And the worst part?
She kissed him back.
When he finally pulled away, his thumb brushed her swollen lips, his expression dark and triumphant. “Mine,” he murmured.
Isla should have corrected him.
She should have slapped him, stormed away, something—anything.
But instead, she just stood there, breathless, the taste of him still lingering.
Because for the first time, she didn’t know if she hated it at all.