Chapter Twenty
The war had barely settled when Isla found herself pacing the confines of Matteo’s study, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and fury. Blood still stained her hands—both her own and from the battle she had just fought beside Matteo. But the deeper wound was the one she had yet to confront.
The truth had come to her like a whisper carried on the wind. She hadn’t gone looking for it, but it had found her all the same.
After the last shots had faded, after the bodies had been dragged from the villa grounds, Isla had slipped away from the chaos to breathe, to process. She had needed a moment away from Matteo, away from the weight of the war she had unexpectedly become a part of.
That was when she had heard them.
Two of Matteo’s men stood just beyond the main hall, speaking in low voices, unaware of her presence. Isla had ducked behind one of the grand marble pillars, her pulse hammering, something in their hushed tones stopping her in her tracks.
"It’s done," one of them said. "The cartel was never supposed to win that fight. It was just to send a message."
"A message?" the second man scoffed. "Seems excessive."
The first man let out a low chuckle. "It was never about the fight. It was about her. Her father never meant for her to survive this marriage. He sent them after her."
Isla’s stomach twisted violently.
"So the old man wanted his own daughter dead?"
"He wanted her gone, but cleanly. If she had died in the crossfire, it would’ve solved his problem. Matteo marrying her was never about peace. It was about getting rid of her without making it look like he pulled the trigger."
"Matteo agreed to this?" the second man asked, his tone more skeptical now.
The first man hesitated. "He played along. But now? Now I’m not so sure he’s following the plan."
Isla had to press a hand to her mouth to stop the gasp that threatened to escape. The walls of her world, already fragile, crumbled entirely in that moment.
Her father had planned for her to die.
The marriage, the pretense of protection—it had all been a lie. And Matteo… he had known. He had known and said nothing.
A sudden surge of nausea hit her, and she forced herself to move, to slip away before they could sense her presence. The hallway spun as she fled, her breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. She needed to find Matteo.
She needed the truth from his mouth.
Now, pacing the study, she felt the storm brewing inside her, fury coiling tight, ready to strike. When the doors swung open, Matteo stepping inside with the weight of the battlefield still clinging to him, she didn’t hesitate.
"What did you do?" she demanded, her voice trembling with rage.
Matteo’s brows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
She slammed a hand against the desk, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot. "Don’t lie to me. I know. I know everything. My father—" Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out. "He wanted me dead."
Matteo’s expression didn’t shift. That was the worst part. He wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t confused. He already knew.
Isla took a staggering step backward, bile rising in her throat. "You knew."
"It wasn’t the right time to tell you," he said, his voice too measured, too controlled.
She let out a bitter laugh, one that tasted like venom. "The right time? When, Matteo? After I was buried in the ground? After you finished playing the dutiful husband to a corpse?"
His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "I wasn’t going to let that happen."
"And I was supposed to just trust you on that?" Her voice cracked, raw and exposed. "You, the man who kept me caged in this house? The man who didn’t even have the decency to tell me I was nothing more than a pawn in my father’s game?"
Matteo took a step forward, but she raised a hand, stopping him. "Don’t. Don’t come near me."
His gaze darkened, something dangerous flickering beneath the surface. "Isla—"
"No," she snapped. "I killed for you today. I stood beside you, fought beside you, thinking I was finally free. And all along, I was just walking toward my own execution."
Silence hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Matteo’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his entire body taut with restraint. "I was never going to let them touch you."
"Then why didn’t you tell me?" she whispered, voice hoarse with betrayal.
For the first time, something cracked in Matteo’s expression—something almost like regret. "Because I needed you to stay."
Isla stared at him, the weight of his words crushing the last remnants of whatever trust had been left between them.
She had fought so hard not to be a pawn. And yet, here she was.
Checkmate.
****
Matteo exhaled, dragging a hand down his face as Isla turned from him, as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him. It was the first time she had looked at him with something more than defiance—something more than hatred. It was betrayal. True, deep betrayal.
He had expected her fury, had prepared for it. But what he hadn’t prepared for was the way it made his chest tighten, as if she had managed to find the one weak spot he had never let anyone touch.
She laughed again, but this time, it was softer, colder. "You needed me to stay? And what about what I needed, Matteo? Did you ever think about that? Or was I just another part of your empire, another piece to keep in place?"
Matteo clenched his jaw. "You were never just a piece."
"Then what was I?" she challenged, stepping forward. "Because it sure as hell wasn’t your wife."
He had no answer.
And that, more than anything, was what destroyed her.