The Heiress Kill

Chapter 3: Isabella

Dante didn’t move. He just kept staring at the door where she’d disappeared, as if tasting her name on his tongue.

“Isabella,” he murmured, like it meant something.

As the door of the trattoria swung shut behind Isabella, the silence at the Moretti table was palpable.

Dante Moretti didn’t speak for several long seconds.

He just sat back in his chair, swirling the deep red wine in his glass, eyes still on the door like it might open again and pull her back to him.

Matteo was the first to break the silence.

“Madonna santa,” he muttered, loosening the collar of his shirt. “She has no idea who you are, does she?”

Mario, older and leaner, shook his head slowly. “No respect, no fear. She called you an old man, D. An old man. And a dick.”

Matteo looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cross himself.

Dante finally set the glass down with a quiet clink. “She stood her ground.”

“She insulted you,” Mario said flatly.

“No.” Dante’s voice was calm. Controlled. Almost amused. “She challenged me. There’s a difference.”

He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together as he stared at the wine bottle in the center of the table, lost in thought.

“She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stutter. That smart mouth of hers… brucia,” he murmured. It burns.

“You think she’s local?” Matteo asked.

“No,” Dante said, already sure. “New to Valnera. Fresh blood. Not connected to any of the old families. Her accent, her clothes… she’s foreign, but not clueless.”

Mario frowned. “You want us to look into her?”

Dante didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his mind flickered back to the moment she shook his hand.

Her skin was soft, but her grip was firm. Her eyes—green, like moss and emerald and sunlight through leaves—didn’t look away from him for a second. There had been no tremble in her voice. No pretense. No simpering. Just raw, unfiltered challenge.

And that mouth.

That sassy, wicked, defiant little mouth. The way she threw the words at him like knives wrapped in honey. Like she didn’t care if she pissed off the most dangerous man in this part of the country—because she didn’t know she had.

It wasn’t just her mouth, though.

Her body had moved like temptation layered in innocence. Slim waist, full hips, legs that promised trouble. Long black hair that tumbled down her back, catching the candlelight.

She’d smelled faintly of something floral when she passed—wild jasmine, maybe.

But it wasn’t just how she looked.

It was the way she made him feel.

A fire. Deep in his chest. Primal. Violent. Alive.

He hadn’t felt that in years.

Since before.

“Her name is Isabella,” he said, mostly to himself.

He leaned back in his chair again; one arm draped casually over the back like a king at court.

“No need to scare her. Yet. Just… watch. Discreetly.”

Mario nodded, already pulling out his phone.

Matteo, however, looked at his boss with something close to caution. “You think she’s a problem?”

Dante’s eyes flicked to him, slow and unreadable. “Maybe. Or maybe…” he paused, then gave the faintest, most dangerous smile, “...she’s the answer to one.”