His To Ruin, Hers To Keep

The gunfire shattered the night, and Isabella Romano realized too late that her world was not as untouchable as she had believed. The Romano estate had always felt like a gilded cage. Marble floors, chandeliers dripping with crystal, velvet curtains heavy enough to silence the outside world—every corner whispered of wealth, power, and fear. To outsiders, it was a palace; to Isabella, it was a prison. She had grown up with bodyguards at her side, rules dictating every move, and her father’s voice echoing through her head: A Romano does not bend. A Romano does not fall. And above all, a Romano does not love outside the family. But tonight, the illusion of safety had cracked. The party was supposed to be a celebration—her father hosting allies and enemies alike, dressed in fine suits and false smiles. Isabella played the perfect daughter, draped in a crimson gown that matched the wine in her glass. She smiled when expected, spoke only when spoken to, and kept her secrets locked behind painted lips. Until the shots rang out. The glass slipped from her hand and shattered against the floor, red wine pooling like blood. Panic erupted in the grand hall. Guests screamed, tables overturned, and guards rushed to shield their boss. Isabella froze for a heartbeat—then felt a rough hand grab her arm. “Move,” a voice commanded, low and steady. She spun, meeting the dark eyes of Matteo DeLuca. The man her father trusted more than most. The man who had always been a shadow in the corner, silent, watchful, dangerous. The man she was never supposed to notice—yet somehow always did. He pulled her toward the side doors as chaos spread behind them. Bullets cracked the marble pillars. Somewhere in the distance, someone shouted her name. “Stay down,” Matteo growled, pushing her against the wall as a bodyguard fell with a bullet in his throat. Blood sprayed the marble. Isabella’s heart hammered as she pressed herself into the cold stone, her silk gown whispering with every frantic breath. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Attacks didn’t happen here. Her father was untouchable. The Romano estate was sacred ground. And yet—someone had dared. Matteo’s g*n was in his hand now, movements precise, lethal. He returned fire down the hall, his jaw clenched, his eyes flicking once to her before hardening again. “Don’t look,” he muttered as another man fell. But Isabella couldn’t stop staring. At the blood. At the violence. At him. When the last echo of gunfire faded, Matteo’s hand closed around hers, dragging her toward the servants’ passage. His grip was unyielding, warm, alive. Her breath caught. She should have pulled away—Romano daughters didn’t touch soldiers. But she didn’t. He got her outside, into the cold night air, where black cars idled like sleeping beasts. He opened a door, gesturing for her to get inside. Her father’s guards rushed past them, shouting orders, securing the grounds. The attack was already being buried beneath the Romano machine. By dawn, it would be nothing but a whisper, a rumor drowned in fear. But Isabella would not forget the way Matteo’s hand had felt on hers. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t afraid of the danger. She was afraid of the way her heart had raced when he touched her. Because she knew—if her father ever saw the way she looked at Matteo, he would put a bullet in the man’s chest without hesitation. And yet, as she sat in the car, her pulse still frantic, her eyes lingered on the shadow of him in the doorway. Silent. Watchful. Dangerous. She thought of his voice—“Move.” Not a request. A command. A lifeline. Something inside her shifted. She would never be free of her family. Never escape the chains of her name. But maybe… just maybe… there were other kinds of freedom. The kind whispered in the dark. The kind that burned even when f*******n. And as the car doors shut around her, Isabella realized with a shiver of dread and desire that she had just taken the first step into a fire she could never walk away from.