ISABELLA

Chapter 47

I strode around the car first, opening her door with precise, controlled movements. My hand brushed hers as she stepped out, guiding her firmly but gently. I could see Matteo and the other guards behind us, scanning the area, but I didn’t leave anything to chance.

One man, no doubt, dressed in his expensive suit—was shamelessly staring at her as she moved. I didn’t need words. My eyes met his, cold and lethal. In Italian, I muttered low enough for only him to hear:

“Se osi guardarla ancora… ti strappo gli occhi.”

(If you dare look at her again… I will rip your eyes out.)

He blinked once, then quickly looked away, and I allowed myself a single breath.

Inside, the lights glinted off the polished floors, and heads turned as we walked through the grand entrance. I could feel the heat of their stares on her, and I gritted my teeth. Every man in this room was staring, some polite, some bold—but none of them would touch her. Not while I was here. Not while she was mine.

I guided her toward the table in the private room, my hand briefly brushing the small of her back. Her pulse was rapid, I could feel it through the thin fabric, and the soft curve of her neck made my restraint feel like it was wearing thin.

Matteo and the guards took their positions discreetly behind us, still scanning. I didn’t need them to protect her from strangers—they weren’t the threat. Not the way my own desire could become a danger if she didn’t understand just how much I wanted to keep her close.

I leaned slightly toward her ear as we passed another table where men were clearly staring. “Do not look at anyone but me,” I murmured, my voice low, dangerous.

Her breath hitched. A tiny shiver ran through her, and I knew she felt it—the tension, the heat, the ownership. And I could feel it building in me, the slow burn that refused to be ignored.

We reached our seats. I pulled her chair out for her, the faintest smirk tugging at my lips.

She sat, her hands folded delicately on her lap, the soft glow of the chandelier highlighting her beauty. I let my eyes linger, possessive, protective, and utterly consumed.

The door opened.

Dante Moretti. My blood ran cold instantly, my grip on Isabella’s hand tightening without conscious thought. I felt the heat of my anger spike, every muscle in my body coiling like a predator.

Isabella froze beside me. Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly. I could feel her tension, mirrored in the grip of her hand within mine.

Dante’s eyes locked onto hers first. A smile crept across his face—smug, infuriating, cocky.

“Isabella… it’s been a long time,” he said smoothly, taking a step closer. “How have you been? And… why did you block me everywhere?”

“Enough,” I said coldly, my voice low, dangerous. “This is not the time—or place—for that conversation. We’re here for business, Dante. Not personal history.”

His smile faltered slightly, but only for a heartbeat. He tilted his head, eyes still lingering on Isabella as if measuring every detail. “Business, huh? I see. You’ve moved on… well.”

I pressed my lips into a thin line, refusing to let him bait me. I knew what he wanted: a reaction, any hint of weakness, or a chance to touch her—any chance to cross that line.

“You are here to negotiate a deal,” I continued, my Italian sharp and controlled. “Nothing else. Keep your eyes, your words, and your hands where they belong. Understood?”

Dante chuckled, but it was low and humorless. “Understood… for now,” he said, and finally allowed his gaze to lift from her.

I exhaled quietly, still holding her hand firmly, guiding her slightly as he approached the table. She was trembling a fraction, but the fear was mingled with relief—she understood I was there to protect her.

I leaned closer, whispering just for her to hear, “Do not speak to him. Not a word. You stay quiet, stay still, and I promise—nothing will happen to you.”

Her eyes met mine, gratitude shining, and I could feel that unspoken trust sparking between us. That trust made me even more dangerous, more possessive, more determined to ensure she remained untouchable tonight.

Business had to come first. Dante may have wanted to play with emotions, to stir chaos, but he wouldn’t touch her—not while I was here.

And that, I reminded myself, was a promise I would keep at any cost.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

The discussion had begun smoothly—or as smoothly as a mafia negotiation ever could. Numbers, shipments, territories, and profits were laid out, each word measured, each gesture calculated. I could feel the weight of the room pressing down on me, but my focus never wavered from Isabella.

Dante, predictably, tried to shift the conversation. He leaned slightly forward, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “So… tell me, Isabella,” he said, voice deceptively casual, “how did you meet our mutual friend here?”

I immediately felt the tension tighten in my chest. My grip on her hand under the table went uncomfortably firm, a silent reminder that no one—not even Dante—was allowed to cross that line.

Isabella’s eyes darted toward me, and I gave a subtle nod: Stay calm. Don’t answer him.

But Dante persisted, his voice smooth and coaxing, as if he thought charm could dismantle my control. “Come on… it’s a story I’d like to hear. Surely it can’t be that boring?”

She opened her mouth, hesitated, and then quietly said, “I… I need to use the restroom.”

Perfect. A graceful exit. My eyes flicked toward Matteo, stationed discreetly nearby, and I gave the faintest signal. One of my men would follow her.

I watched her rise gracefully, the light in her movements belying the tension in her shoulders. She was mine to guard, and I wouldn’t allow any foolish curiosity to threaten her—not tonight.

Dante, for once, didn’t notice the signal. Or perhaps he did, but he was too busy pretending the negotiation wasn’t interrupted. Either way, he wouldn’t get another chance to toy with her.

Isabella had stepped away, and the room seemed to shrink without her presence. My eyes never left the door, watching every movement, every shadow—ready to intervene if anyone so much as dared to move toward her.

Dante, ever smooth, leaned back slightly in his chair, swirling the glass in his hand with a casual air. But I could see the wheels turning behind those sharp eyes.

“So,” he said, voice deceptively light, “since Isabella isn’t here… perhaps Leo can enlighten me. How did the two of you meet?”

I felt a flicker of irritation, sharp and cold. My grip on the edge of the table tightened imperceptibly. The question wasn’t about business. It was about control, about testing boundaries, about trying to get under my skin.

I met Dante’s gaze evenly, my voice calm but carrying an unmistakable weight. “That’s irrelevant to the negotiation,” I said, low, precise. “We’re here to discuss business, not personal history. You’d do well to focus on what matters, Dante.”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it—just a calculated flicker of challenge. “Ah, but you see, Leo… personal history often explains business decisions. And when your associate is… well, someone I happen to know…” His eyes glinted, deliberately making the connection, “I find it… interesting.”

I didn’t flinch. I leaned slightly forward, my voice dropping into an edge colder than steel. “Your interest doesn’t change the facts. We are negotiating a deal. Stick to that. You will not manipulate my focus or mine on anyone else in this room. Understand?”

Dante chuckled lightly, raising his hands as though conceding, but I could see it in his eyes—he was noting every detail, watching, plotting. That was fine. He could watch all he wanted. But he would not touch her. Not my Isabella.