ISABELLA

Chapter 15

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The concrete steps echoed under my boots as I descended into the basement, the air thick with the coppery smell of blood. Dim lights hung from the ceiling, casting jagged shadows across the walls, shadows that danced with the pulse of the fluorescent bulbs.

I reached the bottom and stopped. Matteo was there, calm, silent, his eyes locked on mine.

“Ready?” I asked, my voice low, lethal.

“Yes,” Matteo replied, single word sharp as a blade. His posture was rigid, controlled, prepared.

I scanned the room. My men were stationed at intervals, silent, like statues made of muscle and menace. Their presence alone made the man’s pitiful attempts at composure crumble.

And there he was. The man who had dared to touch Isabella. Tied to a chair, ropes cutting into his skin, blood dripping from multiple wounds, some still oozing from shallow gashes, others darker and deeper. The floor beneath him was slick, a grim reflection of the chaos he’d caused.

He noticed me then. His eyes widened, fear twisting every line of his face. A desperate, tremulous apology spilled from his lips.

“I… I didn’t know… I didn’t mean—”

I stepped forward, boots echoing on the concrete, each movement deliberate. I didn’t break eye contact. His eyes darted to my men, then to Matteo, then back to me. The apology faltered under the weight of his terror.

I drew my gun slowly, deliberately, letting him see the cold steel gleam under the harsh light. His gaze followed it as I pressed the barrel against the wound on his leg—one of the many inflicted earlier through Matteo’s precision. Pain lanced through him immediately, his body jerking involuntarily. He screamed, a raw, high-pitched sound that cut through the basement air.

“Do you understand now?” I asked, voice calm but sharp, each word measured. “Do you understand the consequences of what you did? Do you understand why you’re here?”

His voice trembled as he stammered, “I… I said I was sorry! I didn’t… I didn’t know it would—”

I let him finish, then leaned in slightly, the gun still pressed against the wound. I could smell the fear radiating off him, taste it in the metallic tang of blood.

“Sorry doesn’t bring her back from that fear,” I said, my tone cold, controlled. “Sorry doesn’t erase what you tried to do. You think begging makes a difference?”

He whimpered, his forehead slick with sweat, blood streaked across his face. “Please… please…”

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t hesitate. I pressed slightly more, just enough for him to feel the inevitability, the absolute power I held. His screams grew louder, raw and desperate.

“You should’ve stayed away,” I said, almost conversationally, my eyes never leaving his. “You should’ve kept your hands to yourself. But you didn’t. And now…”

I squeezed the trigger. The sound was deafening in the concrete room, echoing off the walls like a grim announcement. His body convulsed once, violently, then sagged against the ropes, lifeless. The screams ceased, leaving only the dripping of blood and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights above.

I stood over him for a moment, watching, breathing, letting the weight of what had been done settle. My men didn’t move, didn’t speak. Matteo’s eyes met mine once, acknowledgment of precision and resolve.

No one would ever dare touch Isabella again. No one.

The room was silent now, save for the slow drip of blood hitting the floor, a stark, grim reminder of the cost of crossing me.

I holstered my gun and turned to Matteo. “Clean it up,” I said, voice flat. “Make sure there’s nothing left to track him by. Nothing.”

“Yes, sir,” Matteo replied, already moving, methodical as always.

I stepped back, letting the room breathe, letting the finality sink in. This was protection. This was justice. This was warning to anyone foolish enough to ever think they could harm her.

And in the quiet, I allowed myself a single thought: Isabella would never have to be afraid—not while I was breathing.

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I sat at the edge of the bed, shirt discarded, the faint glow of the lamp outlining the scars across my chest. My mind was still restless, haunted by Isabella’s wide eyes, her fear, her trembling hands. That man’s face—his screams—still clung to me like smoke.

A soft knock came at the door. I didn’t answer.

The door opened anyway.

She walked in—one of the maids, dressed in a way that was anything but professional. Silk clung to her frame, each step slow, deliberate, as if she knew exactly the effect she carried.

Her gaze fell on me immediately. Bare-chested, brooding, unapproachable. That never seemed to stop her before.

Without hesitation, she crossed the room, her heels clicking lightly on the polished floor until she stood in front of me. Her hand, cool and soft, pressed against my chest, trailing over the hard lines of muscle.

“What happened tonight?” she asked, voice low, teasing but careful, like she wanted to pry into my darkness but wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to vent. Words were meaningless.

So instead, I caught her wrist, holding it firmly against my chest, and pulled her closer. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t resist.

I crushed my mouth against hers in a rough, demanding kiss—sharp, consuming, nothing tender about it. It wasn’t about her. It wasn’t about comfort. It was about silence. About distraction. About burying the rage still clawing at me.

She melted into it, as she always did, but I kept control—every movement mine, every second a reminder that this was not her moment. It was mine. My choice. My escape.

For a fleeting instant, the noise in my head quieted, the ghost of Isabella’s fear replaced by fire and dominance. But even as I kissed her, hard and unforgiving, I knew the truth: this wasn’t what I wanted. Not really.

I gripped her waist, tossing her onto the bed with a force that made the mattress bounce beneath her. My plan had been to take it slow, to go gently—but the sight of her beneath me shattered that resolve.

With a swift motion, I tore her pants away, my restraint snapping. I drove into her hard, making her cry out.

“Ahhh… Leo!” she moaned, her voice breaking with every thrust.

The sound only fueled me. I quickened my pace, each movement rougher than the last, her cries filling the room. I knew she was hurting—I could see it in the way her fingers clawed at the sheets, hear it in the tremor of her voice—but I didn’t stop.

“Leo… it hurts… go slow, please,” she begged, breathless, her words tangled between moans and gasps.

I grabbed her by the waist and dragged her back against me, the sound of her breathless moans already echoing in my ears. Her body was hot, trembling, begging without words. I pushed her down, spreading her wide beneath me, and without hesitation, I lifted her legs high, pressing them tightly against her chest.

With that angle, I slammed into her—deep, hard, relentless. Each thrust shook the bed, her cries bouncing off the walls. My grip tightened as I buried myself inside her again and again, lost in the raw rhythm.

But even then—Isabella filled my mind. I saw her face instead. The softness of her lips, the way her eyes would widen under me. My chest tightened at the thought. If it were her… I swear I’d go slower, softer, gentler. But right now, with this woman under me, all I knew was hunger.

“Ughhh… f**k… Leo… I’m gonna c*m,” she moaned, her voice cracking under the weight of it.

“Do it,” I growled into her ear, my pace never faltering.