Chapter 5: Isabella
1367 Words
I couldn’t breathe.
I paced my bedroom, my mind racing. He loved me. Dante Blackwell, ruthless billionaire, suspected criminal, my husband loved me.
It was insane.
It was impossible.
It was… exactly what I was afraid of.
Because somewhere between the wedding and now, I’d started having feelings for him too. Real feelings. The kind that made my stomach flip when he walked into a room. The kind that made me notice the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The kind that made me want to trust him, even though every logical part of my brain screamed that it was a terrible idea.
I sat down on the bed and put my head in my hands.
My phone buzzed. A text from Sofia: How are you doing? Are you okay?
I typed back: Fine. Everything’s fine.
It was a lie, but what else could I say? That I was married to a man who claimed to love me while we investigated his dead father’s criminal empire? That I was starting to have feelings for him? That I was terrified and exhilarated and completely out of my depth?
Another text: Dante said you’re working together. Be careful, Izzy. He’s dangerous.
I know.
Do you? Really? Because he’s the kind of man who gets what he wants. Always.
I stared at that message. Sofia was right. Dante was dangerous. But not in the way she thought.
He was dangerous because he saw me. The real me. Not Sofia’s shadow. Not the boring, practical sister. But Isabella is flawed and fierce and fighting.
And that was more terrifying than any criminal conspiracy.
I changed into workout clothes. If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well do something productive. The gym on the top floor was exactly what I expected state-of-the-art equipment, floor-to-ceiling windows, and absolutely no soul.
But there was a heavy bag in the corner.
I wrapped my hands and started hitting.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Uppercut.
Each punch helped clear my head. This was familiar. Solid. Real.
Unlike everything else in my life right now.
I don’t know how long I worked the bag. Long enough that my arms burned and sweat poured down my back. Long enough that I didn’t hear him come in.
“You’re telegraphing your right hook.”
I spun around. Dante stood in the doorway, wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt. His hair was messy, like he’d just woken up.
“What?”
“Your right hook. You drop your shoulder before you throw it. Anyone who knows what they’re looking for would see it coming.”
“I didn’t ask for coaching.”
“I know. But I’m giving it anyway.” He walked over to the bag. “Hit me with your best combination.”
“I’m not going to hit you.”
“Why not? Afraid you’ll hurt me?”
I almost laughed. Dante had at least seventy pounds of muscle on me. There was no way I could hurt him.
“Fine.”
I threw a combination. Jab, cross, hook.
He caught my hook easily, holding my fist in his hand. “See? You telegraphed it.”
“Then show me how to fix it.”
He moved behind me, adjusting my stance. His hands on my hips, turning them slightly. His chest against my back.
“Power comes from your core,” he said quietly. “Not your arm. You rotate here...” He turned my hips. “...and let the momentum carry through.”
I was acutely aware of how close he was. The heat of his body. The smell of his cologne.
“Try again,” he said, stepping back.
I hit the bag. The hook landed clean and hard.
“Better,” he said. “Again.”
We worked for the next hour. He corrected my form, showed me new combinations, pushed me harder than I’d ever pushed myself.
It was exactly what I needed.
Finally, exhausted, I sat down on the floor. Dante handed me a water bottle and sat beside me.
“You’re good,” he said. “Better than I expected.”
“I’ve been training for five years.”
“Why boxing?”
“Because I spent my whole life being told to be quiet. Be nice. Be like Sofia. Boxing was the one place where I could be angry and loud and no one told me to stop.”
He nodded slowly. “I understand that.”
“Do you?”
“My father spent my entire childhood grooming me to take over his empire. Every decision I made, every friend I had, every class I took, it was all part of his plan. Boxing was the one thing that was mine. The one place where I could hit back.”
I looked at him. Really looked at him. For the first time, I saw past the expensive suits and the cold exterior. I saw a man who’d been trapped his whole life, just like me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “About your father.”
“Don’t be. He was a monster. The world’s better off without him.”
“But he was still your father.”
“Biology doesn’t make someone family.” He turned to face me. “Family is the people who see you. Who accept you. Who love you despite your flaws.”
“Is that why you married me? Because you think we’re family?”
“I married you because I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”
My heart was pounding. “Dante...”
“I know you don’t feel the same way. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I need you to know that everything I’ve done, every choice I’ve made, has been to protect you.”
“Even manipulating me into marriage?”
“Especially that. If you’d said no, if you’d walked away, Marcus would have gone after your family. I couldn’t let that happen.”
I wanted to be angry. I should have been angry. But all I felt was exhausted.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” I admitted.
“Then don’t believe anything. Just… stay. Help me finish this. After it’s over, if you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
We sat in silence for a moment. Then Dante stood and offered me his hand.
“Come on. You need to eat something.”
I let him pull me to my feet. We went downstairs, and Dante made omelets while I sat at the counter and watched.
“You can cook?” I asked.
“I’m a man of many talents.”
“Apparently.”
We ate breakfast as the sun came up over the city. It should have been awkward. Instead, it felt… comfortable. Like we’d done this a thousand times before.
After we finished, Dante’s phone rang. He answered it, his expression darkening as he listened.
“When?” he asked. Then: “I’ll be right there.”
He hung up.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“That was building security. Someone tried to break into my office.”
“When?”
“Last night. They didn’t get in the security system stopped them. But…” He looked at me. “They left a message.”
“What kind of message?”
He pulled up a photo on his phone and showed me.
It was spray-painted on his office door in red letters: THE FAKE BRIDE DIES FIRST.
My blood ran cold.
“They know,” I whispered.
“They know.”
“What do we do?”
Dante’s jaw tightened. “We go on the offensive. No more waiting. No more gathering evidence. It’s time to end this.”
He grabbed his jacket. “Get dressed. We have a meeting.”
“With who?”
He looked at me, and I saw something dark and dangerous in his eyes.
“With everyone who was at our wedding. I’m going to find out who wants you dead.”
“And then what?”
His smile was cold. “Then I’m going to make them wish they’d never been born.”
- Writer
