THE WOMAN WHO TAMED THE DEVIL

(Chapter four). THE PRICE OF WANTING

The first thing Isla noticed when she woke up was the silence.

Not the peaceful kind—but the heavy, watchful kind. The kind that came with money, power, and men who never truly slept. She lay still beneath silk sheets that were softer than anything she owned, staring up at a ceiling too high, too perfect, too far removed from her real life.

Alessandro De Luca’s house.

Correction—Alessandro De Luca’s fortress.

She exhaled slowly, careful not to move too fast, as if the walls themselves were listening. Her body ached in places she refused to name, not from s*x—but from tension. From being seen. From being wanted in a way that had nothing to do with money.

That was the dangerous part.

Isla pushed herself up and let the sheet slide down her bare shoulders. The room smelled faintly of cedarwood and something darker—leather, perhaps. Him. Everything about this place screamed ownership. Control. A man who did not share and did not lose.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood.

A garment bag rested on the chair near the window. Neatly arranged. Intentional.

Inside, she found a dress—black, fitted, expensive. Shoes that cost more than some people’s rent. And beneath it all, a small white envelope with her name written in sharp, deliberate handwriting.

Isla.

She opened it.

Inside was a single card.

Breakfast is at nine.

Don’t be late.

No signature.

He didn’t need one.

She scoffed under her breath. “Arrogant bastard.”

Yet her fingers lingered on the card longer than they should have.

⸻

By the time she entered the dining room, dressed and composed, Alessandro was already seated at the head of the table, coffee in hand, posture relaxed in a way that suggested he owned not just the space—but time itself.

He looked up when she entered.

And stared.

Isla was used to that look. Men always paused when they saw her fully put together—elegant, effortless, lethal. But this was different. Alessandro’s gaze was slower. Colder. As if he were dissecting her, stripping away layers she hadn’t offered.

“You clean up well,” he said.

She took the seat opposite him without asking. “So do you. For someone who looks like he hasn’t slept.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I sleep fine,” he replied.

She smiled faintly. “Of course you do.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of staff moving discreetly in the background. Isla reached for her coffee, unbothered, unhurried.

“You didn’t bring me here for breakfast,” she said finally. “So let’s skip the foreplay.”

That earned her a sharp look. Not offended—amused.

“I don’t pay for foreplay,” Alessandro said. “I pay for results.”

Her eyes met his, steady. “Then you should know—I don’t work that way.”

He leaned back in his chair. “You work exactly the way you’re paid to.”

There it was.

The line she’d heard in a hundred variations from powerful men who thought money was a master key. Isla set her cup down carefully.

“I choose my clients,” she said evenly. “I set my terms. And I walk away when I want.”

“You didn’t walk away last night.”

She smiled, slow and dangerous. “Because I wanted to stay.”

Something flickered in his expression then—something dark and unreadable.

“That,” he said, voice low, “is exactly the problem.”

⸻

Isla left the table twenty minutes later with a knot in her stomach she refused to name.

She told herself it was irritation. Curiosity. Annoyance at being treated like something that could be owned.

It was not attraction.

It couldn’t be.

Back in the city, her phone buzzed almost immediately.

Madame Lucienne:

You disappeared last night.

Isla sighed and typed back.

Isla:

I was with a client.

The reply came instantly.

De Luca is not a client. He’s a risk.

Isla’s fingers paused over the screen.

Every man is a risk.

Not like him.

She locked the phone and slipped it into her bag. Lucienne worried too much. Always had. Running one of the most exclusive escort networks in Europe made paranoia a requirement—but Isla had survived far worse than Alessandro De Luca.

Or so she told herself.

⸻

That evening, she dressed with precision.

A red dress. Bold. Unapologetic. The kind of color men associated with danger long before they admitted they were already lost.

The club pulsed with music and power. Politicians. CEOs. Criminals with clean suits and dirty hands. Isla moved through them like smoke—untouchable, controlled, observant.

She was laughing with a client when she felt it.

That pull.

She didn’t need to turn around to know he was there.

Alessandro stood near the bar, dressed in black, presence swallowing the room. He wasn’t looking at her—but every instinct in her screamed that he was aware of her every move.

She excused herself and approached him.

“You stalking me now?” she asked.

He didn’t smile. “You didn’t answer my message.”

“I don’t answer commands.”

He leaned closer. “You answered by showing up.”

Her breath hitched despite herself.

“This is my workplace,” she said.

“And yet,” he murmured, “you’re watching me instead of your client.”

Damn him.

“You don’t belong here,” she said.

“Neither do you.”

That struck harder than she expected.

Before she could respond, his hand closed around her wrist—firm but controlled.

“We need to talk.”

She looked down at his grip. Slowly, deliberately, she pried his fingers away.

“No,” she said. “You need to learn where your authority ends.”

For a moment, she thought he might argue.

Instead, he stepped back.

And smiled.

“Careful, Isla,” he said quietly. “You’re the first woman who’s ever told me no.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

“That’s because I’m not for sale,” she replied.

He leaned in, voice a whisper meant only for her.

“That’s a lie,” he said. “You just haven’t decided your price yet.”

⸻

She didn’t sleep that night.

Alessandro’s words echoed in her mind, mingling with memories she hated—men who thought they could buy her silence, her body, her soul.

She had chosen this life. Chosen control. Chosen power in a world that rarely offered it freely to women like her.

But Alessandro De Luca didn’t want her body.

He wanted her choice.

And that terrified her.

⸻

The next morning, a black car waited outside her building.

No message. No warning.

Just inevitability.

Isla stared at it from the sidewalk, pulse racing.

She could walk away.

She should.

Instead, she opened the door and stepped inside.

As the car pulled away, she closed her eyes.

Because for the first time in years, Isla Moretti wasn’t sure who was in control anymore.

And that realization felt like the beginning of something that could either destroy her…

Or change everything.

Isla didn’t speak as the car moved through the city.

The hum of the engine filled the silence, smooth and controlled, much like the man seated beside her. Alessandro watched her from the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable, his presence pressing against her senses like a storm waiting to break.

“Where are we going?” she asked finally.

“Somewhere quiet,” he replied. “Somewhere safe.”

She laughed softly. “Men like you don’t know the meaning of that word.”

His gaze sharpened. “You’d be surprised.”

The car slowed and turned into a private road lined with towering iron gates. Security lights flickered on as they approached, scanning the vehicle before granting access. Isla felt it then — that familiar warning deep in her chest. This wasn’t just wealth. This was power reinforced with fear.

The estate was smaller than his main residence but no less intimidating. Warm lights glowed through tall windows, illuminating polished stone and manicured gardens.

As soon as they stepped inside, Alessandro removed his jacket and loosened his cuffs, movements precise, controlled. He poured himself a drink without asking if she wanted one.

“I didn’t come here for s*x,” Isla said, breaking the silence.

“I know,” he replied calmly. “If I wanted that, I wouldn’t have brought you here.”

That unsettled her more than any proposition could have.

He turned to face her fully. “I want honesty.”

She crossed her arms. “Then you should start.”

His jaw flexed.

“I don’t fall in love,” Alessandro said. “I don’t pretend to. I don’t chase illusions. Women are… convenient. Temporary.”

Isla’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “And yet here I am.”

“Yes,” he admitted quietly. “And that’s the problem.”

He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of whiskey and something darker beneath it.

“You make men weak,” he continued. “You make them forget who they are. I’ve watched it happen.”

Her breath hitched. “You don’t know me.”

“I know exactly what you are.”

She stiffened. “Then say it.”

“A woman who sells control while pretending she owns it.”

The words struck hard — too close, too accurate.

Isla swallowed. “And you? What are you pretending to own?”

His eyes darkened.

“You,” he said simply.

She should have slapped him.

Instead, she held his gaze.

“Then you’ll lose,” she said. “Because I don’t belong to anyone.”

For a moment, the air between them was charged, dangerous. Then Alessandro stepped back, as if forcing himself to breathe.

“That’s why I brought you here,” he said. “To prove to myself that I can walk away.”

“And can you?” she asked softly.

Silence.

Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance.

Alessandro picked up his phone and typed a message. Moments later, footsteps echoed down the hall. A woman appeared — elegant, composed.

“She’ll take you to the guest room,” Alessandro said without looking at Isla. “You’ll stay the night. Tomorrow, you leave.”

Isla nodded, heart pounding.

As she followed the woman down the hallway, she didn’t look back.

But she felt it.

The moment Alessandro De Luca realized that walking away from her might be the one thing he couldn’t do.

Isla closed the door behind her gently, leaning against it as if the strength had suddenly drained from her body.

The guest room was quiet, elegant, too perfect — soft lighting, silk sheets, a large window overlooking the city. Any other night, she might have appreciated the luxury. Tonight, it felt like a cage.

She exhaled slowly and crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. Alessandro’s words replayed in her mind, each one sharper than the last.

I don’t fall in love.

Men like him never believed they could. Not until it was already too late.

She stood and walked to the mirror, studying her reflection. The confident mask she wore so easily in public was slipping, revealing something more vulnerable beneath. She hated that he had seen through her — hated even more that part of her had wanted him to.

Across the estate, Alessandro stood alone in his study.

He hadn’t moved since Isla left.

The glass of whiskey sat untouched on the desk, ice melting slowly as his thoughts spiraled. He told himself this was nothing — just another woman who had managed to get under his skin for a moment.

Yet his chest felt tight, his jaw clenched.

He had brought her here to end it. To prove control.

Instead, he had given her space — and that terrified him.

His phone buzzed.

A message from his right-hand man flashed on the screen, reminding him of a meeting scheduled for the morning, of threats that needed handling, enemies that wouldn’t wait for emotions to settle.

Alessandro ignored it.

For the first time in years, power felt distant.

He turned toward the hallway leading to the guest room, then stopped himself.

Not tonight, he thought.

Whatever this was between them — attraction, obsession, defiance — it was dangerous. And danger had always been his enemy.

Isla lay awake long after the lights were turned off.

The city glowed faintly outside the window, but sleep refused to come. She knew better than to get attached to men like Alessandro De Luca. She had built her life on independence, on choice.

Yet something had shifted.

This wasn’t just desire. This was a challenge.

And deep down, Isla knew one thing with certainty —

Walking away tomorrow would not be as easy as either of them pretended.