His Enemy's Daughter

Chapter 4

Urbamento — Turmoil.

ISABELLA

“Lola.” I tapped my best friend, but she was already distracted, shoving her tongue down the throat of yet another stranger.

My rebellion was already draining me.

My breasts were practically exposed in the dress Lola put me in, my feet were killing me from the heels, and the loud music was giving me a headache.

It was a club disguised as a party.

I missed my quiet study sessions and my room.

“Screw this,” I muttered, heading for the exit.

I’d just wait in the car until Lola finished whatever she came here to do. I had the keys anyway.

“Come on, beautiful, let’s dance,” a shirtless guy lunged at me, but I moved away just as he reached for my waist.

“I have a boyfriend,” I said, finally sighing in relief when I hit the fresh air outside.

My father had granted me a bit of independence with no bodyguards here in Italy. It was his way of apologizing for the forceful relocation, and honestly, I didn’t even mind.

At least I didn’t look out of place with two big men standing behind me like back home.

“Where did she park the car?” I huffed in frustration.

Lola parked the car a bit far away because, according to her, “we needed good cardio” before the party.

Meanwhile, my feet were filing a complaint and my soul was already halfway to heaven.

A few steps later, my phone buzzed.

It was a selfie from Lola, mid-kiss with a man, and the text:

BABE I’M OUT! Don’t wait! Uber is taking us somewhere scenic! See ya tomorrow!

I sighed, a mix of relief and annoyance.

At least one of us was having a good time tonight.

I knew Matteo wouldn’t text me. I was going to apologize first, and I knew it wouldn’t take long before I broke and just gave in.

A car sped past me, dragging me out of my thoughts, and I stumbled out of the way, almost losing my balance.

“Stupid heels. Stupid party. Stupid Matteo. Stupid everything,” I muttered, moving to the side of the road and crouching down to undo the straps of the death traps Lola made me wear.

“You’re going to bruise those pretty feet walking on the road barefoot,” a voice said in front of me.

I didn’t even bother looking up. It was probably one of the guys from the party again.

But what university student would wear Berluti leather shoes on a Friday night?

I lifted my head, and my breath disappeared.

Because I knew that face.

Sharp jaw. Cold eyes.

The man from the airport.

The one I’d been trying not to think about.

He smirked slightly.

“Careful, Tempesta. You’re staring like you want trouble.”

Again with the stupid nickname.

I snapped my mouth shut and glared.

“Get lost. My dad promised no bodyguards.”

He didn’t move or blink. His gaze locked on me, slow, heavy… and then he stepped forward, catching my arm before I could walk away.

“That mouth of yours… it demands to be taught a lesson.”

His eyes flicked down for just a heartbeat, tracing the swell of my breasts before snapping back to my face.

The intensity of his stare made my body betray me.

My n*****s tightened, a silent agreement to his threat.

This was wrong.

I have a boyfriend.

“I don’t have time for this,” I scoffed, but my voice came out thinner than I expected.

“I’ll keep it short. You have to get out of here,” he said, stepping away from me, but his grip on my hand remained.

“Yeah yeah, I’m not safe, blah blah, miss me with that bullshit.”

I didn’t get to finish my sentence.

A huge explosion sounded from behind, and the stranger threw himself over me, our bodies rolling toward the ground, crushing me against his chest.

My chest pressed against his, and the smell of gunpowder and blood stung my nose.

“W-what the f**k was that? M-my dad—”

“If you say one more word about your father,” he growled, leaning in so close I felt the heat of his breath, “I’ll ignore this f*****g bullet wound in my shoulder and smack you so hard on your ass, the only name you’ll be screaming is mine.”

Yeah.

That shut me up real fast.

He pushed to his feet without even offering me a hand, staring down at the spreading stain on his shoulder like it was an annoying wine spill and not his literal blood.

People were screaming, running. Chaos swarmed the street.

“Vaffanculo alla mia vita,” he muttered, looking around like he was expecting another explosion.

Fuck my life.

It was the only Italian phrase I recognized because of how often my father used it.

Even bleeding and swearing, he radiated a danger that made my blood sing with a terrifying kind of excitement, impossible to ignore.

“Where’s your car?” he asked, turning to face me, and the look on his face told me this wasn’t the time to argue.

But, of course… I didn’t give a f**k.

“What’s it to you?” I huffed, standing on my own and clutching my heels to my chest.

I’d had enough today. Matteo, my mom… now this. And him.

Italy was better, my ass.

“I don’t have time for this,” he whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose like the world itself was a headache.

“Right back at you, genius!” I snapped, walking away.

A pain shot up my ankle, making me limp slightly, but I ignored it.

All I wanted was my dorm and ASMR on loop until sleep swallowed me whole.

“Come on, Tempesta. Don’t be difficult. I’m trying to”

I tuned him out, clicking Lola’s car keys until I heard the comforting beep of the convertible.

Thank God.

I reached for the handle, but a bloodied hand shot out, stopping me. My heart jumped.

“Please,” he groaned, like the word physically hurt him to say.

I turned, and something in me tugged at the sight of him.

His skin had drained of color, his suit jacket soaked in dark, spreading red.

He looked… fragile.

Oh, f**k it. I couldn’t leave him out here.

“Just this once,” I sighed, moving to open the back door. “And tell my dad.”

“I answer to no man,” he growled, collapsing onto the seat.

“Yeah, yeah… and I’m the Queen of England,” I scoffed, hopping into the driver’s seat.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” I added, turning the key. The engine roared to life as we pulled away.

Cars around us were speeding off, eager to escape the street.

At least Lola was safe.

“No.” He tried to reach for my phone, but the sharp pain in his shoulder froze his movement.

“Well then what do you want? My stupid conscience won’t let me leave you to die,” I snapped.

He did nothing but smile at my frustration, an infuriating, stupid smile.

“Raphael Moretti. There’s a furniture store up ahead. Give them my name, and they’ll let you in,” he said, shutting his eyes as he leaned back into the seat.

Raphael Moretti.

Even his name sounded dangerous, smooth, like him.

Because God forbid a man like this had a basic name like Paul or Dave.

“Okay,” I answered, keeping my tone flat.

I didn’t bother asking why an injured man was sending me to a furniture store.

I had played a big enough role tonight already.

I just dro

ve, letting the engine and my thoughts fill the silence.

I glanced at him through the rearview mirror from time to time.

Maybe my dad had been wrong.

Maybe Italy wasn’t better than America.

But… why did it feel so damn good to be here, in this chaos, with him?