The Devil in His Eyes

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Isabella's POV

The tour of the mansion took longer than I expected, but by the end I realized I hadn’t truly learned anything beyond how endless the corridors were. Every hallway looked the same—polished floors, ornate rugs, tall windows that reflected back a stranger’s face whenever I glanced.

Valerie showed me parlors filled with antique furniture I was afraid to touch, dining rooms that could seat twenty, and libraries where the books seemed more like decoration than comfort. She spoke fondly of the house as if it breathed with her, but to me it felt more like a labyrinth of beauty and secrets.

When the tour ended, the maids dispersed into their duties, leaving me stranded in the grand silence. For a while I tried to think of something to do—something to occupy myself in this castle where every step echoed too loudly. But there was nothing. I wasn’t allowed into his office, and the forbidden room tugged at me like a locked diary. Curiosity burned, but I swallowed it down. Not yet.

So I returned to our suite, closing the heavy door behind me, and curled up on the bed with one of my blankets pulled around my shoulders. My phone, at least, was familiar. Netflix loaded, its colors and sounds warming the sterile silence. I pressed play on a series I’d half-finished back home, grateful for the distraction.

Yet even as the episodes rolled by, my thoughts wandered. To my life before all this. To the degree I had fought so hard for—the endless hours of study, the pride I felt when the diploma was finally in my hands. My dream had always been clear: to open my own publishing company one day, to give voice to writers who deserved to be read. Words had always been my refuge, my rebellion, my truest home.

But Father had never approved. He reminded me again and again that women in the mafia didn’t chase careers. We were raised to be daughters, then wives, and eventually mothers—ornaments polished for display, never minds sharpened for ambition. Publishing companies are not for mafia women, he had said. Your husband will provide for you.

The memory stung, and I hugged the blanket tighter. Maybe he had been right. Look at me now—married off into a contract, my dreams locked away like the forbidden rooms of this mansion.

By the time night thickened outside the windows, my eyelids grew heavy. I paused the show, slid lower under the covers, and let myself drift. Just as sleep began to soften my edges, the door opened with a quiet click.

Adrian entered.

I froze, pretending for a heartbeat that I was already asleep. But the weight of his presence filled the room, dragging my eyes open. He stood there, framed by the dim light, staring at me with that same unreadable expression.

“I didn’t have dinner with you,” he said flatly, as if the reminder mattered to him in some way.

I sat up slightly, clutching the blanket to my chest. For a moment I considered asking about his day, where he had gone, what kept him out so late. But then I remembered—this wasn’t a real marriage. We were bound by duty, not affection. Business, not love. And so I swallowed the question before it could escape.

He moved without another word, unbuttoning his suit jacket, slipping the holster from his shoulder, setting the gleaming gun aside with practiced ease. Then his shirt came loose from his trousers, each motion efficient, unhurried. He started unbuckling his pants so immediately turned around, not that he would care anyway.

Without thinking i turned back around again. I gasped as my eyes caught him pulling up his sweatpants. My eyes landing on something i wasn't supposed to see.

And it looked bigger than i thought it would.

I was amazed as i stared at the heavenly sight of his toned body clad in his T shirt and sweatpants. The brown futted T shirt hugged his muscular chest, shoulders and arm perfectly. It showed out his trimmed waist, and a faint outline of his six pack.

The T-shirt revealed some of the tattoos in his arms which were a few symbols and a sentence written in cursive writing.

He noticed my stare and turned to me clearly amused or irritated.

I immediately covered myself with the blanket, cleared my throat and muttered “Good night”. Not even sure he heard me, my face red as f**k.

The room remained silent apart from his movements, and it turned out he didn't hear me.

When he finally slipped into the bed beside me, the mattress dipped under his weight. We lay there in parallel, two bodies divided by a gulf of unspoken words. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us dared break the quiet.

And yet, in that silence, I felt more exposed than I ever had.