Chapter 15
1514 Words
ADRIAN
I shouldn’t have followed her.
I shouldn’t have watched her walk into that restaurant in a dress that made every man turn his head.
I shouldn’t have waited outside long enough to see him walk out alone.
But I did.
And now I was standing outside her bedroom door, listening to the sound of her breath on the other side — uneven, shaky, guilty.
She lied to me.
She lied to my face.
I opened the door.
She spun around, half‑dressed, eyes wide, chest rising and falling like she’d been running. The city lights painted her in gold and shadow, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
Her breath hitched.
I stepped closer.
She backed up until her legs hit the edge of the bed.
“Adrian—”
She pushed at my chest, but it was weak, unfocused. I caught her wrist — gently, but firmly enough that she stopped moving.
Her eyes met mine.
Defiant.
Afraid.
Wanting.
“Isabella,” I said, voice low, “you belong with me.”
She shook her head, but her breath trembled. “No.”
I stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of her skin, close enough that her breath brushed my throat. She tried to push me away again, but her fingers curled against me instead, like her body didn’t know which direction to choose.
“Stop,” she whispered.
“Tell me the truth,” I whispered back.
She didn’t.
She couldn’t.
And that was all the answer I needed.
I lifted her chin with my fingers, forcing her to look at me. Her lips parted, her pulse racing beneath her skin. She hated me in that moment. She wanted me in that moment. She didn’t know which one scared her more.
“Adrian…” she breathed.
I leaned in — not touching her, not yet — letting the tension coil tight between us, letting her feel exactly how close I was to losing control.
Her hands fisted in the sheets behind her, her body leaning toward mine despite every word she’d thrown at me.
She was fighting me.
She was surrendering to me.
She was doing both at once.
And I could feel it.
I could feel her breaking.
I could feel her wanting.
I could feel her choosing.
But she still wouldn’t say it.
She still wouldn’t tell me who she’d been with.
And that was the line.
I pulled back.
Her eyes flew open, confused, breathless. “What—?”
“You don’t get all of me,” I said quietly, “when you give me nothing.”
She blinked, stunned. “Adrian—”
“You want to lie to me?” I stepped away, my voice steady even as something inside me burned. “Fine. But don’t expect me to stay.”
She reached for me — instinct, desperation, something she didn’t understand yet — but I stepped out of reach.
Her hand fell.
Her breath broke.
And I walked to the door.
“Adrian,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I—“
I didn’t look back.
“Damn it!” Isabella cursed.
“You don’t get to ignore my calls,” I said, echoing her words, “lie to me and expect me to stay.”
Then I opened the door.
And left her there — breathless, shaken, wanting — exactly the way she left me.
***
I needed air.
Not the kind you breathe — the kind that burns through your lungs and numbs the parts of you that won’t shut up.
I drove without thinking, without seeing, until the neon sign came into view.
LA MORTE NERA.
One of mine.
One of the oldest.
One of the few places where no one asked questions.
The bar sat underground, hidden beneath an abandoned warehouse. The entrance was a steel door guarded by two of my men, both armed, both pretending not to notice the storm on my face.
Inside, the place was dim, lit by red bulbs and candles dripping wax onto black marble tables. The air smelled like whiskey, smoke, and secrets. Velvet booths lined the walls, and the bar itself was carved from dark oak, polished to a mirror shine.
My men were everywhere — stationed at corners, along the walls, near the exits — but all with their backs turned. They knew better than to watch me when I was like this.
I took my usual seat at the far end of the bar.
Before I could order, a familiar voice purred beside me.
“Adrian.”
I didn’t look at her.
Lucia slid onto the stool next to mine, crossing her legs, her perfume curling around me like smoke. She’d been in my bed more times than I cared to count — a distraction, nothing more — and she knew it.
“You haven’t been here in weeks,” she said, leaning in. “I thought you forgot about me.”
I didn’t answer.
She reached for my arm, but I shifted just enough that her hand brushed air instead of skin. She blinked, surprised, then gave a small, knowing smile.
“Bad night?”
I didn’t respond.
She stayed anyway.
Of course she did.
A moment later, a heavy hand clapped my shoulder.
“Jesus, you look like you’re about to murder someone,” a familiar voice said.
I turned.
Nico Bellandi.
My closest friend.
My confidante.
The only person alive who could speak to me without fear.
He slid into the seat on my other side, a woman draped over him like a silk scarf — some model, some actress, some forgettable beauty who giggled at everything he said.
Nico waved her off. “Go get us drinks, tesoro.”
She obeyed instantly.
He leaned toward me, lowering his voice. “You want to tell me why you look like you swallowed a bullet?”
I took a slow sip of whiskey. “No.”
“So it’s about Isabella.”
I didn’t react.
Which was reaction enough.
Nico smirked. “Thought so.”
Lucia’s eyes flicked between us, curiosity sparking. “Isabella?”
“Not your business,” I said sharply.
She stiffened, then stood. “Call me when you’re in a better mood.”
She walked away, hips swaying, but I didn’t watch her go.
Nico did. “You’re losing your touch, brother.”
“I’m not interested.”
“In her?” he asked, nodding toward Lucia. “Or in anyone who isn’t Isabella?”
I shot him a look.
He grinned. “Relax. I’m on your side.”
I downed the rest of my drink.
Nico signaled the bartender for another. “So. What happened?”
“She lied to me.”
He whistled low. “That’ll do it.”
“She turned off her phone.”
“That too.”
“She disappeared.”
“Classic.”
“And she came home shaking.”
Nico’s expression softened. “Ah, scared of you probably.”
I didn’t want sympathy. I wanted silence. I wanted the part of my brain that kept replaying the image of her in that maroon dress to shut up.
“She wouldn’t tell me who she was with,” I said.
Nico leaned back. “And you think it was him.”
I didn’t say the name.
I didn’t have to.
“Daniel,” he said anyway, like the word tasted sour.
My jaw tightened.
Nico sighed. “Look, I get it. You’re pissed. You’re jealous. You’re in love—”
“I’m not—”
“Oh, shut up,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re in love with her. Everyone can see it. Even the damn bartender can see it.”
The bartender nodded once, then wisely pretended he hadn’t.
I glared at both of them.
Nico continued, unfazed. “You want her? Then pursue her.”
“This isn’t high school.”
“No,” he agreed. “But women still like flowers. And apologies. And men who don’t storm out like a wounded wolf.”
I clenched my jaw. “She lied.”
“She’s scared,” he countered. “And you’re not exactly… gentle, you know? Do you even know how you look like when you're mad?”
I didn’t respond.
Nico leaned in, voice dropping. “Give her time. Give her space. But don’t give up.”
I stared into my glass.
He added, “And for the love of God, don’t let Daniel win.”
My grip tightened around the glass until my knuckles went white.
Nico smirked. “There it is. The look of a man who’s about to do something stupid.”
I didn’t deny it.
He clapped my shoulder again. “Good. Stupid is better than silent.”
I didn’t answer.
I just sat there, in the dim red glow of La Morte Nera, surrounded by shadows and whiskey and the echo of Isabella’s voice in my head.
And for the first time in years, I didn’t know what the hell to do.
- Writer
