The Romano Bride

Chapter 10

ISABELLA

Mara returned like a gust of cold air and clattering grocery bags. The front door opened, and her voice floated in, calm and efficient as always. “Mr. Salvatore, Miss Isabella — I’m back.”

Adrian straightened immediately, the tension in his shoulders snapping back into place. I nearly jumped off the stool, grateful and irritated all at once. Mara stepped into the kitchen with two full bags in her arms. “Apologies for the delay. The market was busy.”

“I can help,” I said quickly, moving toward her. But Adrian’s hand brushed my arm — light, barely there, but enough to stop me.

“Mara can handle it,” he said.

I bristled. “I’m not helpless.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You implied it.”

He exhaled through his nose, the faintest sign of annoyance. “I implied nothing. Mara is trained for this.”

“It’s groceries, Adrian. Not a hostage negotiation.” Mara hid a smile behind her shoulder as she unpacked.

Adrian ignored the jab and leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “What are your plans for today?”

Plans? I blinked. I didn’t have any. I didn’t even know what I wanted. A part of me — the part I refused to acknowledge — wanted him to ask me out. To say something like 'Let’s get lunch' or 'Come with me'.

Something normal.

Something human.

But I didn’t say that.

“I don’t know,” I said instead. “Why?”

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then the softness vanished. “I’ll be out of town for a few days,” he said. “Business.”

The words hit harder than they should have. “Oh.” I nodded, trying not to show anything. “Okay.”

He studied me, searching for a reaction I refused to give. “While I’m gone,” he said, voice dropping into that commanding tone that made my spine stiffen, “behave.”

My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not a child.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You implied it.”

He sighed, long and slow. “Isabella—”

“No,” I snapped. “I will do whatever I please.”

His eyes darkened. “That’s not what I—” But I didn’t let him finish.

I turned on my heel and walked away, silk robe swishing behind me, heart pounding with a mix of anger and something far more dangerous. I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. I didn’t want to. Because if I had stayed one second longer, I might have asked him the question I wasn’t brave enough to voice: Why didn’t you ask me to come with you?

I reached my room, closed the door, and leaned against it, breath shaking. Behind me, in the kitchen, Adrian stood very still — the kind of stillness that meant he was thinking too hard, feeling too much, and trying not to show any of it. And Mara, quietly unpacking groceries, glanced at him once. Just once. And thought — though she’d never say it aloud — She has no idea what he was about to ask.

A hot shower did little to settle the irritation simmering under my skin. By the time I slipped into jeans, a soft sweater, and tied my hair back, I’d convinced myself I didn’t care that Adrian was leaving. Or that he’d told me to “behave.” Or that he hadn’t asked me to come with him. I cared. I hated that I cared.

I stepped into the living room—and stopped. Enzo sat comfortably on the couch, legs crossed, a newspaper in hand, like he owned the place. He looked up the moment he sensed me, smile warm and annoyingly charming.

“Good morning, Isabella.”

“It’s almost noon,” I muttered.

“Still morning somewhere,” he said with a shrug.

Before I could respond, Mara appeared from the kitchen carrying a steaming mug. She handed it to Enzo with a polite nod, then disappeared again without a word.

Enzo took a sip, eyes flicking back to me. “So. Where to today?”

I frowned. “You’re not coming with me.”

He chuckled softly. “I’m not your enemy.”

“You’re not my friend either.”

“True,” he said easily. “But I am following Adrian’s orders. I’ll simply shadow you. You won’t even notice me.”

“I already notice you,” I snapped.

He grinned. “Then I’m doing my job well.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt and grabbed my purse. “I’m taking a taxi.”

I headed toward the door, but Enzo cleared his throat.

“Before you do that… you might want to check the wall.”

I paused. “What wall?”

He nodded toward the entryway. “The one with the key hook.”

I frowned and walked over. Hanging there was a single key on a sleek black fob, tied with a small red ribbon. My stomach tightened.

“I didn’t order anything,” I said. “And no one would give me a gift.”

Enzo raised a brow. “It has your name on it.”

I hesitated, then reached up and took it off the hook. A small tag dangled from the ribbon.

ISABELLA

written in Adrian’s unmistakably sharp handwriting.

My phone buzzed. A text. From him.

I opened it.

Adrian:

You once told me freedom was the sound of an engine and an open road.

The Porsche downstairs is yours.

Don’t crash it.

My breath caught. A Porsche. For me. My fingers tightened around the key fob, the weight of it sinking into my palm like a promise and a provocation all at once. I didn’t know whether to smile… or throw the key across the room.

Enzo watched me with a knowing smirk. “Looks like someone is no longer taking a taxi.”

I glared at him. But my heart? My heart was doing something reckless and stupid. Because Adrian Salvatore had given me freedom. And somehow, that felt more dangerous than anything else he’d ever done.

**

The Porsche waited in the center of the private garage like a shadow carved into metal — sleek, black, low to the ground, the kind of car that hummed danger even when it wasn’t moving. The glossy paint reflected the overhead lights like liquid obsidian. The curves were sharp, predatory, elegant. Exactly the one I used to point at in magazines back in high school. Exactly the one I once told Adrian I wanted. Freedom on four wheels.

The elevator doors slid open, and for a moment I just stood there, staring. I swallowed hard and walked toward it, my heels clicking softly on the concrete. The closer I got, the more unreal it felt — the leather interior, the polished chrome, the faint scent of new engine and untouched luxury.

I pressed the key fob. The headlights blinked once. My heart did the same.

I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather hugging me like it had been molded for my body. The engine purred to life with a low, velvety growl that vibrated through my bones. I only think about the open road. I pulled out of the garage and hit the street, the city unfolding in front of me like a promise. The Porsche responded to every touch, every shift, every breath — smooth, powerful, intoxicating.

I sped up. Faster. Faster. The buildings blurred, the wind whipped through the cracked window, and for the first time in days, I felt something close to alive. If Enzo was following me, he’d have to work for it. I took sharp turns, weaving through traffic, testing the car’s limits — and my own. The thrill of it, the freedom of it, the rebellion of it — it all surged through me like adrenaline.

By the time I slowed down, my stomach growled loudly enough to echo in the cabin. Right. Food. I pulled into Brooklyn without thinking, parking in front of a small restaurant with a faded awning and a chalkboard sign I didn’t bother reading. I just needed something to eat before I passed out.

I stepped inside — and froze. Behind the counter, wiping her hands on an apron, stood Lena Moretti. My only real friend from high school. The only one who didn’t believe the rumors. The only one who didn’t look at me like I was cursed.

Her dark hair was tied up in a messy bun, her sleeves rolled, her expression focused — until she looked up and saw me. Her eyes widened. “Isabella?” she breathed.

My chest tightened. “Lena.” She rushed around the counter and pulled me into a hug so tight it knocked the air out of me. I hadn’t realized how much I needed it until that moment.

“Oh my God,” she said, pulling back to look at me. “You’re actually here. In my restaurant. I thought I was hallucinating.”

“Your restaurant?” I asked, glancing around.

She laughed. “Family restaurant. I’m managing it now. Numbers, inventory, payroll — all the fun stuff.”

Of course she was. Lena had always been brilliant with numbers. She used to tutor half the school in math and still ace every exam. She once told me she dreamed of working in a museum too — not with art, but behind the scenes, analyzing budgets, optimizing operations, making everything run like a machine.

We used to talk about our futures like they were guaranteed. Her as a financial analyst. Me as a curator. Two girls dreaming in the back of a library, pretending the world wasn’t already closing in on us.

“You look good,” she said, studying me. “Different. But good.”

I smiled softly. “You too.”

She nudged me toward a table. “Sit. I’ll get you something to eat. You look like you haven’t had a real meal in days.”

She wasn’t wrong. I sat down, letting the familiarity of her presence settle around me like a blanket. For a moment, I forgot about everything. I was just Isabella. Sitting in a Brooklyn restaurant. .