Page 381 of Rosetti Family New York

Strong hands guide me to the couch in the living room, and Matteo crouches in front of me. "Look at me, Isabella. Just look at me."

I try, but everything keeps spinning. The room, my thoughts, the fragments of memory that won't stay still long enough for me to understand them.

"My parents." I gasp out the words between attempts to breathe. "Something about that message... something's not right."

"Okay," he says quietly, not questioning or dismissing. Just accepting. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"I don't remember them clearly." My voice breaks. "Everyone talks about how they died like it's this settled thing, but my body just... reacts. Like it knows something my mind won't let me see."

Matteo doesn't crowd me or demand explanations. He stays exactly where I can see him, his presence solid and real in a world that feels like it's dissolving around me.

"I'm right here," he says, voice low and steady. "Count your breaths with me. In for four. One, two, three, four."

I try to follow his lead, but my chest keeps hitching. "Chase's message... he talks about them like he remembers conversations from fifteen years ago. Word for word. Who remembers things like that?"

"What else?" he asks gently, not pushing but giving me space to voice what's been building inside me.

"Everyone acts like there's this version of events that I'm supposed to accept. But the pieces don't fit together in my head. They never have." The words tumble out, fifteen years of suppressed doubts finding voice. "And whenever someone brings them up, I feel like I'm drowning."

My breathing gets worse, each inhale feeling like I'm drowning in air that won't reach my lungs. The room spins faster, and black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

"I'm going to pass out," I whisper.

"No, you're not." His voice cuts through the panic, firm but gentle. "I won't let that happen. Keep your eyes on me."

He starts talking, voice steady and hypnotic, grounding me to something outside my own spiraling thoughts. He tells me about the rain outside, about how the firelight flickers on the walls, about how brave I am for asking questions that scare me.

Slowly, my breathing starts to even out. The room stops spinning. The crushing weight on my chest begins to lift.

"There you go," he murmurs. "You're okay. You're safe."

And for the first time in fifteen years, when someone tells me I'm safe, I believe them.

That's when I break.

The sob comes from somewhere deep inside, a sound I've been holding back since I was nine years old and learned that crying made Uncle Chase uncomfortable. My whole body shakes, fifteen years of careful control crumbling all at once.

Matteo moves to the couch beside me, and I collapse against his shoulder without thinking. He wraps his arms around me, solid and warm and steady, letting me fall apart in the safety of his silence.

"I'm scared," I whisper against his shirt. "I'm so scared of the things I can't remember."

"I know." His voice is rough. "But whatever you're afraid of, you won't face it alone."

He doesn't try to fix it or minimize it or offer empty promises. Just holds me while I cry for parents I can barely remember and truths I'm not sure I want to know. His heartbeat is steady under my cheek, mixing with the scent of rain and the warmth of his skin.

For the first time in my adult life, I feel genuinely protected. Not managed or controlled or guided, but safe. The difference is startling.

"You're not broken," he murmurs against my hair when the worst of the crying stops. "You've been surviving. There's a difference."

The words hit something deep inside me, a place that's been cold and empty for too long. This is what I've been missing. Not someone to manage my life or make my decisions, but someone to simply be there when everything falls apart.

I stay in his arms longer than I should, soaking up the unfamiliar comfort of being held without judgment. His fingers trace gentle patterns on my back, and I realize this is the first time a man has touched me with kindness instead of expectation.

But as my breathing steadies and my thoughts clear, reality starts creeping back in. This is Matteo Rosetti. The man who kidnapped me. The man who's holding me prisoner in this beautiful house. The man who, despite this moment of gentleness, still controls every aspect of my existence here.

What am I doing? What am I letting happen?

I pull back slowly, immediately missing the warmth of his arms but needing the distance to think clearly. His amber eyes search my face, and I see the exact moment he recognizes my retreat.