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Isadora

The mansion is quiet as I slip through corridors I’ve navigated since childhood. Every shadow feels like an accusation, every creak of the floorboards beneath my feet a judgment on my betrayal. The De Angelis name has been my identity since birth, my prison, and my privilege. Yet here I am, moving through darkness toward a man who threatens everything my family has built.

I can still feel Luca’s fingers digging into my arm at the gala, the bruises forming beneath the silk of my dress. They’ll bloom purple by morning, added to the collection of marks he’s left over our two-year engagement—physical reminders of ownership, of what my life will become if our plan fails.

Five more days before I’m supposed to become his wife. The thought makes my stomach turn.

My feet carry me to the east wing where Alessio—no, Stefano—is staying. The Calvino men are gathered for a late-night strategy meeting with my father, giving me the window I need. Every security camera on this path has been temporarily looped, thanks to a trick Stefano taught me. Fifteen minutes. That’s all I have.

I pause outside his door, heart hammering against my ribs. The memory of his eyes burning into mine across the ballroom, the way he positioned himself between Luca and me, the barely restrained violence in his voice when he intervened—it all sends heat curling through my body despite the danger.

I know exactly what I’m risking by being here. If we’re caught, the consequences would be catastrophic. My father would never forgive the betrayal. Luca would demand blood. Empires would fall.

Yet I knock anyway, three soft taps that barely disturb the silence.

The door opens immediately, as if he’s been waiting for me. Stefano stands shirtless, gun in hand, eyes alert. When he registers my presence, relief displaces wariness, but only for a moment before concern takes its place.

“Isadora,” he whispers, pulling me inside and closing the door. “What are you doing here? It’s too dangerous.”

His room is spartan, revealing nothing of the man who occupies it. No personal items, no photographs, nothing that could betray his true identity. The perfect soldier, the perfect spy.

“I needed to see you,” I say, moving closer to him. The warmth radiating from his bare chest calls to me like a beacon. “After tonight, after what happened with Luca—”

“Are you okay?” He cuts me off, setting the gun down on the nightstand before gently taking my arm. His fingers trace the bruises Luca left, a touch so different from my fiancé’s—gentle, reverent, concerned. “These are worse than I thought.”

“I’ve had worse,” I admit, watching something dark flicker across his features.

“From him?” The question is a growl, primal and protective.

I nod, unwilling to soften the truth. “It’s been escalating over the past year. Small things at first—gripping too hard, ‘accidentally’ bumping into me, criticizing what I wear or say. Then it became more deliberate. He enjoys it, I think. The control.”

Stefano’s jaw tightens, eyes hardening to amber ice. “I should’ve killed him tonight.”

“And ruin everything we’ve planned?” I reach up, fingers brushing against the stubble lining his jaw. “Five more days, remember? Then it all ends.”

His hand captures mine, pressing my palm against his cheek. The simple gesture feels more intimate than anything I’ve ever experienced. “I didn’t want you to see that side of this life. The ugliness beneath the glamour.”

A small, bitter laugh escapes me. “I’ve always seen it, Stefano. I was born into it, just like you. The difference is that no one bothered hiding it from me. I just wasn’t allowed to acknowledge it.”

He searches my face, those amber eyes seeing too much, understanding too well. “You deserved better than this.”

“So did you,” I counter. “So did your mother.”

Pain flashes across his features at the mention of his mother, raw and real in a way few people ever get to see. This is Stefano, not Alessio—the man beneath the enforcer’s mask.

“Thank you,” I say softly, “for what you did tonight. For stepping between us.”

“Don’t thank me for that.” His voice roughens. “I should’ve done more.”

“You risked blowing your cover to protect me. That’s enough.”

His hands move to my waist, holding me steady, solid and warm against the chill that’s followed me since the gala. “It’s never enough.” The words ghost across my skin, raising goosebumps of anticipation. “Not when it comes to you.”

The admission hangs between us, charged with everything we’ve been fighting since that night in the club bathroom. Desire, yes, but something more dangerous—something that feels disturbingly like hope.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, even as his hands tighten possessively on my waist. “Not here. Not with everyone under this roof.”

“I don’t care,” I tell him, stepping closer until our bodies press together. The heat of him burns through my silk nightdress. “I’m tired of being careful. Tired of playing by their rules. I need you.”

His pupils dilate, darkening those amber eyes. “Fifteen minutes on the security loop isn’t enough time for what I want to do to you,” he warns, voice dropping to a register that makes heat pool between my thighs.

“Then we’ll be quick,” I challenge, tilting my face up to his. “Unless you’re not up to the task.”

The taunt breaches his control. With a growl that sends shivers down my spine, Stefano claims my mouth, hands tangling in my hair. The kiss is nothing like the calculated intimacy we’ve shared before—this is raw, primal, a claiming. I match his hunger, nails digging into the sculpted muscles of his shoulders, drawing him closer.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” I confess against his mouth. “Watching you at the gala, the way you looked at me across the room while Luca’s hand was on me—”

“Don’t say his name,” Stefano growls, lifting me effortlessly. My legs wrap around his waist, the thin silk of my nightdress riding up my thighs. “Not here. Not now.”

He carries me to the bed, laying me down with a gentleness that contradicts the hunger in his eyes. Standing over me, he looks like something from a dream—or perhaps a nightmare, for those who’ve faced him as an enemy. Scars map his torso, telling stories of violence and survival. I want to trace each one with my tongue, learn their history, honor the boy who became this warrior.

“You’re sure?” he asks, giving me one last chance to retreat.

In answer, I reach for the hem of my nightdress and pull it over my head in one fluid motion, leaving me bare beneath his gaze. His sharp intake of breath is all the validation I need.

“Come here,” I whisper, holding out my hand to him.

He obeys, crawling over me with predatory grace. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, voice rough as his hands trace the curves of my body. “How hard it is to keep my distance, to pretend I don’t want to claim you every time I see you?”

“Then don’t pretend,” I challenge, arching into his touch. “Show me.”

His mouth closes around a sensitive nipple, teeth grazing the peak. I moan in response, fingers weaving into his hair. Each soft bite drives me higher, my hips grinding against the bulge in his pajama pants. The pleasure bordering on pain reminds me of the danger he can wield, the violence he’s capable of. Yet instead of fear, a rush of arousal surges through my veins.

“We only have fifteen minutes,” he purrs against my skin. “I’ll have to remember to take my time another day.”

He catches my other nipple between his teeth as his fingers slide along the inside of my thighs, teasing.

“I need to feel you,” I groan, my hips thrusting into his hand.

“Be careful what you ask for, principessa,” he warns, nipping his way down my belly. “I’m not always gentle.”

“I’m counting on that.”

The breathless admission earns a wicked grin. He hooks my legs over his shoulders, exposing me fully. When his mouth closes around my clit, the world spins. I grip the sheets to anchor myself, my hips rocking against the delicious pleasure building beneath his tongue. With expert skill, he brings me right to the edge, drawing back at the last second.

I want to grab him, to force him closer, but the dark, demanding gleam in his eyes dares me not to. So, I lay there, trembling with desire and impatience, a helpless goddess pinned beneath his worship.

“Alessio,” I plead, using his alias.

“It’s Stefano,” he corrects, lifting one finger and sliding it into my slick depths.

I let out a guttural sound that draws a dark smile. “That’s better,” he says, adding a second finger.

“No time to play,” I force between moans. “Fuck. Me. Now.”

“As you wish,” Stefano says and unzips his pants, unleashing a cock that makes my knees weak.

He pushes my legs wider apart. His dick presses against my slit, testing how wet I am.

“God, yes,” I gasp as he slides deep, filling me with his perfect manhood.

He positions me flat on my back, gripping my wrists over my head. Stefano towers over me, chest chiseled from marble, arms coiled with ropes of muscle. Sweat beads along his collarbone, and I long to lick it. But he’s so far from my reach, so controlled, so concentrated.

Stefano takes possession of me—every inch, every intimate corner.

And I give myself willingly.

He keeps his rhythm slow, teasing. When his cock leaves my pussy, he does it deliberately. I tug against his grip on my wrists, growing restless.

“Stop playing,” I demand.

Stefano doesn’t listen. His kisses become more demanding. His body takes control over mine. His dick teases, and he gives me slow strokes.

But the pleasure is too good. I’m unable to move, and I surrender to every moment of dominance.

With my free hand, I wrap it around the base of his cock, tightening when he thrusts forward, forcing him to move faster. A low sound vibrates his chest, and he responds in kind.

With his free hand, Stefano curls his fingers around my wrist, joining his with my grip around his shaft.

“Beg for me,” he growls, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

My pride screams at me to refuse, but my hunger wins out. “Make me come,” I order, tightening my grip. “Three more minutes to show me what you can do.”

“That’s plenty of time to make you scream my name.”

Stefano takes possession of my mouth as we find our rhythm. Each thrust is better than the last, bringing us closer and closer together. The end is inevitable. We both know it. We’re rushing forward to be claimed by carnal desire.

Stefano thrusts faster. Our tongues explore. Our bodies move as one.

“Harder,” I beg. “Harder!”

His response is a punishing pace. Our breaths mingle as we share the same air, chasing a release we both crave. My eyes stay focused on his. I memorize every inch of his lips, his jaw, his eyes. When he presses his forehead against mine, I feel myself fall.

Stefano growls my name, pressing his lips against my neck as the pleasure crests.

“Yes,” I murmur. “God, yes.” I bite into his shoulder to keep myself from screaming, though that’s what my entire body is begging me to do—to scream his name and let everyone know he’s mine. My Stefano.

Our gazes remain locked as an explosion of sensation breaks through. Then everything vanishes, and only ecstasy remains.

He continues pushing until we’re both satiated. Then he eases himself off my body and collapses beside me, panting and shaking.

I turn and kiss him again, an appreciation. This was exactly what I needed. The escape, the heat, and the possessive desire rolling off him in waves.

“Time’s up, principessa ,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Much longer and we’d have been caught.”

The aftershocks of pleasure still ripple through me, but reality begins its inevitable intrusion. “Just a few more days,” I say, hating how the words sound.

His thumb traces my cheekbone, tender and loving. “It will all be worth it,” he promises, understanding what the separation means.

“I should go back,” I whisper against his skin, though every fiber of my being rebels against the idea. “Before someone notices I’m missing.”

His arms tighten around me, a possessive gesture that makes my heart clench. “Five more days,” he echoes, the promise loaded with meaning beyond our revenge plot.

I raise myself to look into his eyes. “And then what?”

It’s the question that’s been haunting me, the uncertainty that lingers beneath our carefully constructed plans. After Giancarlo falls, after Luca learns the truth, after the Calvino empire crumbles—what happens to us?

Stefano brushes a strand of hair from my face, his expression softening into something I’ve never seen before. Vulnerability. Hope.

“And then we figure it out together,” he says simply. “If that’s what you want.”

The offer—tentative, uncertain—means more coming from this man who’s spent decades focused solely on revenge than any flowery declaration ever could. Stefano Calvino doesn’t make promises lightly. I’ve come to know that he always means what he says and looks for ways to accomplish the impossible.

“It’s what I want,” I admit, the words terrifying in their honesty. “I want a chance to discover who we could be without all of this hanging over us.”

He kisses me then, gentle and thorough, as if sealing a pact between us. When we part, the clock on the nightstand warns me that our stolen time is nearly over.

With reluctance, I disentangle myself from his arms and retrieve my nightdress from the floor. He watches me dress, eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that makes me want to crawl back into his bed.

“The bruises,” he says suddenly, gesturing to my arm where Luca’s fingerprints have darkened. “If he touches you again—”

“He won’t,” I assure him, though we both know it’s a lie. “I’ll keep my distance until the wedding.”

Stefano rises from the bed in all his naked glory, a sight that momentarily steals my breath. He moves to a small case on the dresser, retrieving a jar of cream.

“For the bruises,” he explains, pressing it into my hand. “It will help them fade faster.”

The simple act of care brings unexpected tears to my eyes. How strange, that in this world of material excess, the gift that moves me most is a small jar of bruise cream from a man who understands pain.

“Thank you,” I manage, pocketing the cream.

He helps me smooth my hair, straighten my nightdress, erase the visible evidence of our encounter. His hands linger on my shoulders, as if reluctant to let me go.

“Be careful,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Remember who’s watching.”

I nod, understanding his warning. In the De Angelis house, in the world we inhabit, eyes are everywhere. Any misstep could be catastrophic.

At the door, I pause for one final look at him—this complex man who entered my life as a stranger in a club, became my appointed guardian, and has somehow become something far more dangerous: a possibility. A future I never dared imagine.

“All these will soon be over,” I remind him, a promise and a prayer.

His smile—rare, genuine, transforming his face from dangerous to devastating—is the last thing I see before slipping back into the hallway.

The corridors feel colder as I make my way back to my room, each step taking me further from Stefano and closer to the life I was born into—the life I’m now conspiring to upend completely.

If my father knew what I’ve done tonight, what I’m planning to do in five days’ time, he would consider it the ultimate betrayal. The De Angelis princess colluding with a Calvino ghost to destroy a crucial alliance. Unforgivable in our world.

Yet, as I slide beneath the cold sheets of my empty bed, I find I don’t regret a single choice that led me here. Not the night at the club. Not the secrets uncovered. Not the promises made in darkness.

For the first time in my life, I’m not just a pawn in someone else’s game. I’m making my own moves, writing my own story.

And in five days, everything changes.

The question that follows me into dreams is not whether we’ll succeed in bringing down Giancarlo Calvino. It’s whether Stefano and I will survive what comes after.

Because in our world, happy endings aren’t part of the bargain. They have to be fought for, bled for, and sometimes killed for.

And I’m finally ready to fight for mine.