Page 23

23

Isadora

Pain is my first awareness. A dull, throbbing ache in my side that pulses with each heartbeat. My second awareness is warmth—a solid presence curved against my back, a strong arm draped carefully over my waist, avoiding my bandages. Stefano. Not Alessio—not anymore. Never again. He’s just Stefano now. My Stefano.

I open my eyes to unfamiliar surroundings—wood-paneled walls, early morning light filtering through half-drawn curtains. This isn’t the warehouse, nor the makeshift clinic where I have flashes of memory—doctors, bright lights, Stefano’s desperate voice begging me to hold on.

“You’re awake.” His voice is rough with sleep, and his breath warm against my neck.

“Barely,” I whisper, my throat dry. “Where are we?”

“In Connecticut. Vittorio found us a safe house.” His fingers trace gentle patterns on my arm, as if reassuring himself I’m real. “You’ve been in and out for two days.”

Two days. The realization jolts me fully awake. Two days since Giancarlo was shot, since Luca fled, since my world exploded in gunfire and blood. Two days of nothing but darkness and fleeting awareness of Stefano’s presence keeping me anchored.

“My family—” The words catch in my throat as I try to sit up. Pain flares white-hot in my side, stealing my breath.

“Easy,” Stefano murmurs, his hand steadying me. “You’ll tear your stitches.”

When I can breathe again, I turn to face him fully. The sight nearly breaks my heart. There are dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes, stubble darkening his jaw, and a raw vulnerability I’ve never seen in him before. His hand cradles my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with reverence.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he admits, voice barely audible.

“It takes more than a bullet to get rid of me.” I attempt a smile that feels weak even to me. “You should know that by now.”

His answering smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You were lucky. If the bullet had been an inch to the right—”

“But it wasn’t,” I cut him off, covering his hand with mine. “I’m still here.”

“You’re still here,” he echoes, leaning forward to press his forehead against mine, our breath mingling in the space between us. The intimacy of the gesture—more vulnerable than any of our passionate encounters—makes my heart race.

For a moment, we exist in perfect stillness, two survivors clinging to each other in the aftermath of a storm that’s far from over. I close my eyes and allow myself drift off to sleep.

Two weeks later, as we lay in bed relaxing I turn to Stefano.

“I need to contact my mother,” I say finally, pulling back enough to meet his gaze. “She needs to know the truth—about everything. About us.”

His expression darkens. “It’s too dangerous. The De Angelis family has a price on my head for supposedly kidnapping you.”

“She won’t betray us,” I insist, believing it with every fiber of my being. “My mother has always been more than she appears. She’ll listen.”

Stefano studies me, weighing risks against my certainty. “If you’re wrong—”

“Then we’re no worse off than we already are,” I finish. “Please, Stefano. I need to do this.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “One call. Untraceable. No locations mentioned.”

It takes hours to arrange. Vittorio—Stefano’s right-hand man with eyes that have seen too much—sets up a secure line through three different relays. I’m propped up in bed, bandages freshly changed, when the phone connects.

“Isadora?” My mother’s voice comes through the line, tight with a mixture of fear and hope. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me,” I confirm, emotion threatening to close my throat. “I’m safe, Mom. I’m okay.”

“Where are you? Your father has men searching everywhere. The wedding—the alliance—everything is in chaos.”

“I can’t tell you where I am,” I say carefully, aware of Stefano watching me from across the room, tension radiating from every line of his body. “But I need to tell you the truth. About everything.”

So I do. I tell her about meeting Stefano at the club before knowing who he was. About discovering his true identity as Giancarlo Calvino’s discarded firstborn son. About Luca’s cruelty, his own plans to overthrow his father. About falling in love with a man seeking vengeance.

Throughout my confession, she remains silent. When I finally finish, the pause stretches so long that I fear we’ve been disconnected.

“Mom?”

“I knew,” she says finally, her voice steady. “Not about you and Alessio—Stefano. But about what Giancarlo did to his first wife. To his son.”

The revelation stuns me into momentary silence. “How?”

“Wives in our world see everything, Isadora. We’re invisible at the meetings where men make their monstrous decisions. I was there the night Giancarlo toasted to the ‘tragic accident’ that took his wife and child. I saw the truth in his eyes.” Her voice hardens. “I knew what kind of man we were aligning with when your father arranged your marriage to Luca.”

“And you said nothing?” The accusation slips out before I can stop it.

“Would it have changed anything?” she asks, the bitter truth in her words undeniable. “I did what wives in our world always do—I protected my family the only way I could. By staying silent.”

Something shifts in my understanding of my mother—this woman I’ve always seen as elegant but passive, now revealed as a survivor making calculated choices in a world that offered her none.

“I need your help now,” I tell her, locking eyes with Stefano across the room. “Luca is consolidating power. We need to know what’s happening.”

Another pause, this one briefer. “There’s a meeting—all three major families. De Angelis, what’s left of Calvino leadership, and the Ricci family. Luca is orchestrating a new alliance, with himself at the head.”

“When?”

“Two nights from today. The old hunting lodge upstate. Neutral territory.” Her voice drops lower. “Your father doesn’t trust him, but he’s going anyway. The alternative is war.”

“It already is war,” I say, the truth of it settling in my bones. “Thank you, Mom. For believing me.”

“Isadora,” she says before I can hang up, urgency coloring her tone. “Be careful who you trust. Even within your own family.”

The cryptic warning stays with me after we disconnect. Stefano is beside me instantly, his expression questioning.

“Next tomorrow night,” I tell him, grasping his hand. “All three families. If we’re going to act, that’s when.”

His eyes darken with understanding. “It’s a trap.”

“Not if we spring it first.” I pull him closer, ignoring the twinge on my side. “We have what none of them do—evidence. Against both Giancarlo and Luca.”

“You’re talking about exposing everything. To everyone.”

“I’m talking about ending this,” I correct him. “Once and for all.”

His thumb traces my lower lip, igniting sparks despite my weakened state. “You understand what that means? Going against both families. Your father—”

“I know exactly what it means,” I interrupt, holding his gaze. “I’m choosing us.”

Something breaks open in his expression—raw and vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before. He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away. But I meet him halfway, my lips finding his with certainty.

The kiss deepens, his hands cradling my face like something precious while my fingers tangle in his hair. Every nerve ending ignites, desire flooding my system despite my injuries. When his tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open eagerly, welcoming him inside.

We break apart, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. His amber eyes have darkened to molten gold, his pulse racing beneath my fingers on his neck.

“We shouldn’t,” he murmurs, though his body contradicts his words as he presses closer. “Your stitches—”

“I’m not made of glass,” I whisper against his mouth. “And I need to feel alive right now. Need to feel you.”

His control—the iron discipline that makes him so lethal—visibly fractures. With careful movements, he shifts to straddle me without putting pressure on my wounded side.

“If I hurt you, tell me to stop,” he growls, his accent thickening with desire.

I pull him down for another kiss, my answer clear. His hands slide beneath my oversized t-shirt, calloused fingers skimming the sensitive skin of my ribs, careful to avoid my bandages. Every touch feels electric, amplified by our shared brush with death.

When his thumb grazes the underside of my breast, I arch into him, gasping at the dual sensation of pleasure and a twinge from my wound. He pulls back immediately, concern replacing desire.

“You’re hurt,” he states, the war between want and worry clear on his face.

“I’m alive,” I counter, guiding his hand back to my breast. “And I want to feel that way. Please, Stefano.”

Something resolves in his expression—a decision made. With deliberate slowness, he lowers his mouth to my neck, trailing kisses that make me shiver. His palm covers my breast, thumb circling the peak until it hardens beneath his touch.

“Like this?” he murmurs against my collarbone. “Gentle enough?”

In answer, I guide his hand lower, past the waistband of my borrowed sweatpants. He groans against my skin when he finds me already wet for him, his fingers circling with maddening precision.

“Always so ready for me,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint. “So perfect.”

I clutch his shoulders as he slides one finger inside me, then another, his thumb working magic against my clit. The pleasure builds fast and fierce, my body desperate for release after days of pain and fear.

“That’s it,” he encourages, watching my face as he curls his fingers to hit the spot that makes me see stars. “Let go for me, principessa.”

The orgasm crashes through me with surprising intensity, my body clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure momentarily obliterate everything else. I cry out his name—his real name—as aftershocks ripple through me.

When I float back to awareness, he’s watching me with a mixture of awe and fierce possession that steals my breath all over again.

“We still need to figure out a plan,” I remind him, though my limbs feel heavy with satisfaction.

His smile turns predatory. “We will. After I’ve had my fill of you.”

Before I can respond, his mouth is on me again, and thought becomes secondary to sensation. Tomorrow will bring whatever it brings—a confrontation twenty years in the making, a choice between family legacy and future freedom.

But tonight belongs to us—to healing, to pleasure, to the fierce, consuming connection between a ghost who found his way back to life and a princess who finally broke free of her tower.

And if I die tomorrow, at least I’ll die having known what it means to be truly alive.