Page 6

6

Isadora

“He’ll be accompanying you everywhere until the wedding.”

My father’s words linger in the air between us as I stare at him across the breakfast table. Sofia, my mother, sips her espresso with practiced indifference, as if the assignment of my personal jailer is merely a minor detail in the wedding preparations.

“Everywhere?” I repeat, keeping my voice steady despite the panic clawing at my throat. “That’s excessive.”

“The wedding is in nine days,” my father says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The alliance with the Calvino family is too important to risk any... incidents.”

The way he says “incidents” makes my skin crawl. As if I’m a liability rather than his daughter. But then again, in the De Angelis household, that’s exactly what I am—an asset to be protected until the transfer of ownership.

“Don Calvino personally selected Mr. Gravano,” my mother adds, her eyes assessing my reaction over the rim of her cup. “He comes highly recommended. The best in the business, apparently.”

Of course, he does. The universe couldn’t have been content with a forgettable one-night stand. No, it had to deliver Alessio—the man who had me moaning his name against bathroom tiles—as my shadow for the next nine days.

“I’ve already shown him the house layout yesterday,” I say, pushing my untouched croissant away. “He’s very... thorough.”

My mother’s eyebrow arches slightly. “You don’t seem pleased with the arrangement.”

I force a smile. “I’m just not used to having someone follow me everywhere.”

“You’ll hardly notice him,” my father says dismissively. “These men are trained to be invisible.”

That’s the problem. Alessio Gravano is anything but invisible to me. Even now, knowing he’s stationed somewhere outside the dining room, my body thrums with awareness of his proximity. As if my skin remembers the heat of his touch, the pressure of his hands.

“I have a fitting at eleven,” I say, rising from the table. “I assume my new shadow will be joining me.”

My father nods. “He’ll drive you.”

“I have my own car.”

“Not anymore.” His tone softens, a rare concession. “It’s just until the wedding, Isadora. A precaution.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. It’s not the security detail that bothers me—it’s the man behind it. The man who knows exactly how I sound when I come apart, who has tasted every inch of me, now pretending to be a stranger in service to my fiancé’s family.

I find Alessio waiting in the foyer, his broad frame silhouetted against the morning light streaming through the windows. He’s dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit, sunglasses tucked into his breast pocket. The picture of professional detachment.

“Miss De Angelis,” he greets me, hands clasped behind his back. “I understand you have an appointment at eleven.”

“A wedding dress fitting,” I say, watching his expression carefully. “I hope you’re comfortable with lace and tulle, Mr. Gravano.”

Something flashes in his amber eyes—too quick to identify before it’s hidden away. “I adapt to all environments, Miss De Angelis.”

“Call me Isadora,” I say, moving past him toward the door. “If you’re going to follow me into fitting rooms and bathrooms, we might as well dispense with formalities.”

He falls into step beside me, close enough that I catch his scent—sandalwood and something darker, uniquely him. The same scent that had clung to my skin that night.

“As you wish,” he says, his voice neutral. “Though I’ll remain outside fitting rooms, not within them.”

I glance at him as we reach the car—a sleek black Audi with tinted windows. “Pity. You’ve had such intimate opinions on what I wear before.”

His jaw tightens as he opens the passenger door for me. “We agreed that night doesn’t exist, Isadora.”

The sound of my name on his lips sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. I slide into the seat, using the moment to compose myself. This is a dangerous game, poking at the tension between us. But danger is the only thing that makes me feel alive these days.

The drive to the bridal salon is silent, thick with unspoken words. I watch the city blur past, aware of his hands on the steering wheel—hands that had gripped my hips, tangled in my hair, traced every curve of my body. Now they’re steady, controlled, those capable fingers guiding the wheel with precision.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking away from the road.

“I’m assessing,” I correct him. “Trying to reconcile the man from the club with Don Calvino’s chosen Capo .”

His mouth quirks slightly. “And what have you concluded?”

“That you’re a man of many faces, Alessio Gravano. I wonder which one is real.”

He pulls into a parking space across from the bridal salon and finally turns to look at me. The intensity in his gaze steals my breath.

“In this business, reality is a luxury few can afford,” he says quietly. “You should know that better than most, principessa .”

The endearment—the same one he’d whispered against my skin that night—hangs between us like a live wire. Before I can respond, he’s out of the car and opening my door, professional mask firmly back in place.

The bridal salon staff fawns over me, the De Angelis heiress, while regarding Alessio with curious glances that quickly drop when met with his imposing presence. He positions himself by the door, a silent sentinel as I’m guided to a private fitting room.

“Your security is quite... intimidating,” the stylist whispers, helping me into the custom Vera Wang creation that costs more than most people’s yearly salary.

“That’s rather the point of security, isn’t it?” I reply, watching in the mirror as the dress is fastened around me. Its weight settles on my shoulders like a beautiful burden.

When I emerge for the final assessment, Alessio’s eyes find mine in the mirror. For a heartbeat, his professional mask slips, and I see naked desire flash across his features before he can hide it away. The hunger in his gaze makes heat pool low in my belly, a visceral reminder of how it felt to have those eyes watching me come undone.

“What do you think?” I ask, turning to face him. The question is for the benefit of the hovering stylists, but my eyes challenge him directly.

He clears his throat. “The dress is... suitable, Miss De Angelis.”

“High praise from a security expert,” I say dryly, turning back to the mirror. The woman reflected there looks like a stranger—perfect, polished, a porcelain doll dressed for display. Nothing like the woman who’d writhed against Alessio in that club bathroom, taking what she wanted without shame.

After the fitting, we stop for lunch at an upscale restaurant where the ma?tre d’ knows both families by name. As we’re seated at a private table, I notice Alessio scanning the room, assessing each patron, each exit.

“Do you ever stop working?” I ask, unfolding my napkin.

“No,” he answers simply.

“Not even for pleasure?” The word hangs between us, loaded with memory.

His eyes darken, but his expression remains composed. “Pleasure is fleeting. Discipline endures.”

“Is that what you call what happened between us? A lack of discipline?”

He leans forward slightly, voice dropping. “What I call it doesn’t matter. It happened. It’s over. We move forward.”

“Into a future where I marry Luca Calvino and you...what? Fade back into the Calvino organization?” I shake my head. “Tell me, Alessio, does Luca know what one of his father’s favorite Capo did to his bride?”

His hand shoots out, wrapping around my wrist beneath the table. Not painful, but firm, commanding attention. “Don’t push this, Isadora. There are ears everywhere, and consequences for recklessness that even your family name can’t protect you from.”

The threat should frighten me. Instead, it sends a thrill of anticipation through my body, awakening nerve endings I’ve tried to numb since that night. I lean closer, close enough to feel his breath against my cheek.

“Is that concern I hear, Mr. Gravano? Or guilt?”

His thumb strokes once, almost imperceptibly, across my pulse point before he releases my wrist. The casual intimacy of the gesture nearly undoes me.

“Both,” he admits, surprising me with his honesty. “Your fiancé isn’t known for his forgiving nature.”

My phone rings, cutting through the tension. Luca’s name flashes on the screen. Speak of the devil.

Alessio notices, his expression darkening as I answer.

“Isadora,” Luca’s voice, sharp with impatience. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

“I had my fitting,” I reply, conscious of Alessio watching me, reading every micro expression. “The dress needed alterations.”

“I don’t care about the dress,” he snaps. “I care that my fiancée is unreachable while I’m working in Chicago.”

I straighten my spine, old defenses sliding into place. “I apologize, Luca. It won’t happen again.”

Alessio’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing at my submissive tone.

“That’s better,” Luca says, appeased. “I hear my father assigned Gravano to you. Good. He’ll keep you in line until I return.”

The casual dismissal in his voice, the assumption of ownership, makes something inside me crack. “Is that what you think I need, Luca? Someone to keep me in line?”

Silence stretches across the connection before Luca laughs, the sound cold and brittle. “Don’t start this again, Isadora. Our arrangement isn’t up for negotiation.”

Before I can respond, Alessio reaches across the table and takes the phone from my hand. I’m too stunned to protest.

“Mr. Calvino,” he says, voice smooth and deferential in a way that doesn’t match the steel in his eyes. “Alessio Gravano. I apologize for the interruption, but we’ve arrived at a location with poor reception. Miss De Angelis will call you this evening from a secure line.”

He pauses, listening, his expression revealing nothing of Luca’s response.

“Of course, sir. Your fiancée’s safety is my only priority until your return.” Another pause. “Yes, sir. Understood.”

He ends the call and slides the phone back to me, his fingers brushing mine in the process. The contact sends a jolt of electricity up my arm.

“You had no right,” I say, though there’s no real anger in my voice.

“Actually, I do. Ensuring your stress levels remain manageable falls under my security responsibilities.” His tone is professional, but there’s something else beneath it—concern, perhaps. Or possessiveness. “That wasn’t a healthy conversation.”

“That’s my life, Alessio. What you witnessed is the man I’m marrying in ten—no, nine—days.” I laugh without humor. “Did you expect romance?”

“I expected basic respect,” he says quietly. “Even in our world.”

His words hang between us— “our world”—a reminder of the dark reality we both inhabit. The mafia princess and the enforcer, playing roles assigned by family legacy and blood oaths.

“Why do you care?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He studies me for a long moment, as if deciding how much truth to reveal. “Let’s just say I recognize the signs of a man who views women as property.”

Something in his tone makes me look closer, searching those amber eyes for clues to the mystery that is Alessio Gravano. “Your mother?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it?” I press. “You’re in my space, controlling my movements, intercepting my calls. Yet, somehow it feels different from when Luca does the same things. Why is that, Alessio?”

“Perhaps because my motivation is your protection, not your submission,” he answers, his gaze intense. “There’s a difference between guarding something valuable and owning it.”

The weight of his words settles over me, stirring something dangerous—hope. Hope that someone sees me as more than a transaction, a bargaining chip, a pretty possession.

“Don’t,” I whisper, suddenly terrified of where this conversation is heading. “Don’t make me believe there are choices when we both know there aren’t.”

His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “There are always choices, Isadora. Even in cages of our own making.”

“Some cages have consequences for escape that are worse than captivity,” I counter, thinking of my father’s connections, the power of the Calvino family, the business interests secured by my marriage.

Alessio leans back, professional distance restored. “Then we understand each other.”

But as our eyes lock across the table, I’m not sure we do. Because understanding Alessio Gravano would require knowing who he really is beneath the enforcer facade. And I’m beginning to suspect that the man assigned to guard me carries secrets far more dangerous than our forbidden night together.

The realization should make me pull away. Instead, it draws me closer, like a moth to a flame, knowing the burn might be worth the momentary brilliance.

Nine days until my wedding. Nine days with this man who awakens parts of me I’ve tried to bury. Nine days to discover the truth behind those amber eyes that see too much.

Nine days that could change everything.