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8

Isadora

The photograph slips from my fingers, landing silently on the plush carpet of my bedroom. It shows a younger Alessio—perhaps fifteen years ago—standing beside a heavyset older woman, his arm protectively around her shoulders. Nothing remarkable about that, except for the name scrawled on the back: “Stefano & Maria.”

Stefano. Not Alessio.

I found the photo tucked inside a worn paperback in his jacket—a jacket he draped over my shoulders yesterday when the evening air turned cool during our walk through the garden, and I refused to go inside. He stepped away to take a call, and curiosity got the better of me.

Now, that curiosity is transforming into something more dangerous: suspicion.

I pick up the photograph again, studying the woman’s face. She looks ordinary—kind eyes, gray hair pulled into a sensible bun, the sort of woman who might be anyone’s grandmother or favorite aunt. But the way Alessio—or Stefano—looks at her speaks of something deeper. Devotion. Love.

Not the expression of a man who claims to have no attachments.

A sharp knock interrupts my thoughts.

“Miss De Angelis, your fiancé has arrived.” Carmela’s voice carries through the door. She’s been my family’s maid ever since she finished high school, nearly ten years ago now. “Your parents request your presence in the main parlor.”

Luca. Back from Chicago earlier than expected.

I tuck the photograph into my desk drawer, smooth my dress, and check my reflection. The woman staring back at me looks composed, perfect—the De Angelis heiress preparing to greet her future husband. Only the slight tension around my eyes betrays anything else happening beneath the surface.

“Tell them I’ll be right down,” I call, applying a fresh coat of lipstick and powder as armor.

As I descend the grand staircase, voices drift up from the parlor—my father’s measured tones, my mother’s practiced laughter, and cutting through them both, Luca’s sharp, insistent cadence. The voice of a man accustomed to being heard, regardless of what he’s saying.

And then another voice—lower, controlled, but with an unmistakable edge of authority. Alessio.

My steps falter.

The tableau in the parlor is exactly as I imagined: my father and Luca in matching power poses by the fireplace, my mother perched elegantly on the edge of a settee, and Alessio—stationed near the door like the bodyguard he’s supposed to be, yet somehow commanding more presence than anyone else in the room.

His eyes find mine immediately, and something electric passes between us before he looks away, face impassive.

“Isadora.” Luca strides toward me, taking my hands in his. His grip is too tight, his cologne too strong. He kisses me on both cheeks, a performance for our audience. “Beautiful as always.”

“Welcome back,” I say, extracting my hands as gracefully as possible. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“I wrapped up business early.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I couldn’t stay away from my bride any longer.”

My father beams with approval. “Excellent! We were just discussing tomorrow’s pre-wedding dinner. The governor has confirmed his attendance.”

“Perfect,” Luca says, his hand settling possessively at the small of my back. “We need to make a statement with this wedding. The Calvino-De Angelis alliance will be unbreakable.”

I feel Alessio’s gaze on us, though when I glance his way, he’s staring straight ahead, the picture of professional detachment.

“Isn’t that right, Gravano?” Luca calls out, deliberately drawing Alessio into the conversation. “My father tells me you’ve been an exemplary guard dog for my fiancée.”

Alessio’s expression doesn’t change, but I notice the slight tightening of his jaw. “I take my responsibilities seriously, Mr. Calvino.”

“Call me Luca,” he replies with false geniality. “After all, if Father trusted you with a task of such importance, it means you’re a part of the family.”

The irony of his words might have made me laugh if the tension in the room weren’t so suffocating. Luca has no idea that his “guard dog” has already had his fiancée in ways he never will—against bathroom tiles with desperate hands and hungry mouths.

“Speaking of responsibilities,” my mother interjects smoothly, “we should finalize the seating arrangements for tomorrow. Antonio, why don’t you and Luca come to the study? Isadora can join us after she freshens up from her afternoon activities.”

The dismissal is clear. Business first, bride second.

“I’ll escort Miss De Angelis upstairs,” Alessio says, his professional tone betraying nothing of our complicated relationship.

Luca’s eyes narrow slightly. “Always so attentive, Gravano.” He turns to me, brushing his lips against my ear. “We’ll talk later, cara . I’ve missed you.”

The whispered words are meant to sound intimate, yet they carry a weight of possession that makes my skin crawl. I force a smile and watch as my parents lead Luca away, their voices fading as they discuss dinner placements like military strategies.

The moment they disappear down the hallway, I exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Are you alright?” Alessio asks, his voice low, eyes scanning the hallway for potential eavesdroppers.

“Fine,” I reply automatically.

His gaze, penetrating and too perceptive, sees through the lie. “Your hands are shaking.”

I glance down, surprised to find he’s right. I clench them into fists. “Luca has that effect on me.”

“He’s threatened by me,” Alessio observes, guiding me toward the stairs with a hand hovering near—but not touching—my elbow. Ever the professional in the common areas of the house.

“Everyone should be threatened by you,” I say quietly. “Especially someone named Giancarlo Calvino.” I whisper.

His steps falter, almost imperceptibly. “What are you talking about?”

I wait until we reach the top of the stairs, where the security cameras don’t quite reach. “Who’s Maria, Alessio? Or should I call you Stefano?”

His face doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—a flash of something primal, dangerous. His hand closes around my upper arm, not painfully but with unmistakable urgency, and he steers me toward my room.

Once inside, with the door firmly shut, he releases me and takes a deliberate step back. “Where did you hear that name?”

I move to my desk, retrieving the photograph from the drawer. “You dropped this in your jacket. Along with these notes and flash.”

He takes the photo, his expression darkening as he recognizes it. For a moment, I think he might deny everything, but instead, his shoulders sag almost imperceptibly.

“You shouldn’t have gone through my things,” he says, but there’s resignation in his voice rather than anger.

“And you shouldn’t be lying about who you are while claiming to protect me,” I counter. “Who are you really, Alessio? Because I’m starting to think the enforcer loyal to the Calvino’s is just another mask.”

He pockets the faded photograph, his movements controlled but tense. “It’s complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it for me,” I demand, stepping closer to him. “Because in seven days, I’m supposed to marry into the Calvino family, and I’d like to know exactly what I’m walking into.”

His eyes meet mine, and for a breath-stealing moment, I see conflict raging behind them—calculation, caution, and something else. Something that looks remarkably like concern.

“What else do you know?” he asks.

“I know you’re planning something against Giancarlo,” I say, watching his reaction carefully.

His expression hardens. “Going through other people’s things is dangerous, principessa .”

“So is lying to the people you’re supposed to protect,” I shoot back. “I also found this.” I pull another leather-bound flash drive from my pocket—another item from his jacket. “Heavily encrypted, but I recognize the markings. Financial data, I’m guessing. Evidence?”

This time, alarm flashes across his features before his control reasserts itself. He moves with startling speed, closing the distance between us and plucking the drive from my fingers.

“You have no idea what you’re playing with,” he growls, his voice dropping to a dangerous register that should frighten me. Instead, it sends heat spiraling through my body. “You had no business unzipping the inner pocket of my jacket.”

“Then tell me,” I challenge, refusing to back down even as he towers over me. “Because right now, I’m seven days away from marrying into a family that my bodyguard is apparently plotting against. That makes me either a target or an unwitting pawn.”

Something in my words seems to reach him. His expression softens fractionally, and he takes a deep breath.

“I can’t tell you everything,” he says finally. “Not yet. But I can tell you that I’m not who Giancarlo Calvino thinks I am. And yes, I have plans for him—plans that have been in motion for longer than you’ve been engaged to his son.”

“Is that why you slept with me that night?” I ask, the question that has been burning inside me since I found out his secret. “Was I part of the plan?”

His hand shoots out, gripping my chin with gentle but immovable fingers, forcing me to meet his gaze. “No. That night had nothing to do with any of this. I didn’t know who you were.”

The heat of his touch sends electricity racing along my nerves. My breath catches as his thumb brushes across my lower lip, a ghost of intimacy that makes my body remember with visceral clarity what those hands are capable of.

“And if you had known?” I whisper.

His eyes darken, pupils dilating as he stares at my mouth. “It wouldn’t have mattered,” he admits, his voice rough. “I still would’ve wanted you. That’s the problem.”

The confession hangs between us, charged with implications neither of us can afford to acknowledge.

I should pull away. I should demand more answers, threaten to expose him, do anything except lean into his touch. But self-preservation abandons me the moment he walks back into my life.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

His grip gentles, fingers sliding from my chin to curl around the nape of my neck. The possessive gesture makes my pulse jump. “Because you’re smarter than they give you credit for. And because whatever happens in the next week, I need you to know I never meant for you to be caught in the crossfire.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“Justice,” he says simply. “Long overdue.”

Before I can question him further, a sharp knock at the door forces us apart. Alessio moves with fluid grace, putting appropriate distance between us as my mother’s voice calls through the door.

“Isadora? Luca is asking for you.”

“Just a moment,” I call, smoothing my hair with trembling hands.

Alessio watches me compose myself, his expression unreadable. As I move toward the door, he catches my wrist, his touch burning through my skin.

“Be careful, Isadora,” he murmurs. “Luca is more dangerous than you know.”

“So are you,” I remind him.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “The difference is, I’m dangerous for him. Not for you.”

The certainty in his voice shouldn’t comfort me—not when I’ve just discovered he’s hiding his identity and plotting against my future family. But as I walk downstairs to meet Luca, the warmth of Alessio’s touch lingers on my skin, a reminder of the choice now looming before me.

I can expose Alessio’s deception, possibly saving the Calvino-De Angelis alliance but condemning myself to a life with Luca.

Or I can keep his secret, becoming complicit in whatever vengeance he has planned, risking everything my family has built and getting a chance to extricate myself from this marriage I never wanted.

As Luca’s arm circles my waist possessively in the study, his fingers digging into my hip with unnecessary force, I catch sight of Alessio watching from the doorway. The heat in his gaze when our eyes meet makes my decision for me.

Seven days until my wedding. Seven days to discover the truth about the man who’s awakened parts of me I didn’t know existed. Seven days to decide if his revenge is worth risking my world for.

And God help me, I’m already leaning toward yes.