Isabella POV
I woke to the pale morning light filtering through the bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows. The penthouse was suffocatingly quiet. On the low table beside the bed sat an ice bucket with an unopened bottle of champagne, a crystal ashtray, and a half-empty glass of amber whiskey.
Damien hadn't slept.
He was sitting in the armchair across from the bed, his tailored suit jacket discarded, his tie loosened. His deep blue eyes were fixed on me, dark and turbulent. To him, my desperate kiss last night was nothing but a calculated ploy—a caged bird's pathetic attempt to lower her captor's guard. I needed to be smarter. If I wanted to turn the most dangerous man in Chicago into the ultimate weapon for my Vendetta, I had to play his game.
I shifted against the crimson silk sheets and reached out slowly.
Instantly, his body tensed. Before my fingers could even brush his jaw, his hand shot out, his grip like an iron vice around my wrist. "What game are you playing now, principessa?" he demanded, his voice a harsh, gravelly whisper.
I didn't flinch. I didn't try to pull away. Instead, I relaxed my arm, letting him hold my weight, and gently guided his large, calloused hand toward my face. I pressed my lips softly against his knuckles, feeling the rough texture of a man who dealt in violence.
"I just wanted to make sure," I murmured, my voice trembling slightly, "that I wasn't dreaming."
Damien froze. A storm of confusion and deep-seated suspicion swirled in his eyes. He was searching my face for the lie, for the hidden dagger. He slowly released my wrist, though the rigid set of his jaw didn't soften. "Behave, Isabella," he warned coldly, stepping back as if my touch burned him.
The fragile, tense quiet was broken an hour later. Clara, my maid, had brought in a tray of coffee, her eyes downcast, her hands trembling visibly under Damien's oppressive presence. I was sipping the bitter black liquid when the heavy oak doors opened without a knock.
Silas. 'Shadow'. Damien's chief Enforcer.
He moved into the room with the silent grace of a predator and murmured low enough that only Damien was meant to hear. But in the dead silence of the penthouse, the words carried.
"Julian Barron is in the grand lobby. He's demanding to see you regarding his... abducted fiancée."
At the sound of Julian's name, my fingers tightened around the porcelain cup so violently I thought it would shatter. The memory of the speakeasy cellar, the poison burning in my veins, and Julian's treacherous smile rushed back with sickening clarity. A cold, absolute murderous intent flashed in my eyes.
Damien caught my reaction instantly. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He mistook my lethal hatred for a lover's desperate hope. He thought I was thrilled my 'savior' had arrived.
Damien stood up, his massive frame radiating a lethal, chilling aura as he prepared to face the heir of a Rival Family.
"I'm coming with you," I stated, setting the cup down and standing up to face him.
Damien stopped dead in his tracks. He closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, his large hand coming up to grip the back of my neck. His thumb brushed roughly over the dark, possessive bruise he had left on my collarbone hours ago.
"You think he can save you?" he whispered, a lethal threat lacing his tone. "You think I will let you run into his arms?"
I tilted my chin up, refusing to break eye contact. I let a mix of defiance and dark seduction bleed into my voice. "I thought the Don of the Castillo family never feared showing off his spoils." I stepped a fraction of an inch closer, my chest almost brushing his. "Or... are you afraid? Afraid that when he sees me, he'll realize I have absolutely no desire to leave you?"
