Vincenzo POV
My knuckles were split, the skin raw and stinging despite the numbing burn of the whiskey I'd downed on the drive back. The rat had talked eventually—they always did—but the stench of his fear and copper blood still clung to my clothes. It was a perfume I had grown used to, the scent of my reign as the Don of Chicago.
I needed silence. I needed the void.
I pushed open the door to my suite, expecting the cold, sterile darkness that usually greeted me. Instead, the air shifted.
My hand went to the gun at my waistband before my conscious mind even registered the threat. I didn't make a sound as I stepped onto the plush carpet, the predator in me instantly awake. Someone was in my territory.
I moved toward the bed, the moonlight slicing through the heavy curtains to illuminate a shape beneath the charcoal silk sheets. A woman.
Rage, hot and instantaneous, flooded my veins. A Falcone spy? An assassin? It didn't matter. I raised the gun, my finger tightening on the trigger, ready to put a bullet in the intruder's skull.
Then I smelled it.
It wasn't the metallic tang of blood or the cheap perfume of the club girls I sometimes used to scratch an itch. It was jasmine. Sweet, heady, innocent jasmine.
Cara.
The name echoed in the hollow chamber of my chest, freezing my hand in mid-air. It was the scent of a ghost, a memory I had buried six feet under ten years ago. My breath hitched, painful in my lungs.
I lowered the gun, stepping closer. The woman turned in her sleep, her hair spilling over my pillow like a dark river. It wasn't Cara. It was the Falcone girl. Isabella.
I should have dragged her out by her hair. I should have thrown her into the corridor for daring to defile my sanctuary. But my body, exhausted and drunk, betrayed me. The scent was a drug, lulling the violence that constantly roared in my head.
I didn't think. I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a pile, and slid into the bed beside her. The mattress dipped. She stirred, seeking warmth, and backed into me.
Instead of pushing her away, I pulled her closer. Her body was soft, warm, alive. For the first time in a decade, the darkness didn't scream. I closed my eyes and fell into the abyss.
The pounding on the door sounded like gunshots.
My eyes snapped open. The morning sun was blinding, but the weight on my chest was heavier. I looked down.
Isabella Falcone was curled against me, her head resting on my shoulder, her hand splayed over my heart. And my arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her in a vice grip like she was mine.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. I shoved her away, revulsion coiling in my gut—not at her, but at myself.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I roared, sitting up.
Isabella gasped, her eyes flying open. She looked disoriented for a second, her gaze darting from my bare chest to the gun on the nightstand, and finally to my face. Then, clarity dawned. She looked around the room—the dark walls, the masculine furniture, the lack of any guest amenities.
"Get out," I snarled, my voice rough with sleep and fury. "Is this how the Falcones do business? Sending their women to whore themselves out in my bed to gain favor?"
She didn't flinch. She sat up, pulling the sheet to cover her chest, her expression shifting from shock to a cold, calculating calm. She looked at the door where the pounding had stopped, then back at me.
"I was told this was the guest suite," she said, her voice steady. "By your cousin."
"And you believed her?" I laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. "Or did you see an opportunity to spread your legs for the Don?"
Her eyes narrowed. She didn't defend herself. Instead, a smirk touched her lips—sharp and dangerous.
"I suppose hospitality isn't a Moretti strong suit," she drawled. "But what's more interesting, Don Moretti, is that you found an intruder in your bed, and instead of killing me, you cuddled me like a teddy bear all night." She leaned forward slightly, challenging me. "Tell me, was it love at first sight?"
The taunt struck a nerve I didn't know I had. I lunged forward, gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at the darkness in my eyes. "Do not mistake my exhaustion for affection, principessa. If I find you in here again, you won't leave walking."
I released her abruptly. "Now get the fuck out."
She didn't scramble. She didn't cry. She stood up, wrapped the sheet around herself like a toga, and walked to her suitcase. She dressed quickly in the bathroom, and when she emerged, she was armored in a pristine dress and high heels.
She walked to the door, her head held high.
I watched her go, my blood boiling. I hated her. I hated that she had tricked me. But mostly, I hated that her scent still lingered on my skin.
Isabella opened the heavy door. Cristina was standing right there in the hallway, a look of gleeful anticipation plastered on her face, waiting to see the Falcone girl in tears.
Isabella paused. She didn't look broken. She looked triumphant.
She smiled at my cousin—a smile that promised war.
"Thank you, cugina," Isabella said, her voice sweet enough to rot teeth. "Your arrangements were... thoughtful. Vincenzo insisted I stay. It seems he is very pleased with his fiancée."
Cristina's face went slack, her jaw dropping as the color drained from her cheeks.
Isabella stepped past her, her heels clicking down the hall, leaving silence and chaos in her wake.
