Chapter 18

Isabella's POV

I stood frozen on the stairs, caught between the urge to pull away and the strange compulsion to stay exactly where I was.

"Why?" The word escaped before I could stop it. "Why is it off limits?"

Matteo's jaw tightened. In the dim light filtering down from above, I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, held mine with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

"Because I said so."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting." His fingers loosened slightly on my wrist, but he didn't let go. "That area is off limits, Isabella. You shouldn't even think about going there. Do you understand me?"

There was something in his voice—not quite a threat, but close enough to make my skin prickle.

This wasn't the man who had pulled me down when the shot rang out last night.

This wasn't even the cold, controlled mafia boss I had seen in other moments.

I nodded slowly. "I understand."

"Good." He released my wrist and gestured up the stairs. "Now let's get you some breakfast. You need to eat properly."

The sudden shift in his demeanour threw me off balance.

One moment he was warning me away from forbidden areas, the next he was concerned about whether I had eaten.

I didn't know which version of him was real, or if both were.

I climbed the stairs ahead of him, acutely aware of his presence behind me.

My wrist still tingled where he had touched it.

I rubbed at the spot absently, trying to make the sensation go away.

We walked through the corridors in silence. The house seemed less empty now, with staff moving about their duties and guards posted at regular intervals.

"Had they all been here before and I just hadn't noticed? Or had they appeared whilst I was down in that basement corridor?"

Matteo led me to a smaller dining room—not the grand one I had found earlier, but something more intimate.

A round table sat near a window overlooking the gardens, already set for two with pristine white linens and gleaming silverware.

"Sit," he instructed, pulling out a chair.

I hesitated, then did as he asked. The cushion was soft beneath me, and the morning sun streaming through the window was warm on my face.

It should have felt peaceful. Instead, tension coiled in my stomach like a snake.

Matteo took the seat across from me and gestured to someone I hadn't noticed standing near the door.

Within moments, staff appeared with covered dishes, setting them on the table with practised efficiency.

The smell of fresh bread and coffee filled the air.

"Eat," Matteo commanded, serving himself without waiting.

I picked up my fork, poking at the eggs on my plate. "Where were you?"

He glanced up at me, one eyebrow raised. "When?"

"This morning. Earlier. The guard said you were out."

"I was." He took a bite of toast, chewing slowly before continuing. "I had business to attend to."

"What kind of business?"

"The kind that involves finding the bastard who tried to kill us last night."

The bluntness of his words made me pause, my fork halfway to my mouth. I set it down carefully. "Did you... did you find him?"

Something flickered across Matteo's face—satisfaction, maybe, or anticipation.

A smile curved his lips, but it wasn't warm. It was the smile of a predator who had cornered his prey.

"It's going to be a success."

"What does that mean?"

"It means," he responded, leaning back in his chair, "that by the end of today, I'll know exactly who ordered that hit. And then I'll deal with them accordingly."

The casual way he spoke about violence should have disturbed me more than it did.

But I was starting to understand that this was his world—a world where problems were solved with bullets and blood, not words and negotiations.

I picked at my food, my appetite still absent. "What will you do to them?"

"What do you think I'll do?"

I met his gaze across the table. "Kill them."

"Yes." No hesitation, no attempt to soften it. Just a simple confirmation of fact.

Silence fell between us. I forced myself to take a few bites of the eggs, which were perfectly cooked but tasted like sawdust in my mouth.

Matteo ate with more enthusiasm, seemingly unbothered by the conversation.

I studied him as he ate, trying to reconcile the different versions of him I had seen.

The man who had protected me on the balcony.

The cold interrogator in the basement corridor.

The confident boss who spoke about murder as easily as discussing the weather.

And underneath it all, something else. Something that made my pulse quicken when he looked at me, made my skin warm when he touched me.

An attraction I didn't want to feel and couldn't quite suppress.

He moved with such certainty, spoke with such confidence. There was never any doubt in his voice, never any hesitation in his actions.

He knew exactly who he was and what he was capable of, and he made no apologies for it.

It was dangerous to find that attractive. Dangerous and foolish and completely inappropriate given my situation.

But I felt it anyway.

"You're staring," Matteo observed without looking up from his plate.

Heat flooded my cheeks. "I'm not."

"You are." Now he did look up, his dark eyes catching mine. "Something on your mind?"

Yes, I wanted to say. "Everything is on my mind. I'm trapped in this house with you, someone tried to kill me last night, that maid thinks I'm a spy, and I can't stop thinking about how your hand felt on my wrist."

But I just shook my head. "Nothing important."

He didn't look convinced, but he let it drop.

We finished the meal in relative silence, the only sounds the clink of silverware against plates and the distant voices of staff moving through the house.

When my plate was mostly empty, I had managed to choke down about half, I set down my fork and looked at him directly.

"Matteo, I need to ask you something."

He paused, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. "Go on."

"When are you going to let me go?"

His expression didn't change. He took a sip of his coffee, set the cup down with deliberate care, and then actually rolled his eyes at me.

The gesture was so unexpected, so oddly normal, that I almost laughed.

"Let you go?" He repeated the words as though they were in a foreign language. "Isabella, you're my fiancée. I'm never going to do that."

The casualness of the statement hit me like a physical blow. Never. He had just said never as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"You can't be serious."

"I'm completely serious." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Besides, our engagement party is coming up. It's already been planned."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "What?"

"Our engagement party," he repeated slowly, as though speaking to a child. "It's customary when two people get engaged. There's usually a celebration."

"I didn't agree to an engagement party."

"You didn't agree to the engagement either, but here we are." He gestured between us. "The invitations have already been sent. The other families are expecting to attend. It would be incredibly rude to cancel now."

An engagement party in three days.

I sank back into my chair, my legs suddenly unable to support me. This was really happening.

"Despite everything—despite my protests, despite someone trying to kill us, despite the insanity of this entire situation—Matteo was moving forward with his plans as though nothing could possibly stand in his way."

And maybe nothing could. He had the power, the resources, the absolute conviction that what he wanted would come to pass.

I was just one person, trapped in his world, with no allies and no escape route.

The frustration that had been building in my chest finally overflowed. I wanted to scream, to throw something, to do anything that would make me feel less powerless.

But I just sat there, staring out at the gardens, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me.

I was completely in the dark about everything. About why I was really here, about what my aunt's connection to this family had been, about who wanted me dead, about what Matteo's true intentions were.

Every question I asked led to more questions, every door I tried to open was locked or forbidden.

And I hated it. Hated feeling so lost, so helpless, so utterly without control over my own life.

Three days until the engagement party. Three days to figure out what I was going to do.

Three days to decide who I really was in this twisted game: a pawn, a prisoner, or something else entirely.