Chapter Three: Cracks in the Armor

  (Alessandro’s POV)

  

  I was losing my mind.

  

  She had been in my home for five days, and my entire, meticulously ordered world had been thrown into chaos. It was an internal chaos, one I masked with my usual cold discipline, but it was there, simmering beneath the surface.

  

  I found myself watching her on the security monitors, a habit I told myself was for security but knew was something closer to obsession. I watched her in the library, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sketched. I watched her wander the penthouse, her hand trailing over the spine of a book or the cold marble of a statue, her movements filled with a quiet, graceful melancholy. She was a captive, yet she moved with an innate dignity that grated on me, fascinated me, and infuriated me all at once.

  

  She hadn't used the credit card. She had politely refused the stylist Sofia had called. She asked for nothing. She existed in my space, a silent reproach to the power I held over her. Every beat of her defiant heart was a challenge to my control.

  

  This feeling she evoked in me—this protective, possessive, infuriating fascination—was a weakness. And weakness, in my world, was a death sentence.

  

  One evening, unable to focus on the logistics reports from my shipping terminals, I paced my study. My eyes landed on the closet where it was kept. The painting. The ghost I kept locked away. It was a symbol of my greatest failure, a permanent reminder of the night I couldn't protect my parents. No one had seen it in ten years. The pain it represented was a private, sacred thing.

  

  But the image of Isabella, with her steady hands and her sad, wise eyes, intruded on my thoughts. A restorer of art. Someone who fixes what is broken.

  

  The idea was insane. To show her the painting would be to hand her a weapon. It would be an act of profound, unforgivable weakness. It would mean trusting a Falcone, the daughter of my enemy, with the most broken part of my soul. I rejected the thought, pouring another glass of whiskey, the fire of the liquor doing nothing to quell the turmoil inside me.

  

  I worked until after midnight, but her image wouldn't leave me. Finally, defeated by an impulse I couldn't name, I found myself walking down the silent hall to her room. My heart, a muscle I thought had turned to stone, hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. This was a mistake.

  

  I knocked. When she opened the door, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and surprise, it was too late to turn back.

  

  “I need you to come with me,” I said, my voice harsher than I intended, a desperate attempt to shore up my crumbling defenses.

  

  I led her to the study and, with trembling hands, I retrieved the painting and placed it on the easel. I watched her face as she looked at it. I saw her professionalism take over as she assessed the damage, but I also saw the flicker of profound empathy in her honey eyes. She understood. She understood loss.

  

  “Can you fix her?” The question was ripped from my throat before I could stop it, a whisper of the eighteen-year-old boy I thought I had buried in the ashes of my old life.

  

  She turned to me, her gaze steady and compassionate. “I can,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “I can make her whole again.”

  

  In that moment, she held all the power. She wasn't my prisoner; she was my confessor, my potential salvation. I had just handed her the key to my gilded cage, and I didn't know if she would use it to set me free or to destroy me completely.