CHAPTER ONE
Isabella POV
The thing about being a Moretti is... no one ever tells you anything.
Apparently, there's some new guy arriving today. Big deal, hush-hush, don't-ask-questions level secrecy. I asked Enzo what kind of "business" this mystery man was in, and he gave me the classic big brother response: a glare, a grunt, and the charming line, "Go paint something and stay out of it."
So now I'm here, in the sunroom, surrounded by houseplants and half-finished sketches, sipping peach iced tea and doodling a dinosaur in a top hat. Dino Mafia. A masterpiece in the making.
The house is unusually tense today. Staff moving faster. Enzo wearing actual slacks. Papa in his study with that tight-jawed look like someone just threatened his empire. Again.
And still no one tells me anything. I'm nineteen, not nine. I might live in my own little bubble of coffee, conspiracies, and chaos, but I'm not clueless.
There's something off about this family. Always has been.
The long looks. The locked doors. The body count in Papa's stories that never quite add up.
But I don't ask.
I don't want to know.
Because asking would make it real.
And my world? It's not built for that kind of truth.
Then he walks in.
Tall. Lean. Wrapped in shadows even though it's broad daylight. His face is unreadable, his eyes a shade of gray that looks like storm clouds ready to crack open.
He doesn't smile.
He scans the room like he's already bored—and then his gaze lands on me.
One second. Maybe two.
But I feel it.
Like lightning.
And just like that, my brain short-circuits.
I forget how to draw. I forget how to swallow. I forget my own name.
He's not just attractive he's dangerous.
He looks like the kind of man who never loses sleep and never says sorry. The kind of man who carries secrets like knives.
My kind of disaster.
So, obviously, the first words out of my mouth are:
"Please don't tell me that's my new math tutor."
Silence.
Then Papa clears his throat.
"Isabella, this is Lucas. He'll be... keeping an eye on you for a while."
My smile freezes.
Oh. Hell. No.
"You got me a babysitter?" I practically screech. "What am I, five?!"
Lucas—apparently that's his name—says nothing. Just watches me. Calm. Cold. Like he's cataloging my meltdown for future reference.
I stand up, ignoring the sketchpad dropping to the floor. "I don't need a bodyguard."
"You nearly flipped your car last week driving to the beach," Enzo says from behind me. "At night. In the rain."
"It was a drizzle! And I missed one turn"
Papa raises a hand. "Enough. He's staying."
Lucas doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch.
Just exists. Like smoke curling through the room.
And I hate it.
I hate that he's here.
I hate that he's so quiet. So calm. So
So stupidly hot.
I glare at him. "I talk a lot, just so you know. I ramble. I overshare. You'll get tired of me in like, an hour."
Something flickers behind his eyes.
Is it... amusement? No. That's impossible.
"Noted," he says quietly.
And just like that, I hate him more.
Or maybe... I don't.
...
Lucas POV
She talks a lot.
That's the first thing I notice.
Not her face which is, admittedly, distractingly pretty.
Not her long black hair or the way she's barefoot and sitting cross-legged like she owns the world.
Not even her ridiculous drawing of a dinosaur in a top hat.
No.
What strikes me is her voice.
Bright. Fast. Barely breathing between sentences. Like if she stops talking, something might catch up to her.
And she's... innocent.
That part hits harder than I expected. She doesn't know what her family is. What they do. I can tell in two minutes flat. No guilt. No shadow in her eyes. No recognition of the way the guards stiffen or how the staff avoids eye contact.
She lives in a bubble.
And now I'm the needle.
I nod to Vito Moretti, the boss her father. I've been briefed on the man. He's colder in person. Calculating. And utterly convinced I'm exactly what he needs to keep his daughter alive and quiet.
He's right about one thing.
She is reckless.
But not in the way he thinks.
She's reckless with her heart. Her words. Her trust.
Which makes her dangerous.
To me.
Because I already feel the edge of something sharp and irrational starting to dig into my mission.
She stares at me with a mix of challenge and curiosity. She's trying to figure me out. She doesn't know I've already started memorizing every exit in this room, every blind spot, every weakness.
And hers?
Might just be me.
...