Two Weeks Later — Palermo
Isabella tried not to look for him.
She tried not to search every gala for a flash of black velvet, every street for the glint of a watch she knew he wore on his right wrist, every pair of dark eyes for his.
She told herself she was stronger than this.
But obsession has a way of whispering louder than reason.
And Leonardo?
He had stopped whispering.
---
It began again in Palermo.
A fundraiser for orphans—ironic, considering half the room was full of men who had created them. Politicians, arms dealers, mafia wives in red lip and false virtue.
Isabella wore white lace this time.
Her mother's doing. "For softness," she had said. "We're building alliances."
Her fiancé sat beside her, smug and spotless. He smelled like cashmere and cowardice.
And then—
Her blood turned electric.
She felt him before she saw him.
Isabella turned her head, slow, heartbeat crashing, and there he was: across the room, flanked by no one, drink in hand, mouth curved into that arrogant, unapologetic smirk.
Leonardo Valentini.
Bolder. Darker. Crueler.
And completely focused on her.
---
He didn't look away when her fiancé reached for her hand.
Didn't blink when the press took pictures.
He just stood there, swirling his drink like he was waiting for someone to ask why the devil had just walked into heaven.
She excused herself.
Not to the restroom. Not to take a call.
She didn't even bother lying.
She simply stood up and walked—across the floor, past senators and saints and sinners—and stepped through the back terrace doors like gravity was dragging her by the throat.
He was already there.
Waiting.
Leaning on the railing like he owned the moonlight.
---
"You came," he murmured.
"I didn't say a word to you inside."
"You didn't have to."
She crossed her arms, trying to breathe like a normal person.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"I go wherever I want, Isabella. You know that."
Her throat tightened.
"I'm engaged."
He stepped closer.
"And yet you're wearing my perfume."
Her breath hitched.
He was right.
The scent clinging to her wasn't hers.
It was his cologne—subtle, woodsmoke and spice—transferred to her from the last time he pressed his chest to hers in the garden.
She should have said something. Should have turned, walked away, screamed for security. But she didn't. Instead, she whispered:
> "You don't get to follow me."
Leonardo leaned in, eyes burning.
> "You kissed me under a fig tree and let me put my hand on your throat. You think I'd let him keep you after that?"
She opened her mouth to fight back—but he was already moving.
---
His hand slid into her hair.
His mouth crashed onto hers.
There was nothing gentle this time.
No teasing.
No holding back.
He kissed her like he was trying to erase her name. Like the memory of her had ruined him and he wanted to return the favor.
She moaned into his mouth.
Bit him when he tried to pull back.
Clawed at his shirt like sanity had snapped.
He spun her against the stone railing, one hand gripping her hip, the other sliding under the lace of her dress.
> "Say his name," he growled.
She shook her head.
> "Say mine."
> "Leo…"
> "Louder."
> "Leo—oh f***—"
The sound of footsteps inside snapped her back.
Her eyes flew open. She shoved him off with trembling hands.
Breathless. Flushed. Soaking.
He smirked, licking her bottom lip.
> "Go back inside, principessa. Smile for your future husband. Let him hold your hand with my taste still on your tongue."
---
She ran.
Back through the doors.
Back to her table.
Back into the gilded cage of her life—
With her dress wrinkled, her lips bruised, and her heart pounding for a man her father would rather see dead.
Two days later — Rome
She lied.
To her fiancé.
To her mother.
To her driver.
To herself.
A charity committee meeting at Hotel Imperium, she'd said.
Her mother nodded approvingly.
Giovanni kissed her forehead like a proud little politician.
And Isabella Moretti got into the black car with trembling fingers and a mind that had already stripped her bare.
Room 707.
He'd texted the number. No name.
She deleted it the second she memorized it.
---
The elevator doors slid open.
She hesitated only once—outside the door, hand raised, heart a riot.
She could walk away. Right now. Turn back, wipe this from her skin and memory.
She knocked.
It opened before she could breathe.
He didn't say a word.
Just stood there in black slacks, no shirt, his hair damp like he'd just stepped out of the shower—and yet, it was her who felt naked.
He stepped aside. She entered.
He closed the door behind her and locked it.
Click.
The sound sealed her fate.
---
"Still pretending?" he asked, voice low.
She said nothing.
Just slipped off her trench coat and let it fall to the marble.
Underneath: a white satin dress with no straps, no zipper, no defense.
He inhaled sharply.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You wore that for me?"
She looked up, defiant and trembling.
"I wore it for myself."
"Liar," he said, stepping closer, "You wore it to see what I'd do to you in it."
---
He was on her in seconds.
Mouth crashing to hers like violence, hands gripping her waist so tightly she gasped. Her back slammed into the wall as his lips dragged down her neck, over the silk, across her collarbone.
His voice, wrecked:
> "Take it off. Now."
> "Make me."
He growled—actually growled—and yanked the satin down in one brutal motion.
The fabric hit the floor.
Isabella didn't even flinch.
---
He picked her up without warning—hands under her thighs, back pressed to the wall, mouth bruising hers between every filthy word:
> "You think about me when he touches you?"
"Do you wish it was me when he f***s you soft?"
"Say it. Say it, Isabella—say it or I'll stop."
She gasped against his lips.
> "You. Only you. Always you."
He kissed her like that answer saved his life.
And then he ruined her.
Right there.
Against the wall.
Her nails in his shoulders.
His name a sin between her teeth.
---
Later, tangled in sheets, the city humming below them, he watched her while she traced the scar near his ribs.
"You're going to get me killed," she whispered.
Leonardo leaned in, kissed her temple.
> "Then I'll take you with me."