Isabella's POV

The last thing I remembered was collapsing wearily in his arms and in the pool, but when I woke up the next morning, it was on a warm, comfy bed.

I squirmed in the warmth of the bed, and for a moment I felt like not rising. I was weak and spent. And yet, for the first time in years, I was extremely satisfied. My insides fluttered like a thousand butterflies were having a parade inside of me. A soft, satisfied smile staining my lips.

Last night shouldn't have happened. It was probably the biggest mistake I’d ever make—fucking a total stranger. But it was also the best. If I had the chance of another night with that devilishly handsome stranger, who held so much command over my body last night, I don't think I’ll ever pass it.

I rose up gently, squinting my eyes as the sun rushing in through the full-length windows almost blinded me.

I groaned softly in pain, shaking off the sting, and I carried my eyes to the room. It was a massive bedroom, with walls of polished wood, carrying various Italian paintings, and furnished with more luxury than I had ever seen in a single room.

I struggled off the bed. My smile turns sour as realization slowly hits me. I still needed to escape this place. I might have enjoyed the protection of the stranger last night. That still doesn't make me safe. Don Vincenzo has a reputation of being a total asshole when crossed.

That brought more strength to my legs, and I ran for the large closet. I stared around at the clothes and accessories arranged in different sections of the room.

I went for what I needed—clothes. Mine was beyond tattered, and I can't escape whilst butt naked. I snatch a printed shirt and knee-length pants from the shelves, with a belt to hold the pants. I shrugged my shoulders. He shouldn’t mind if I took his clothes.

I walked out of the bedroom later, heading for the elevator. I picked up on some quiet noises from behind me, and I whirled around, only to collapse against his big, broad chest.

“Sorry,” I muttered, pushing a lock of my hair back as it covered my eyes. I looked up at him, and I tried my best to look past his superb manly beauty, even when his bare torso made it harder. The only thing he wore was a short that kept that monstrous thing between his legs caged.

He said nothing, and his eyes, hard and piercing, critiquing the clothes hanging around my tiny frame, made things awkward between us.

“I had to borrow them. My clothes were torn. I hope you don't mind,” I said, trying to strike up a conversation.

But I might as well be talking to myself. His eyes just kept sweeping me up as if searching for my curves lost in the huge clothes.

“Last night was great, and I am thankful your presence kept my chasers away, but I have to go,” I said, stuttering a little, his silence making me nervous. If I hadn't heard him speak yesterday, I would have thought he was a mute. “I guess I’ll get going.” I said, nudging my head to the elevator cage. I walked for it, stealing glances at him as I did.

“Who are you?” He demanded, finally speaking. He didn't yell. Yet, the raw power in his voice split through me, and I froze before the elevator. If he wasn't Don Lorenzo, then who was this man?

I wanted to ignore him, but there was a coldness in his eyes that warned me against that. I swallowed hard, clearing my throat. “I am Isabella, Don Vincenzo’s girlfriend.” I said.

His piercing gray eyes drilled through me again, and he strode closer towards me, carrying himself with the strength of his body.

My heart rammed into my chest, thrashing against my ribs. I couldn't move but watched him carefully as he approached me. There was something about him that froze me cold.

He stopped a foot from me, his eyes pinning me down like a peg. I realized it wasn't just something about him that made me so scared. It was everything—everything about him flashed intense red—extreme danger.

“Now, Isabella.” He said slowly, my name rolling along his lips for a split moment. “You weren't supposed to be here. You weren't supposed to see my face, and now that you have, you have just two choices. You become my girlfriend, or you die. So which is it?” He demanded.

His eyes were cold as ice and hard as steel. They told me plainly that I don't have a choice. But there was always a choice. I forced the lump in my throat down. Against the cold shivers surging through my veins, I held his gaze, and I tilted my head high. “I choose neither?” I said defiantly.

“I am sorry, but that option doesn't exist for you.”

“And just who are you to force me to make a choice?” I demanded, still not retreating under the weight of his gaze.

He grinned now, a cold, cruel grin that merely split his lips. “You don't want me to tell you that, Isabella, because if I do, then I would have to kill you.”

I was still struggling for a response when the elevator screamed a loud ding. It opened, and two big burly guards stumbled in.

The strange man's face tightened as he was about to snap at them, but the terror dancing in their eyes stopped him. Instead, he demanded. “What is wrong?”

“Don Vincenzo is dead.” One of them announced, stammering. His body was quivering just like his eyes.

If the strange man before me was shocked or surprised, then he had an odd way of showing it, because nothing crossed his face at the news. Not even a slice of sympathy. Though even I wouldn't feel sympathetic or mourn a man like Don Vincenzo. The only thing I felt was a tiny speck of guilt gnawing at the rungs of my belly, because he must have probably died from the injuries he got from the bottle I slammed against his bald head.

“Take me to him,” the strange man said, nudging the men to the elevator.

The men bowed their heads, and they filed into the cage. The strange man followed them in. When I remained in the room, unmoving, he snatched my wrist, pulling me in with a force that slammed me gently against his broad chest, the cage shutting close behind me.

I rested on his chest for a moment, his pectoral heaving against my head, his warmth engulfing me. It eventually dawned on me that I was resting my head on his chest, and I jumped back, looking away from him.

But then, I thought, raising my eyes back to him. Why do the guards treat him like he is someone important? Was he a Don too? But he couldn't be. There were only seven lesser Dons. And he couldn't be Don Lorenzo Marino. Don Lorenzo was supposed to come in today, and according to the rumors and popular idea, Don Lorenzo was supposed to be an ugly older man, not a typical Greek god in his mid-thirties.

The elevator opened with another loud ding, and we all stepped out into the corridor, marching for Don Vincenzo’s suite. The other dons stood in a half-circle around the bedroom, parting only to let me and the strange man pass. Strangely, they did nothing but whisper to each other in hushed tones, their eyes escorting us into the room.

Don Vincenzo wasn't hard to miss. He sat slumped in the velvet chair near the window, head tilted at a grotesque angle, his lips parted as though he’d tried to scream.

I was throwing my hands to my lips to smother my gasp, as guilt gnawed harder at my stomach that I had taken a life. But I stopped, dropping my hands back slowly to my side.

I ambled closer to the corpse, noting the dark bruises around his neck. There weren't random, but thin, precise, cutting deep into the thick flesh of his fat neck. Piano wire. This was a GARROTE—the Mafia signature kill. I certainly didn't kill him.

There was a struggle, I could see. In the course of my work, I had encountered a couple of deaths like this and been around detectives a lot, enough to train my eyes and senses to be nearly as good as one.

I crouched near the chair. The glass table beside him was tipped slightly. Someone had knocked into it—the killer. The cuff of his sleeve was torn, and faint scratch marks scored the armrest, further supporting that there was a struggle.

Guards were supposed to be at the door, so unless they were the ones who killed him, then the killer didn't come through the door but somewhere else.

My gaze flicked up to the window just behind him. It was shut close, not from the inside but from the outside. On the walls below the window was a scratch, a little too faint to see. I leaned my face closer to it, staring hard at the scratch. It was from a shoe, and with the size, I believed it must be work boots. The killer had obviously climbed out of the window.

I dropped back to stare at the corpse. And then she saw it—tucked beneath Don Vincenzo’s limp hand—a note. This one wasn't made to be missed but to be seen. The paper was folded to fall when his body was lifted.

I eased it free, unfolding it gently. For some reason, my fingers trembled around the paper, and I read it quietly. “One down. The rest soon to follow. La Confraternita Nera will bleed, just as I did. See you soon, brother. You brought this upon—”

The strange man snatched the paper from my hands. His eyes darkened as he read the content. And for the first time, I saw a crack split his impassive and cold demeanor. He seemed to shudder for a split moment. I could tell he knew what the killer's note meant.

Suddenly, he charged at me, riding me fast to the nearest wall.

He pinned me to the wall. My heart went wild again, slamming hard against my chest as a knife flashed in his hands. He held it just an inch from my neck.

“Tell me who you really are, Isabella?” He demanded, his eyes so much colder than before. He held the paper just before my eyes.