CH-3

Isabella POV:

“I’ll deliver her when the time is right.”

My blood runs cold.

I don’t sleep.

Not after what I heard, his voice—cold, composed, nothing like the man who kissed me like I was oxygen and he was drowning.

I’ll deliver her when the time is right.

Deliver who?

Me?

To whom?

I can’t breathe right. Every inhale feels like glass cutting into me. I’m frozen in bed, gripping the sheets, telling myself there’s an explanation—some angle Dante’s playing I haven’t figured out yet. But I know better. I’ve lived under my father’s roof long enough to recognize a lie wrapped in softness. This feels exactly like that.

So when Dante knocks on my door just before sunrise, shirtless, a scar trailing down the left side of his ribs I don’t remember being there… I don’t open it.

Not at first.

He knocks again.

“It’s not safe,” he says, voice low, like we didn’t almost fall back into bed hours ago. “We’re moving locations.”

I open the door, expression blank. “Where are we going?”

He watches me for a beat, something unreadable in his gaze. “Somewhere no one will find you.”

“Is that what I am?” I ask, stepping into his space. “Something to hide?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because he knows I already heard it.

---------------

The drive is long. Silent.

The SUV is bulletproof. The windows tinted.

He doesn’t say a word the entire way, and I don’t ask for explanations. But I watch him.

The way he flexes his jaw. The tension in his grip on the wheel. His knuckles white. The subtle tick near his temple. Every line of his body screams restraint—like he’s two seconds from losing control.

I should hate him for what I heard.

But I remember the way he said I was the only woman he ever touched. The way he trembled, just slightly, when I kissed his throat.

And something deeper than logic whispers: he’s lying to protect you.

It’s dangerous, how badly I want to believe that.

----------------

We arrive at a cabin tucked deep in the woods outside Palermo. Security cameras mounted in trees.

I know this place.

Or maybe… my body does.

It smells like cedar and metal and gun oil. There's blood in the walls, memories in the floorboards.

It’s where Dante used to bring enemies who didn’t talk fast enough.

Now I’m the one inside.

He tosses a duffel onto the table. “There’s food, water, weapons. Two bedrooms. Stay alert.”

“Are you going to chain me to the bed?” I ask, coolly.

His eyes flash dark.

“You want me to?”

I hold his gaze.

“Maybe,” I say, voice soft as silk. “If it means you’ll stop lying to me.”

Silence stretches like a wire pulled too tight.

Then he crosses the room in three steps, backing me into the wall so fast I gasp.

“You think I lied?” he growls, hands braced beside my head. “You think I haven’t bled for you?”

“I heard you,” I whisper. “On the phone. You said you’d deliver me. Like a package. Like a fucking hostage.”

His jaw flexes. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“I did.”

He breathes hard. “It’s more complicated than you think.”

“Then simplify it,” I snap. “Or I walk out that door and let whoever wants me come find me.”

He laughs.

“You think I’d let you leave?”

“I think you don’t own me, Dante. Not anymore.”

“Don’t I?” he rasps, grabbing my wrist and pulling me flush against him. “Then why are you shaking?”

“Because I trusted you.”

His hand cups my face. “I never stopped protecting you.”

My voice cracks. “And I never stopped needing you.”

That’s all it takes.

His lips crash into mine, savage and hungry.

It’s not soft, not romantic—it’s punishment. It’s everything we never said. All the betrayal, all the longing, all the years spent starving for something we were never allowed to have.

He lifts me, slams me onto the table, mouth still fused to mine.

His hands are everywhere—tugging my shirt up, my thighs apart, like he can’t bear another second of distance.

I should push him away.

I should scream.

Instead, I wrap my legs around him and drag him closer.

“You hate me,” he groans against my throat, teeth grazing the skin he used to worship.

“I do,” I whisper, clawing his back. “But I still want you.”

Dante's lips move to my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "I want you right now and always" he growls, his voice filled with a hunger that sets my heart racing.

He moves down my body, his lips trailing a path of fire as he goes. He pauses at my hips, his teeth grazing the mark he left earlier. I gasp, the pain mixing with the pleasure in a way that makes my head spin.

Dante's mouth moves lower, his tongue darting out to tease my clit. I moan, my hands tangling in his hair as I pull him closer. He licks and sucks, his tongue working me into a frenzy.

I can feel myself getting closer, my body tensing as I chase my release. Dante's tongue moves faster, his touch growing more insistent as he brings me to the edge. I cry out, my body shaking as I come hard.

Dante doesn't stop, his tongue continuing to move as he draws out my pleasure. I lie there, panting as I come down from my high. I can feel the wetness between my legs, my body responding to his touch in a way that leaves me breathless.

Dante starts to move, his hips rocking against mine as he thrusts deep. I can feel myself getting closer, my body tensing as I chase my release. Dante's thrusts grow more insistent, his body moving in a rhythm that sets my blood on fire.

I cry out, my body shaking as I come hard. Dante follows me over the edge, his body tensing as he finds his own release.

Afterward, we lie tangled on the floor, sweat-drenched and silent.

He traces the scar on my hip, the one he gave me the night my mother died.

Neither of us speaks about it.

But we both feel it—ghosts between every breath.

=================

Later That Night

The shower runs.

Dante’s asleep on the couch, gun tucked beneath the cushion.

I tiptoe past him.

Back into the master bedroom.

There’s a loose floorboard I remember from long ago. When I was fifteen, I used to hide cigarettes under it. Sometimes journal entries. Secrets.

Now it holds his secrets.

I pull the plank up and find a black folder.

Inside:

· A dossier with my name.

· Photos of me in Paris, London, Rome—none of which I told anyone I’d visited.

· Maps. Flight records.

· A surveillance image of my mother before she died.

And one last document.

Cold. Stamped.

TARGET ACQUIRED: ISABELLA DE LUCA

CODE NAME: IRIS

ASSASSIN: DANTE

PROJECT FILE: OPERATION SILENCIO

I cover my mouth.

My lungs forget how to breathe.

He didn’t just kill for my father.

He killed on command.

He was sent for me.

I turn around—slowly.

And Dante is standing in the doorway, watching me.

Silent.

Gun in hand.