She crouches by my office door and I lean forward without realizing it.
I see her hand reach up, fingers going into her hair, and pull something free.A thin metal pin slides between her fingers.She studies the lock for a moment, then gets to work.
Fuck me.
Her hands move with practiced ease.Gentle pressure.Tiny adjustments.She leans her ear near the lock, listening, feeling for the right resistance.It takes her a moment, but not long.Certainly not as long as the men I’ve paid obscene amounts of money to open doors exactly like that.
The lock gives.
My lips part, and my breath hitches before I can stop it.
She straightens up, pushes open the door, and disappears inside.
I sit back hard against the seat.
The pride hits me first; she’s fast, clean, precise, with no wasted movements.
Then the anger crashes in right behind it, because she not only got in there, she cracked my lock faster than the professionals I trust with my life.
I shut off the phone and toss it onto the seat beside me.Hard enough that it bounces once and then lands face down.
My palm brushes my jaw, feeling the rough burn of stubble.I’ve killed for less.But this feels different.
Who the fuck does that?
Isabella Serrano, apparently.
She’s pushing past the lines.She walks into the lion’s den, as if it’s nothing.And fuck me if it doesn’t turn me on.
It’s intense.Twisted and fucked to the core.But Isabella Serrano, or should I say Isabella De Luca now, makes my cock hard.That woman makes my blood run hotter than anyone has ever done.She’s going to learn exactly what happens when you push a man built for war.
We pull through the gates, iron grinding against iron as they close behind us.The long gravel driveway curves toward the compound, flanked by stone columns that rise out of the ground like ancient stone gods watching every move.The house looms ahead, all mirrored glass and reinforced steel dressed up as luxury.Every inch of it screams wealth, but it was built for war.
Vito slows the car and parks it neatly at the steps.
I don’t wait.
I’m out the second we stop, the door slamming shut before the engine takes its last breath.
Two of my men stand there, eyes straight ahead, hands close to their weapons.One of them steps forward and opens the front door to the house without uttering a word.
I climb the steps.Every move precise, controlled.It’s the only thing keeping my anger in check.
I walk into my house with a jaw like iron and eyes sharp enough to cut steel.
The scent hits first.
Dark roast.Colombian.Strong enough to wake the dead and slap the soul back into them.
Carlo only brews that shit when he’s trying to impress someone.And unless he’s developed a sudden crush on the security team, I know exactly who the fuck it’s for.
Isabella.
I turn the corner, my footsteps slowing.The faint clink of porcelain echoes through the air, and then I see her.
Perched on the marble bench like it’s a damn throne.Legs crossed, foot bouncing in a lazy rhythm.One hand scrolling her phone, the other wrapped around a porcelain mug as if she’s lived here for years instead of just one day.Steam curls from the rim of her cup.She takes a sip.
Not a single sign of guilt shows from her for being in my space less than ten minutes ago.
