“I don’t know,” I admit.Saying it out loud feels like admitting a weakness I should not possess.“He saved me, Bella.When I was ten and everyone else treated me like I was worthless, he was the one who took the time to teach me and protect me.He was the only one who was kind to me.”
I stare at Matteo’s photograph.“And now I have to put a bullet in his head because he is standing between me and what has to be done.”
Isabella is quiet for a long moment.
“But what do you want, Lorenzo?”she asks softly.“Not what you think you should want or what this world expects of you.What do you actually want?”
It’s a good question.One I’ve avoided asking myself.I just don’t know if I can be the one to pull the trigger when the time comes.
Chapter Twelve
Isabella
Thisplaceismorelike home now.I never thought I would say that about Lorenzo De Luca’s fortress of marble and steel, but somewhere between the fighting and the fucking, it stopped being a prison and began to feel more like ours.
I stand before the window in our bedroom, watching the sun rise, and I already feel his absence.Lorenzo left early this morning, slipping out of bed with a kiss to my temple and a whispered promise that he would be back by nightfall.
I can see how torn he is about what he has to do, how that decision weighs on him in a way nothing else ever has.Lorenzo De Luca does not hesitate.He never second-guesses himself.He does what needs to be done, without remorse or regret.
But this is different for him.
And I understand it better than most people do.I grew up in this world.I know how it works, how power is the only currency that matters.My father taught me that lesson over and over until it was carved into my bones.
I am experiencing a joy I never imagined was possible.Three weeks ago, I would have laughed at the idea and said it was impossible.That Lorenzo was a monster incapable of anything resembling human emotion.
But I was wrong.
He is a monster.There is no question about it.But he is also a man.A man who has been broken and rebuilt so many times that the cracks are part of his foundation.A man who kills without hesitation yet holds me with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
I exit the room and head downstairs.The house is quiet this time of morning, the kind of peaceful silence that only exists in the hours before the rest of the world wakes.My bare feet are silent on the cool marble floors as I make my way toward the kitchen, following the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee, which tells me Carlo is already awake.
I find him standing at the counter, pouring himself a cup from the expensive espresso machine Lorenzo imported from Italy.He has not started cooking yet, but I can see ingredients laid out on the marble island.Fresh eggs.Vegetables for an omelet.Bread that was probably baked in the last few hours, because Carlo does not believe in anything that comes from a store.
He looks up as I walk in, and his weathered face breaks into a genuine smile.
“Morning, Isabella.”
“Morning, Carlo.”
The formality that existed between us in the first weeks of my marriage to Lorenzo has long since disappeared.Somewhere along the way, after countless early mornings in this kitchen and late nights when Lorenzo was working and I couldn’t sleep, we became something that almost resembled friends.
He is the only person in this house, other than Lorenzo, that I actually talk to.The only one Lorenzo trusts enough to allow me to have any kind of relationship with.Maybe it is because he has been with Lorenzo longer than anyone else.
Whatever the reason is, I am grateful.
“You’re up early,” Carlo says, already reaching for a second cup.He pours me coffee without asking, adding exactly the amount of cream I like.He has my routine memorized by now.“Lorenzo left before dawn again?”
“Yeah.”I accept the cup and wrap my hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my palms.
“Are you ready for breakfast?I can make you an omelet.”
“I think I might just have fruit today,” I say.
He moves to the refrigerator, pulling out a bowl of fresh berries and sliced melon that he must have prepared earlier.He sets it in front of me with a small fork.“You tell me if you change your mind and want something else.”
“Thank you, Carlo.”
I eat slowly, savoring the fruit’s sweetness as Carlo begins his morning prep.He hums quietly as he works, an old Italian song I don’t recognize.
