The sunlight streaming through the large windows of the house gave it a deceptively serene appearance. Isabella descended the stairs slowly, her flowy white dress fluttering softly with each step. She had barely slept, her mind replaying the events of the previous night—the anger in Dante's voice, the crash of the vase, and the storm of emotions it left in her chest.
When she reached the dining area, her steps faltered at the sight before her. Dante sat at the table, his large frame dominating the space even though he was hunched over a plate of eggs and toast. His hair was slightly disheveled, and he wore nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants that clung to his sculpted frame. His tattoos—the intricate designs snaking up his neck and across his back—were on full display, adding to the dangerous aura he always seemed to carry.
He glanced at her briefly as she entered the room, his sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable, but he quickly turned back to his plate. His jaw was tight, a clear sign that his anger from the previous night hadn't completely faded.
Isabella hesitated before quietly making her way to the kitchen, the tension between them thick and suffocating.
Inside the kitchen, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon filled the air. An older woman with graying hair and a warm smile was moving efficiently around the space, clearly at ease in her surroundings. Isabella approached her cautiously.
"Good morning" Isabella greeted softly.
The woman turned, her eyes lighting up. "Ah, you must be Isabella. Good morning, dear. I'm Mirella, the housekeeper."
'It's nice to meet you, Mirella" Isabella replied with a small smile. "Can I help you with anything?"
Mirella waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, no, no, dear. You're the lady of the house now. You shouldn't be doing any chores. Sit, relax, enjoy your morning."
Isabella frowned. "But I'd like to help. I'm not used to just... sitting around."
Mirella chuckled. "You're sweet, but this is my job. Don't you worry about a thing."
As Isabella moved to the counter, her wounded hand accidentally brushed against something. She let out a small gasp as the wound open again and a thin line of blood quickly appearing.
Before she could process what happened, a shadow loomed over her.
"What happened?" Dante's voice was sharp and immediate, startling both women.
Isabella turned to find him standing right behind her, his tall frame radiating intensity. His brows were furrowed, his eyes scanning her hand with laser focus.
"It's nothing" she stammered, but Dante was already taking her hand in his, inspecting the cut closely. His touch was firm yet surprisingly gentle, and the warmth of his fingers sent a shiver up her spine.
"How did this happen?" he demanded, his voice low but tinged with frustration.
"It was from the vase" she admitted quietly. "I was picking up the pieces last night."
Dante exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "You shouldn't have done that. I would've had someone clean it."
"It wasn't a big deal" she whispered, but he shot her a pointed look that silenced her.
He guided her to a stool and grabbed the first aid kit from a nearby cabinet. Mirella, sensing the tension, excused herself quietly.
As Dante cleaned and bandaged her wound, Isabella watched him intently. His face was set in concentration, the lines of his jaw and the curve of his lips both harsh and captivating.
"I'm sorry" she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Dante froze for a moment before lifting his gaze to meet hers. His dark eyes held hers captive, a strange mix of exasperation and something softer swirling within them.
"You've got to get out of this habit" he said finally, his voice quieter but no less intense. "It wasn't your fault. It was your sister's doing. And I should be the one apologizing—for scaring you, for yelling at you."
She blinked at him, her chest tightening. "Are you sure you're a mafia boss?" she asked, her tone light but tinged with disbelief.
Dante's lips twitched, and to her surprise, a deep chuckle escaped him. The sound was rich and warm, a stark contrast to his usual stoicism.
"Arturo's death and the fact that you're here isn't proof enough for you?" he replied, his tone teasing but his eyes gleaming with dark amusement.
Isabella's cheeks flushed as butterflies erupted in her belly. Despite herself, she found his rare display of humor disarming.
Dante finished securing the bandage and leaned back slightly, his expression softening for the briefest moment. "Be careful, micia" he said quietly. "I'm not as patient as I seem."
She swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to her bandaged hand as her heart raced. Dante stood, his towering presence as commanding as ever, but for the first time, she saw a glimpse of something deeper beneath his dangerous exterior.
And it terrified her just as much as it intrigued her.
_
_
The house, despite its grandeur, began to feel less like a prison and more like a sanctuary over the next few days. Isabella spent her mornings wandering through the sunlit garden, her bare feet brushing the soft grass. It was a habit she hadn't indulged in since she was a child, back when the Romano estate was more of a cage than a home.
For the first time in years, she felt a strange sense of freedom...fragile, yes, but real. Dante's home was quieter than the Romano mansion, with no cold staff watching her every move, no constant reminders of her father's dominance. The few people who worked there treated her with warmth, especially Mirella, who fussed over her like a doting grandmother.
And then there was Matteo.
At first, Isabella hadn't known what to make of him. He was rough around the edges, sarcastic, and intimidating in his own right. But beneath his gruff exterior, she found a surprising softness—a protectiveness that reminded her of what an older brother might be like if she'd had one.
One afternoon, she found Matteo in the garden, tinkering with a drone.
"Why a drone?" she asked, tilting her head as she sat beside him on the stone bench.
"Because guns and knives aren't always the answer" he said with a smirk, though there was a glint of mischief in his eyes.
Isabella raised a brow. "Are they ever not the answer for you?"
Matteo chuckled, glancing at her. "Touché, kid. But seriously, this thing's more useful than you'd think. Surveillance, scouting—lots of non-lethal uses."
She watched him for a moment before asking, "Why are you so nice to me?"
He paused, his hands freezing mid-adjustment. Turning to her, his expression softened. "Because you remind me of my sister."
"You have a sister?"
"Had" he corrected quietly. "She passed away a long time ago."
Isabella's face fell. "I'm sorry."
Matteo shrugged, but his eyes betrayed a hint of pain. "It's not your fault, kid. Besides, if she were alive, she'd probably tell me to watch out for you. You've got this... innocence about you. Makes people want to protect you."
She flushed, unsure of how to respond. Matteo grinned, ruffling her hair like a big brother would. "But don't get too comfortable. You're stuck with me now, so expect a lot more teasing."
_
_
Isabella began to embrace the freedom she'd been granted. She tried new recipes with Mirella (doesn't mean she was good at it), her laughter ringing through the kitchen as they worked together. She spent afternoons sketching the flowers in the garden, a hobby she hadn't dared indulge in since she was a teenager.
And though Dante remained a brooding presence, his shadow was not as oppressive as her father's had been. He gave her space, never imposing himself unless necessary, yet his watchful gaze reminded her that he was always aware of her.
One evening, as she sat on the balcony, the cool breeze brushing against her skin, Dante appeared. He leaned against the doorway, his sharp features softened by the moonlight.
"You're settling in" he remarked, his voice low.
She turned to him, a small smile on her lips. "I think I am."
He nodded, his dark eyes searching hers for a moment before he disappeared back into the house.
Isabella found herself laughing more, her previously timid nature giving way to a quiet confidence. Matteo teased her endlessly, calling her "princess" and threatening to teach her how to shoot a gun—much to her horror.
But it wasn't all lightness. The scars left by the Romanos still lingered, and some nights, she woke from dreams of her father's harsh words or her sister's betrayal. On those nights, she would sit by the window, staring out at the stars, and wonder if this newfound freedom was real—or just another illusion.
Dante, however, seemed to sense when the weight of her past grew too heavy. He would wordlessly leave a cup of tea by her side or sit in the shadows, his presence a silent reminder that she was no longer alone.
And for the first time in her life, Isabella began to believe she could truly spread her wings.
_
_
The air between Isabella and Dante had shifted. The once-imposing presence of her husband seemed less intimidating now, replaced by a quieter, more approachable demeanor. Dante had always been a man of control, but when it came to Isabella, he found himself more lenient than he ever intended to be.
Still, there were boundaries neither of them had crossed—like the separate rooms they still occupied. Isabella didn't question it, and Dante didn't bring it up. Their unspoken arrangement worked for now, though there were moments when Isabella caught herself wondering if the distance would always remain.
One morning, Dante descended the stairs to the sound of muffled laughter. He paused mid-step, narrowing his eyes at the unfamiliar noise. Following it, he entered the kitchen to find Isabella standing at the counter, her brows furrowed in concentration as she arranged something on a plate. Mirella, the ever-watchful housekeeper, stood nearby, smiling with amusement.
Isabella froze when she noticed him, her hands immediately flying to the hem of her shirt, twisting it nervously. "Good morning" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Dante raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes flicking between the plate in her hands and her flushed cheeks. "What's going on here?"
After a moment, Isabella hesitantly approached, placing a plate of scrambled eggs and a glass of juice in front of him. "I thought… you've been too nice to me" she began, her voice trembling slightly. "So I thought I'd return the favor. I made breakfast."
Her words were tentative, and her gaze darted to Mirella, who gave her an encouraging nod.
Dante sat down, his expression unreadable as he picked up his fork and took a bite. The silence stretched, making Isabella fidget nervously, playing with the hem of her shirt.
Finally, he spoke. "It's good."
The ghost of a smile flickered on his lips, and Isabella's face lit up like the morning sun. The sight was so radiant it caught Dante off guard, and he quickly returned his attention to the plate, unsure of how to handle her joy.
That moment, however, was short-lived. Matteo sauntered into the kitchen, his usual smug grin in place. "What's this?" he asked, eyeing the plate in front of Dante. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed a fork and took a bite.
Instantly, his face twisted in disgust. " Eww salty" he declared, tossing the fork back onto the plate. He reached for the juice, chugging it down in an attempt to rid himself of the taste. "And this—" He stopped mid-sentence, realizing too late that his words had consequences.
Isabella's lower lip trembled, her chin wobbling as tears welled in her eyes. "I… I tried my best…" she whispered, her voice breaking.
Dante's chair scraped loudly as he stood, his expression dark and murderous. Matteo froze, suddenly realizing the grave error he'd made.
"Out" Dante growled, his voice low and menacing.
"Boss, I didn't mean—" Matteo began, but one look at Dante had him swallowing his protests.
"You'll be spending the next two weeks in surveillance duty at the docks" Dante said coldly. "Alone."
Matteo paled. "But—"
"Now."
Mirella, who had been silently watching the exchange, hid her smile behind her hand, clearly enjoying Matteo's predicament. But her amusement grew when Dante's sharp anger melted the moment he turned to Isabella.
Her quiet hiccups tugged at his chest, and he was at her side in an instant. "Micia" he said softly, reaching for her hand.
Isabella, however, surprised him by swatting at his chest with her tiny fists. "Why did you eat it?" she cried, her voice choked with tears. "What if you got sick? Or—or something worse!"
Dante blinked, stunned by her outburst. His hands gently caught her wrists, stilling her weak attempts to hit him. "Micia" he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "It's fine. I'm fine. It wasn't bad."
"You're lying!" she wailed, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "Matteo said it was salty!"
Dante cast a murderous glare in Matteo's direction, who wisely avoided his gaze. "Matteo's an idiot" he said firmly, his hands cupping her face. "Look at me. Do I look sick?"
Her glassy eyes darted to his face, her sniffles slowing as she took in his calm expression.
"No…" she mumbled.
"Exactly" Dante said. "I'm fine. And next time you want to cook, just tell Mirella to help you."
Her lips wobbled again, but this time it wasn't from tears. "You mean… you'd let me try again?"
His thumb brushed against her cheek, wiping away a stray tear. "If it makes you happy, Micia, you can try as many times as you want."
The soft exchange was too much for Mirella and Matteo, who both stifled their laughter. Matteo, despite his earlier punishment, couldn't resist pulling out his phone to record the scene.
Dante's head snapped in their direction. "Matteo."
Matteo froze, slipping the phone back into his pocket with a sheepish grin. "Right. The docks. I'm on my way."
As he fled the room, Mirella chuckled, turning back to her cooking. Dante sighed, his gaze softening once more as he looked at Isabella.
"Let's get your hands cleaned up" he said, guiding her to the sink.
For the first time in a long while, Isabella felt truly cared for. And though she didn't say it, she was beginning to see a side of Dante that made her heart flutter in a way she couldn't quite explain.