Isabella Rossi never planned to return to New York, but when you're the heir to a mafia empire, plans are just... let's say, polite suggestions.
Within hours of her return, she comes face-to-face with the one man she swore she'd never encounter aga...
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Antonio Blood
The night air was a cool relief from the suffocating heat of the club, but I could feel the tension in her, the stiffness in the way she moved.
She was still trying to hold it together, even now, stubborn as ever.
We reached my car parked a little away from the chaos of the main entrance. I opened the passenger door and turned to her, expecting another round of protests, but she simply glared at me.
"Get in," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument.
Isabella hesitated, her hand still pressed protectively to her side, but eventually, she slid into the seat. I closed the door gently behind her, then circled around to the driver's side, slipping in behind the wheel. I glanced over at her, but she was already staring out the window defiantly, her face tight with pain she was still too proud to admit.
"Where is it hurting?" I asked, starting the car.
"I told you, I'm fine," she muttered, her voice clipped.
She just kept her gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the window. Typical. Stubborn to a fault. I clenched my jaw, forcing down the frustration rising inside me. She was hurt but she was still too damn proud to admit it.
I let out a slow breath, focusing on the road.
Still, I knew better than to push her.
"At least just tell me how bad it is," I tried again, my tone softer this time, hoping she'd let her guard down.
"Antonio," she said, her voice quiet but firm. I could see her biting her lips, the next words coming out gritted through her teeth. "I'm fine."
I swept my tongue over my front teeth. Fucking annoying woman. I took a deep breath.
"I swear on fucking god, Isabella. Don't make me stop this car in the middle of the road and pat your boy down myself."
I glanced at her, my patience wearing thin, but before I could argue again, I noticed the way her eyelids were starting to droop, her grip tightly crossed over her chest.
"Bella," I called softly, but she didn't respond. Her head was starting to loll slightly against the window, her breathing slowing. At first, I thought she was just tired, far too drunk maybe—but then my eyes flickered to the seat beneath her.
A sudden, cold wave of dread washed over me.
The leather seat was dark—too dark. Stained.
Red.
Blood.
"Fuck." I slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt in the middle of the empty road.
Isabella didn't even flinch at the sudden stop. Her body surged forward slightly, her eyes half-closed, her breathing shallow.
I scrambled to unbuckle my seatbelt and lunged toward her, my hands immediately going over her body, searching for the source of the blood. My chest tightened with panic. I could feel my heart stop stopping. Where the hell was all this blood coming from?
