Isaia: Chapter 20

I believe him. Isaia.

I believe that Michele tried to have me kidnapped. The man’s a fucking psychopath. What I don’t believe is that Anthony has chosen to break his promise.

Yes, he’s a Paladino, but he’s also my friend. The only one I had while I lived under my stepdad’s roof. The reason I was able to escape Michele’s cruelty.

I’m halfway through a pathetic attempt at reheating last night’s pasta when a knock at the door interrupts me.

Luna’s tail starts wagging as soon as the knock lands. My heart does that stupid little jump, and for a second, I think it’s Isaia. But Isaia isn’t the knocking type. He’s more of a break-the-fucking-door-down kind of guy.

I wipe my hands on a dish towel and pull open the door. Standing there, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a pizza box in the other, is Anthony Paladino.

His usual effortless charm is in full swing—sleeves rolled up, dark hair slightly mussed, a hint of a cocky grin already in place.

“Dinner service,” he says, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. “Thought you could use something edible.”

“Wow, thanks,” I deadpan, shutting the door behind him. “My self-esteem was thriving until now.”

He drops the pizza and wine on the kitchen counter just as the microwave dings. “You reheating leftovers again?”

“Don’t judge me.” I grab two glasses from the cabinet.

“Before you ask,” he pops the cork with ease, “there’s no artichokes on this pizza. I find it revolting, disgusting, and a crime against humanity.”

I love artichokes on pizza. “I thought we established that you’re supposed to be the one with bad taste,” I shoot back, plucking the cork from his hand and tossing it into the trash.

“Real Italians don’t defile pizza with plants.”

“Well, this isn’t Italy. And technically, you’re not Italian since you were born here.”

“Oh, a low blow,” he says, chuckling as he pours wine into the glasses. “So, ethnicity is based on birthplace now?”

“My house, my rules, Paladino,” I say, shooting him a smug look.

He glances around. “Technically, it’s my⁠—”

“Shut up.”

Luna trots over, curling up at his feet like it’s routine. He leans down, giving her a few scratches behind the ears. “Hey, girl. Miss me?”

I grab two paper plates from the drawer, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re not here just to feed me.”

“Can’t a guy enjoy dinner with a friend?”

“You hate Chicago,” I remind him, placing a slice of pepperoni pizza on each plate.

“And yet, here I am. The Windy City’s never looked more appealing.” He lifts his glass, waiting for me to clink mine against it. “Plus, we didn’t exactly get to talk this morning.”

Unease slithers across the back of my neck, thinking about the tension between him and Isaia. It also reminds me of how Isaia had his face buried between my legs half an hour later.

Anthony’s expression shifts, the playfulness ebbing into something more serious. “What are you doing, Everly?”

I avoid his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Isaia Del Rossa.”

My heart skips a beat at the sound of his name, and I take a bite of pizza to stall. Anthony waits, patient as ever, staring at me like he has all the time in the world.

Finally, I’m forced to swallow, and Anthony lifts a brow, expecting an answer.

“He’s my boss,” I say simply. It’s true, and it’s uncomplicated. Perfect.

“And do all bosses in Chicago act like guard dogs around their employees?”

“Just a select few,” I quip, taking another sip of wine.

His brow arches, the skepticism clear. “You’re hanging around dangerous people. And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Isaia’s not⁠—”

“Not what?” He cuts me off, leaning closer. “Not dangerous? Don’t insult me, Everly. I know exactly who Isaia Del Rossa is.”

I shift uncomfortably, the glass in my hand suddenly too heavy. “He’s not your concern.”

“You’re my concern. And he’s trouble.”

I roll my eyes, setting the glass down harder than I mean to. “You’re one to talk. You’re all,” I wave a hand around, “cut from the same cloth.”

“That’s exactly why I’m warning you.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “You think I don’t know what men like him do? How they think? He’s possessive, Everly. Men like him don’t let go.”

“I can handle him.” I grab my wine and move to the couch, curling my legs beneath me.

Anthony follows. “The Del Rossa brothers have a reputation.”

“I know. They’re a hot topic around here.”

“Good. Then you know they’re not good men.” He sinks onto the couch beside me. “But Isaia? He’s a different breed entirely.”

My curiosity sharpens. “Why do you say that?”

“I know things. Things you don’t hear in idle gossip.”

“Of course,” I quip. “I forgot you’re all subscribed to Mafia Weekly.”

“I’m serious. Isaia Del Rossa doesn’t feel. He doesn’t love. He consumes.”

Ain’t that the truth.

I glance at him, his familiar face etched with concern. “You don’t need to worry about Isaia.”

“I worry about you.” His gaze softens. “I’m not one to stand by while someone I care about walks into the fire.”

I snort, trying to deflect. “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Anthony doesn’t bite. His eyes remain steady, locked on mine. “You don’t see it, do you? Or maybe you do, and you’re pretending it’s not there.”

“See what?”

“That he’s sinking his claws into you,” he says, sharp but not unkind. “Isaia’s the kind of man who leaves nothing behind. Once he’s in, he owns you—body, mind, soul.”

His words land heavily. He’s not wrong. Isaia’s already wrapped himself around my thoughts, tangled in every quiet moment. Hearing it out loud makes it feel more suffocating.

“There’s nothing between Isaia and me that you need to worry about.”

Anthony’s jaw tics. “You sure about that?”

“Yes,” I snap, standing to refill my glass. “Why do I get the feeling you know more than just Isaia being my boss?”

He leans back, arms draped across the couch. “After this morning, I did some digging.”

“Digging?”

“He’s a Del Rossa, Everly. And seeing him practically frothing at the mouth when I walked into that café was enough to set off alarm bells. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

I close my eyes and crane my neck, feeling like I’m suffocating between all these controlling fucking men.

“Listen,” he stands and places his arms on my shoulders, the familiarity of him slowly trickling in, “I just want you safe. That’s all.”

“I know,” I murmur, looking down at my hands. And I do know. If it wasn’t for him, my fate would be solely in the hands of my stepdad, and God only knows where I’d be if that were the case.

He lets go and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not saying all this to be a dick. I’m saying it because I care about you. I always have.”

The weight of his concern presses down on me, and for a moment, I want to let it in. Anthony’s always been there, a steady counterbalance to the chaos that follows me.

But his warning stirs the image of Isaia in my mind—those dark, piercing eyes, the intensity in the way he claims every part of me without hesitation. A part of me doesn’t want to let that go, even if it’s dangerous.

“I know you do,” I say, offering him a small smile.

He lets his hands drop, nodding slowly. “Just remember, I’m here. Whatever you need.”

“I appreciate it, Anthony. Really, I do.”

For a moment, the tension eases, and we’re back to that easy rhythm we’ve always had. But there’s an undercurrent now, something unspoken hanging between us, and I wonder if I should tell him about Michele trying to kidnap me. But I know Anthony would have me on a plane within the hour if he knew, and I’m not ready to leave yet. Because of him.

Anthony takes a seat again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “All right, I’ll stop with the lecture. For now.”

I shoot him an appreciative smile, saunter over, and sit beside him. Luna nudges his hand, and he absently scratches behind her ears, his eyes never leaving mine. “Your mom doing okay?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“She’s strong,” Anthony says. “She’ll get through this.”

“Hopefully.” I sigh, leaning back against the cushions. “But strong or not, cancer doesn’t care. And she still used it as a way to ambush me into seeing Michele.”

Anthony’s jaw tightens, his hand clenching around his glass. “Rinaldi doesn’t know when to quit.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I mutter. “He’s still pushing the whole marriage thing.”

Anthony’s expression darkens. “You know I’ll never let that happen. Not unless it’s what you want.”

I glance at him, and the relief that floods me hearing him say those words is indescribable. It’s all the assurance I need. “I know. You’ve always said that.”

“And I’ll keep saying it,” he says softly. “If marrying me is ever what you want, it’ll happen on your terms. Not his.”

There’s a weight to his words, a quiet sincerity that tightens my throat. I study his face, the lines of his jaw, and the way his eyes soften when they meet mine.

Maybe under different circumstances, if we both lived normal lives, we could have been something. Things have always been easy between us; there was no pressure, no expectations, just a friendship that flowed effortlessly.

I set my glass down, rubbing the back of my neck. “You shouldn’t have to keep saving me.”

“Maybe I want to.” The words hang there, heavy and weighted with meaning.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. The silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s loaded, yes, but not awkward. Anthony’s always been good at making things feel effortless, even when everything around us screams complicated.

He breaks it first, his tone lighter this time. “Remember when we used to sneak out to that diner in Queens? The one with the jukebox that never worked?”

I laugh softly, the memory tugging at the corners of my mind. “And you’d always order that disgusting peanut butter milkshake?”

“Disgusting? That was a masterpiece.”

“It was an abomination.”

His low, genuine chuckle lifts the weight for a moment, and my heart swells with fondness for this man and his friendship.

We fall into easy conversation that flows naturally, filled with light teasing and shared memories. Anthony knows me too well; he always has. It’s what makes being around him feel so…normal. Safe.

The bottle of wine disappears faster than expected, and before I know it, he’s rummaging through my cabinets. “Since when do you drink bourbon?”

He places the bottle on the counter, a secret reminder that Isaia snuck into my house to put it there. I ignore how my heartstrings twinge, how my mouth goes dry, and my body starts to hum at the thought of him.

I shrug, avoiding the truth and sinking deeper into the couch. “Since I stopped caring about how much it burns going down.”

He snorts, pouring two glasses. “Bourbon is Del Rossa’s love language, you know.” He hands me a glass, and our fingers brush briefly. “Cheers to questionable life choices,” he says, lifting his glass.

For the next few hours, the bourbon flows, and with each sip, the tension in my shoulders eases, and everything feels softer around the edges.

We keep the conversation light, steering through a maze of shared memories and inside jokes, his laughter filling the kitchen like a warm blanket.

Anthony leans against the counter, his glass dangling loosely from his fingers. “Remember when Luna stole that old lady’s scarf at the park?”

“Oh, God,” I groan, covering my face with my hands. “I thought she was going to call the cops.”

“She probably would’ve if Luna hadn’t charmed her with those puppy eyes,” he says, his voice full of affection as he glances at the dog curled up on the rug.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Luna’s a master manipulator.”

Anthony raises his glass in agreement, then downs the rest of his drink. “She learned from the best.”

The banter tapers off, and for a moment, we stand there, the warmth of the bourbon settling between us. His gaze lingers on me a little too long, his expression changing. Thoughtful almost. And a slight discomfort settles over me.

“It’s getting late,” I say, breaking eye contact. “I have the early shift tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, setting his empty glass on the counter. “I’m heading back to New York in the morning.”

I grin. “I thought the Windy City appeals to you.”

“A blatant fucking lie.”

We laugh, and he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair, walks to the front door, and Luna trots along behind us. Anthony bends to scratch behind her ears, murmuring something soft that makes her tail wag.

Then he straightens, turning to face me. His hand rests on the doorknob, but he doesn’t open it right away. Instead, his eyes hold mine, and for a split second, the air between us shifts. Something unspoken lingers, heavy and charged.

His gaze dips briefly to my lips, and my pulse stumbles.

“Goodnight, Everly,” he says softly.

Relief and something else—something I can’t quite name—floods my chest. “Goodnight, Anthony.”

He steps outside, the cool night air sweeping in around him. “Lock the door,” he calls over his shoulder, that familiar protective edge returning.

I watch as he slides into the back seat of the waiting Bentley, the car pulling away and disappearing down the street.

Once he’s gone, I close the door, leaning against it as I exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and finally let myself think of him.

Isaia.

The way he kisses—demanding, relentless like he’s starving for my taste.

My fingers brush over my lips, chasing the phantom heat of his mouth, the bruising intensity that left me breathless and aching for more.

Anthony’s right. Isaia consumes.

He seeps into your veins, saturating every cell until there’s nothing left but him. Every drag of his hands, every scrape of his teeth, every dark, commanding word—it all pulls me deeper into his orbit, leaving no space for thought, only raw, unfiltered sensation.

I close my eyes, and the memory of his hands sliding over my skin flares to life. He touches me like he’s memorizing every inch, every curve, like my body exists solely for his possession. His stare alone is enough to quicken my pulse, those piercing eyes dragging over me with a possessive hunger that’s equally thrilling and terrifying.

Even now, I feel it—that electric charge sparking between us whenever he’s near. It’s a pull I can’t resist, no matter how hard I try. It’s the way he looks at me like he knows every secret I’ve buried, every lie I’ve told myself. Like he’s just waiting for the perfect moment to strip me bare and devour what’s left.

God, why can’t I stop thinking about him?

My skin flushes, my thighs pressing together as the memory of his voice echoes in my head—low, rough, whispering my name like both a promise and a curse.

The way his hands gripped my hips, pulling me into him, commanding me without a single word. He’s under my skin, in my head, and I hate how much I crave the chaos he brings.

I push off the door, shaking my head as if I can shake him loose. But as I move through the quiet house, he’s everywhere—in the air, in the shadows, in every breath I take.

I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him. But my body doesn’t care about logic or reason. It remembers the way he made me feel—alive, undone, entirely at his mercy.

And it wants more.