Chapter 3 Deadly Charm
Matteo’s POV
The penthouse was too quiet.
I stood motionless before the floor-to-ceiling windows, the amber glow of 18-year-old Macallan catching the city lights below. New York throbbed with life—a symphony of chaos and desire—while my reflection stared back: a man carved from ice and sharp edges.
Thirty-five years old. Ten trillion dollars at my command. And yet, here I was, standing alone like some brooding cliché.
Three precise knocks. Evelyn's sensible heels clicked across marble. "Sir, the candidates have arrived."
I didn't turn. "How many?"
"Four." Her tablet clicked. "Miss Laurent—Parisian runway, speaks three languages. Miss Chen—Juilliard trained cellist. Miss—"
"Enough." The crystal tumbler chilled my palm. "Send them in."
They entered like a parade of ghosts—each more exquisite than the last. Long legs, pouty lips, eyes that promised lust. They knew the deal. A night with Matteo Moretti meant diamonds in the morning and silence forever.
I studied them, waiting for something—a spark, a flicker of interest. Nothing.
"Out." The single syllable shattered the tension.
Evelyn hesitated. "Shall I arrange—"
"I'll hunt my own prey tonight." My knuckles whitened around the glass. Somewhere in this godforsaken city, there had to be a woman who didn't bore me before she even spoke.
11:47 PM, The Viper Lounge's exclusive level hummed with the kind of quiet power that only came with true wealth—low lighting glinting off crystal glasses, murmured conversations worth millions, the scent of expensive whiskey and ambition thick in the air. My usual haunt. My kingdom of shadows.
I swirled my second Macallan, the ice clinking like a countdown to nothing, when her voice cut through the din—sharp as shattered glass.
"I said DON'T! You asshole!"
I turned.
She was a chaos in silk and stilettos, a half-empty martini glass smacked onto the bar with enough force to make the bartender wince. Wild dark hair tumbled over bare shoulders, her cheeks flushed with fury and alcohol, her eyes blazing. Not just drunk. Not just angry. Alive—vibrantly, dangerously so.
My fingers tightened around my glass.
A meaty hand reached for her waist, some fool in a knockoff Armani suit thinking he'd scored easy prey. "C'mon, sweetheart—"
I was moving before he finished.
My grip locked around his wrist, bones grinding beneath my fingers. "The lady declined." My voice was lethally quiet.
The man spun, rage twisting his face—until recognition hit. His throat worked. "M-Mr. Moretti—"
I leaned in, close enough for him to smell the danger on me.
"Leave. Now."
He scrambled away.
Her whiskey-gold eyes blinked up at me, glassy with drink but startlingly clear beneath the club's dim lights. Now that I stood close, I could see what the shadows had hidden—youth.
Early twenties, if that. No artificial enhancements, no calculated allure. Just smooth skin flushed with honest emotion, lips bitten pink rather than painted, lashes that needed no embellishment to frame those luminous eyes.
Too innocent. Too vibrant. Not the kind of woman who belonged in my world for even one night.
"Th-thank you." Her voice was honeyed and hesitant as she tucked a rebellious dark lock behind one ear. The simple gesture exposed the delicate curve of her neck, the vulnerable dip of her collarbone—
Heat pooled low in my gut.
I gritted my teeth. Walk away. Now.
Women like her came with complications. With expectations.
A curt nod, then I forced myself to turn—but not without one last warning. "Little girl shouldn't be out alone at night."
"I stopped being a child years ago." Her muttered retort carried just enough defiance to spark amusement despite myself.
The night air slapped me awake as I exited, Viper's neon glow painting the sidewalk blood-red. I didn't look back, but I felt her—the unsteady click of heels, the intoxicating mix of vanilla and reckless decisions cutting through the city's usual grime.
Persistent little thing.
I stopped. "You’re still following me, little one."
The silence between us stretched taut before she spoke again, her voice quieter now but still edged with that irresistible defiance. "You're the one who said I shouldn't be alone tonight."
I turned—slowly, deliberately—and there she stood. The same hellcat who'd been ready to smash a glass over some idiot's head minutes ago now gazed up at me with eyes like fractured amber. Moonlight caught on the delicate slope of her bare shoulder where her dress strap had slipped, pale skin glowing against the black fabric she hugged around herself like armor.
Christ. I couldn’t take my eyes off her skin. The urge to caress her was becoming strong.
I forced a sharp exhale. "Where’s your phone? Call a friend."
She shook her head. "They all took his side."
Ah. An ex’s betrayal.
Every instinct warned me to leave. Women like her—all soft curves and wounded hearts—wanted promises written in the stars. They believed in love songs and happy endings, while I knew better.
Then she shivered, and something primal snarled in my chest.
"Look," I said, my voice harder than I intended, "you don’t want to come home with me."
She lifted her chin. That fire still burned beneath the hurt. "Why? Are you dangerous?"
My mouth curved without humor. "For you? Absolutely."
Instead of retreating, she stepped closer, her fingers brushing my sleeve. "I’ll risk it."
Fuck.
My fingers encircled her wrist, applying just enough pressure to make her pulse jump beneath my touch. "You're drunk."
"Not nearly enough," she countered, her breath warm against my jaw. "And you... You're starving for this."
Then her lips met mine, and years of ironclad control disintegrated.
I'd taken countless women to bed, but never allowed this—never kissed them. Not since my ex-wife's betrayal had taught me the danger of intimacy. Lips led to trust. Trust led to love. And love was a weakness I couldn't afford.
"Last chance to run," I growled, the warning more for myself than her. My fingers tangled in her hair, already contradicting my words.
Her answering laugh vibrated against my mouth as she nipped my lower lip—a playful challenge that sent fire straight to my groin. "What's wrong, Moretti? Afraid I'll ruin you?"
A dark chuckle escaped me. So the kitten had claws.
"Pray you remember this warning tomorrow," I murmured before claiming her mouth.
Isabella’s POV
I didn't know what madness possessed me to kiss a stranger.
Maybe it was the way his glacial blue eyes had tracked my every move in the bar—like a wolf watching a rabbit, if rabbits carried switchblades and a grudge against the world. Maybe it was the vodka still burning through my veins, blurring Damon's betrayal into something distant and unimportant. Or maybe, after a lifetime of playing the good girl, I'd finally snapped.
The second our lips met, lightning arced down my spine.
Moretti didn't kiss—he claimed. His mouth moved over mine with a hunger that stole my breath, his broad hands gripping my hips hard enough to brand me. I could feel him holding back, that iron control keeping him from taking what we both wanted.
Fuck that.
I wasn't some delicate doll to be handled with kid gloves. I was wildfire and fury, and I wanted him to feel it.
My teeth sank into his lower lip.
A growl vibrated against my mouth, his fingers digging into my flesh as something dangerous flashed in his gaze. "Careful, little storm," he warned, voice like gravel. "You're playing with fire."
I rocked against him, delighting in the way his body tensed. "Then burn me."
The elevator ride to his penthouse was exquisite torture. No matter how I writhed against him, no matter how desperately my fingers clawed at his belt, he refused to give in. His clever hands brought me to the brink again and again, until my thighs trembled and my breath came in ragged gasps.
"Please," I begged, my voice breaking on the word.
His lips curved into a wicked smile that promised both pleasure and punishment.
"Patience, little storm," he murmured, the deep timbre of his voice vibrating through me. "The best things come to those who wait."
By the time we reached the bedroom, every nerve ending screamed with need. When his strong hands tossed me onto the silk sheets, I reached for him instinctively—needing, burning to take charge.
A gasp tore from my throat as he moved with panther-like grace, pinning me beneath his powerful frame. My wrists were shackled above my head with one effortless hand, while the other fisted in my hair, tilting my face up to meet his smoldering gaze.
"Tsk tsk." His breath scorched my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "Where are your manners? Tell me your name, little storm."
I bit my lip. We'd agreed—no names, no promises, just one night of forgetting. But the command in his voice, the possessiveness in his touch, sparked something dangerous inside me.
His grip tightened on my hip, fingers pressing into soft flesh. "Say it."
"B-Bella..." I whimpered, arching against him. "Isabella."
His dark chuckle curled around me like smoke. "Do you have any idea what you've started, Bella?"
The look I gave him was pure sin. "Have me..." The words spilled out unbidden, my usual restraint shattered by desire.
Then he moved.
One heartbeat, he was controlled fire—the next, he was an inferno. His body claimed mine in a single devastating thrust that tore a scream from my lips.
"God—" My nails scored down his back as he filled me completely, each powerful stroke pushing me toward oblivion. It was punishment and worship, agony and ecstasy, the relentless rhythm destroying every last shred of my control.
When the climax ripped through me, a terrifying truth burned brighter than the pleasure—I never wanted this to end.
I woke to an empty bed and the sound of running water.
Sunlight streamed through unfamiliar hotel curtains as last night's memories flooded back in vivid detail—his hands on my skin, my nails scraping down his back, the way I'd begged for more. My pulse skyrocketed, pounding loud enough to drown out the shower's steady rhythm.
Oh God. I dragged shaking fingers through tangled hair. What did I do?
Since when did reserved, careful Isabella march into a stranger's penthouse and let him ruin her in the best possible way? Since when did I ask for it?
A sharp ring shattered my self-recrimination. The caller ID froze my breath—St. Mary's Orphanage. My fingers fumbled to accept the call.
"Ms. Joanna?" Even to my own ears, my voice sounded raw. Used.
"Isabella—" The director's usual calm had shattered into something thin and desperate. "We need you."
Ice flooded my veins. "What's wrong?"
"It's Alan." A choked pause. "The tests came back... It's stage three gastric cancer."
The world tilted. Alan—the sweet boy who'd shared his crayons with me during my darkest days, who called me "Belly" when his lisp made "Isabella" too hard.
My throat closed around a sob I couldn't afford to release. I couldn't lose him.