Chapter 6 - Morning Light and Red Ribbons
Isabella woke up to the soft, golden light of the morning sun streaming through the sheer curtains of the master bedroom.
She lay motionless for a moment, her body wrapped in the incredible warmth of the heavy comforter. A deep, comfortable ache resided in her muscles—a gentle reminder of the night before.
She turned her head slowly.
Matteo was still beside her.
The terrifying boss of the New York underworld was fast asleep on his back, one heavy arm thrown over his head, his dark hair messy against the white pillow. His chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic pattern. In the soft morning light, stripped of his suits and his formidable aura, he looked surprisingly younger, his harsh features relaxed in a quiet peace she suspected he rarely experienced.
Isabella smiled softly. She carefully reached out, her index finger gently tracing the faint scar across his right collarbone.
Matteo’s eyes snapped open instantly—the sharp, instinctual reaction of a man accustomed to danger. But the moment his gaze landed on her face, the hyper-vigilance vanished, replaced by an expression of profound, soft warmth.
"Good morning," she whispered.
Matteo didn't speak. He reached out, his heavy arm wrapping around her waist, and pulled her flush against his side, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her skin.
"Good morning, my wife," he murmured, his gravelly morning voice sending a delicious shiver down her spine.
"What time is it?" she asked, running her fingers through his dark hair.
"It doesn't matter," he replied, tightening his grip on her. "The docks can burn today. I'm not leaving this bed."
Isabella laughed softly, a bright, musical sound that made Matteo lift his head to look at her. "Rosa will come up here with her wooden spoon if you miss your five o'clock run."
"Let her try," he smiled, leaning up to press a sweet, slow kiss to her lips.
For two hours, the world outside was entirely forgotten. They lay in the quiet room, talking lazily, sharing kisses, and watching the autumn leaves drift past the window.
At ten o'clock, they finally ventured downstairs for breakfast.
Rosa was in the kitchen, chopping fresh herbs. The moment she saw the two of them walk in—Isabella wearing one of Matteo's oversized white dress shirts over her leggings, and Matteo in a simple gray t-shirt and sweatpants, his arm anchored possessively around her waist—the old housekeeper stopped dead in her tracks.
Rosa looked at Isabella's glowing skin, then looked at Matteo's completely relaxed, happy face.
A slow, brilliant smile spread across Rosa's face. Without saying a single word, she reached into her apron pocket, pulled out a small piece of red silk ribbon, and walked over to the kitchen window, tying it neatly to the brass latch.
Isabella blinked, confused. "Rosa? What is that?"
Rosa turned around, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes twinkling with affection. "An old Sicilian custom, my dear. When the master of the house finally realizes he has been given a blessing, we tie red silk to the window to keep the bad luck away."
Matteo rolled his eyes, though his cheeks flushed slightly under his dark stubble. "Rosa, please. Don't start with the superstition."
"It's not superstition, you big idiot!" Rosa scolded warmly, patting his cheek. "It's gratitude." She turned to Isabella, grabbing her hands with deep affection. "Thank you, Isabella. I haven't seen him smile like this since he was twelve years old."
Isabella looked up at Matteo. He was looking at her with a quiet, unvarnished devotion that made her heart swell to near-bursting.
She reached up, resting her hand over his chest. "I think the red silk is a fine idea," she smiled.
Before Matteo could answer, the heavy front door chimes echoed through the house.
The warm, peaceful atmosphere in the kitchen evaporated instantly.
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From the hallway, Marcus—Matteo's primary lieutenant, a sharp-eyed man in a dark suit—stepped into the doorway, his face pale and tight with tension.
"Boss," Marcus said quietly, glancing nervously at Isabella. "We have a problem. Your father-in-law is downstairs. And he didn't come alone."
