His Weak Spot

His Weak Spot
Giovanni’s POV

I watched Isabella walk away with her mother and the boy. Her hand rested lightly on Ricardo’s shoulder, guiding him down the hall with a gentleness that tightened something ugly and unfamiliar in my chest. She didn’t look back. Not once. Not at me. Her steps were careful, measured, her posture locked tight, like she was carrying a weight no one else in this fucking house could see.

I told Carlo to escort them to the guest wing and keep watch. No one in. No one out. Not a goddamn breath without my word.

Then I turned toward the study.

Lorenzo Moretti waited inside, standing by the window with his back to the door. Sunlight cut across his shoulders, sharp and merciless, like a blade laid bare. He didn’t turn right away. He let the silence stretch, dragging it out because he knew it would scrape against my nerves.

I shut the door behind me. The sound landed heavy. Final.

Only then did he face me. That same lazy, provoking smirk sat on his lips—the kind men wear right before they get buried.

“Comfortable place you have here, Donatelli,” he drawled. “Didn’t realize a rival could stroll into your mansion unannounced and still walk out breathing.”

I stayed near the door, arms folded across my chest, body coiled. “You didn’t stroll in. My men let you through under a flag of parley. That flag is thin as paper, Moretti. One wrong word and it tears. Then I paint the walls with you.”

He clicked his tongue, sharp and dismissive. “Neutral ground, Giovanni. Even your elders are conveniently gone today.” His eyes flicked around the room. “The old rules still fucking apply. You’d love to slit my throat. I’d enjoy putting a bullet through yours. But we can’t. Not here. Not today.”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming like he was savoring every second.

“What do you want?” I snapped, patience burned down to ash.

I studied him. Too relaxed. Too comfortable. Hands loose, posture open. He was enjoying this. Enjoying being alive on my territory.

“Your wife,” he said quietly.

The words slammed into me like a gut punch. Everything inside me went cold, then white-hot. Blood roared in my ears.

“Motherfucker,” I growled. “Say that again and I’ll kill you where you stand.” I stepped forward before I could stop myself, fury snapping tight around my spine.

Lorenzo laughed softly, pleased. That laugh was poison. He looked at me like I’d just handed him a loaded gun.

“That reaction,” he sneered. “Didn’t expect it.” His smile sharpened. “It’s something I’ll kill to see again.”

I said nothing. My hands clenched so hard my knuckles burned. The room felt smaller. Suffocating.

He took a slow step closer, voice dropping, intimate and cruel. “When I sent my men to take her a few weeks ago, I wasn’t there myself. Shame, really. But I heard stories.” His eyes never left mine. “How you fought. Like a rabid animal. Angry. Feral. Even disobeying your father’s orders.”

He paused, savoring it.

“It made me curious.”

Then he smiled wider. “Then I learned something better. Your wife, Giovanni? She was my childhood friend. Long lost, sure. Same streets. Same summers. She used to laugh at my stupid fucking stories. Ran barefoot with me through the markets like she owned the world.”

My jaw locked so tight it hurt.

“I wonder,” he went on softly, “if she still remembers my name the way I remember hers.”

The image burned behind my eyes—Isabella young, free, unguarded. Hazel eyes bright with laughter. Lorenzo beside her, staking claim to pieces of her past I had never touched. Never earned.

“What do you say, Giovanni?” His voice was silk and venom. “Would you let old friends reunite? Catch up on all those lost years?”

Something inside me snapped.

Two strides and my hand was at his throat, slamming him back into the bookshelf hard enough to rattle the room. Books crashed to the floor. His breath punched out of him, but that fucking smirk never left his eyes.

“Get out,” I snarled, tightening my grip until I felt his pulse hammer under my fingers. “This meeting is over. You set foot on my ground again and I won’t bother with rules. You’ll die screaming.”

He lifted his chin, defiant even with my hand crushing his throat.

“You just showed me your weakness, Donatelli,” he said hoarsely. “Be careful. Weaknesses get exploited.”

I released him with a hard shove. He straightened his jacket slowly, deliberately, like he wasn’t seconds from death. Smoothed his hair. Turned for the door.

At the threshold, he stopped.

“Give Isabella my regards,” he said over his shoulder. “Tell her Lorenzo remembers her very well.”

The door closed with a soft, mocking click.

I stood there long after his footsteps faded. The study felt dead. Hollow. My heart slammed against my ribs like it wanted out.

I poured a drink from the decanter, but the glass stayed untouched in my hand.

Weak spot.

The bastard was right—and I fucking hated it.

Isabella had started as a debt. A contract. A calculated move to secure an heir. I had told myself that was all she would ever be. Possession. Control. Paper and blood.

But the thought of Lorenzo knowing her before me—remembering her laughter, her bare feet, her name on his tongue like it belonged there—twisted something violent in my gut. Jealousy. Raw. Ugly. Unfamiliar.

And the boy. Ricardo. The way she shielded him without thinking. The way her body tensed whenever anyone’s eyes lingered too long.

The note I’d found weeks ago on her pillow.
Does he know you already belong to another?

I had dismissed it as a rival’s mind game.

Now it felt heavier. Connected. Like a warning I’d ignored.

I set the glass down hard. The liquor sloshed but didn’t spill.

Lorenzo had come here to test me. To probe for cracks. And I had handed him the map.

Isabella was mine now. By law. By marriage. By every night I’d held her in my arms.

But her past wasn’t mine. And parts of her heart might still belong to places I could never touch.

The thought made my stomach churn.

I needed answers. From her. About the boy. About Lorenzo. About whatever she was hiding behind those careful, guarded eyes.

But the idea of confronting her—of seeing fear or hurt bloom on her face because of me—stopped me cold.

I had built my life on walls. On distance. On control.

She had slipped through them like they never existed.

Now she was under my skin in a way no one had ever been.

I dragged a hand down my face. The room still smelled faintly of Lorenzo’s cologne—sharp, invasive. I wanted it gone. I wanted him erased.

I would protect her. Protect what was mine. Even if she fought me. Even if her past clawed at her from the dark.

But God help me, if Lorenzo ever touched her again, if he ever looked at her like she could be his…

I would burn his fucking world to the ground.

Rules or no rules.
Code or no code.

She was mine.

And I was starting to realize I would kill to keep it that way.