What Are You Grateful For?

What Are You Grateful For?
Isabella’s POV

The mansion was unnaturally quiet that night, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Ricardo and my mother were gone—safely hidden in the safe house Giovanni had arranged without a single complaint. The danger still lingered in the air like smoke, but for the first time in days, I could breathe without feeling the weight of eyes on us. Without fear clawing at my throat every second.

Giovanni found me in the bedroom, standing by the window, staring out at the dark gardens. I didn’t hear him enter, only felt the shift in the air when he stepped close. His hands settled on my shoulders, warm and steady, turning me gently to face him.

His eyes searched mine in the dim moonlight. “You’re thinking too much.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I can’t help it.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just leaned down and kissed me—slow, deliberate, like he was trying to erase every worry with his mouth. His lips were soft at first, brushing mine in feather-light touches that made my breath catch. Then deeper. Hungrier. His tongue slid against mine, coaxing, tasting, until my hands fisted in his shirt just to stay grounded.

We moved without words. He walked me backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, hands sliding down my sides, over the thin silk of my nightdress. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, he eased me down, following until his body covered mine—warm, solid, protective.

I pulled back just enough to speak, my fingers tracing the faint bruise on the inside of his forearm where the needle had been. The mark was small, purple fading to yellow, but it meant everything.

“I’m so grateful,” I whispered against his lips. “For everything you did. For him. For me.”

His eyes darkened, thumb brushing my cheek. “Words aren’t enough?”

I shook my head, heat rising in my cheeks. “No.”

A slow, heated smile curved his mouth. “Then show me,” he said, voice low and rough with want. “Show me how grateful you are, Isabella.”

The words sent liquid fire through my veins. I nodded, heart pounding.

I pushed at his chest gently until he sat back on the edge of the bed. My hands trembled only slightly as I knelt between his legs on the soft rug. He watched me—intense, patient—as I unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. My lips followed my fingers, kissing down his chest, tasting salt and warmth.

When I reached his belt, he lifted his hips to help. I freed him slowly, wrapping my hand around the hard length of him. He was hot, heavy in my palm. A low groan escaped him as I stroked once, twice, learning him again.

I leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the tip. His fingers threaded into my hair—not pulling, just anchoring. I took him into my mouth gradually, lips stretching around him, tongue swirling slow circles. The taste of him—clean, masculine—made me ache between my thighs.

“Fuck, Isabella…” His voice was strained, hips shifting slightly.

I took him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, finding a rhythm that had his breath coming in sharp bursts. Up and down, slow then faster, my hand working what my mouth couldn’t reach. His grip tightened in my hair, guiding but never forcing.

I looked up. His head was tipped back, throat working, jaw clenched in pleasure. It made me bolder. I hummed softly around him, feeling him throb against my tongue.

“So good,” he rasped. “You’re so fucking good.”

I kept going, savoring every sound he made, every twitch of his body. He grew harder, closer—I could feel it in the way his thighs tensed under my palms.

But before he could finish, he tugged gently at my hair. “Not like this. I want to be inside you.”

He pulled me up, kissing me fiercely as he stripped away my nightdress. Cool air kissed my skin, then his hands—warm, reverent—traced every curve. He laid me back on the sheets, settling between my thighs, but then rolled us so I straddled him.

His hands gripped my hips. “Take me,” he murmured. “However you want.”

I sank down slowly, guiding him inside. The stretch was exquisite—full, perfect. We both moaned as I took him to the hilt. For a moment I just stayed there, adjusting, feeling him pulse deep within me.

Then I began to move.

Slow rolls of my hips at first, grinding in circles that made us both gasp. His hands roamed—up my waist, cupping my breasts, thumbs teasing sensitive peaks until I arched. Pleasure sparked everywhere he touched.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, eyes locked on mine. “So beautiful like this.”

I braced my hands on his chest, picking up pace. Rising and falling, taking him deeper with every downward slide. The friction built, sweet and relentless. Our skin grew slick with sweat. The room filled with the sounds of our breathing, soft moans, the creak of the bed.

He met my movements with gentle thrusts upward, hitting that spot inside that made my vision blur. One hand slipped between us, fingers circling where we joined, and I cried out softly.

“Giovanni…”

“Come for me,” he said, voice rough with restraint. “Let me feel you.”

I did—shattering around him in waves, clenching tight, his name on my lips. He followed moments later, hips bucking, grip bruising my hips as he surged deep.

“Monalisa!”

The name tore from him—raw, desperate, unmistakable.

We were both wide awake. Eyes open. Bodies still joined.

His face went slack with shock. Eyes wide. Horror flooding in.

I froze above him, pleasure turning to ice in my veins.

Monalisa.

Not a dream. Not sleep-talk.

Real.

He pulled out abruptly, the sudden emptiness making me gasp. He scrambled off the bed, grabbing his discarded pants from the floor.

“Isabella—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t—I’m sorry—”

But he couldn’t finish. Couldn’t look at me.

He bolted.

The door slammed behind him, echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.

I collapsed onto the sheets, still trembling from release, but now from devastation. Tears burned hot down my cheeks.

Monalisa.

Whoever she was, she was still in his heart. In his soul.

And I was just the wife who warmed his bed.

The gratitude I’d felt—the love I’d started to believe in—shattered.

I curled into a ball, arms wrapped around myself, and cried into the pillow that still smelled like him.

Alone again.

Always alone.