Chapter 63
The next day, Isabella was still half-asleep when the doorbell rang.
She shuffled to the door in her silk robe, her golden curls a messy cascade over her shoulders, barefoot.
If it were Aria or Amira, they'd punch in the code and come right in. Only one person would show up at this hour without a heads-up.
Vitale stood at the door, holding fresh bread and milk in his hands.
Seeing her in this state, a soft smile curved his lips, "Morning, my little kitten."
Isabella rubbed her eyes, not caring about her tangled hair or bare face.
In front of Vitale, she found herself more and more at ease, just being herself.
No need for perfect makeup or flawless manners, like a couple who'd been together for ages.
"Why are you here so early?" Isabella stepped aside, yawning.
"I missed you," Vitale walked in, casually taking off his coat and hanging it on the rack, "And I told you, the bandage needs to be changed daily."
He rolled up his shirt sleeves and headed to the kitchen, "I'll make breakfast. Go freshen up."
Isabella snapped fully awake, "You can cook breakfast?"
Vitale glanced back, a playful glint in his blue eyes, "Trust me, you'll be impressed."
"At least it won't be like when I was seven and nearly blew up the kitchen."
"Really?" Isabella leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching this mafia boss crack eggs with ease, "I thought you grew up surrounded by chefs and servants."
"My mother insisted I learn basic life skills," Vitale dropped butter into the pan, "She said, 'You can order a thousand people to cook for you, but you should at least know how to fry an egg for yourself.'"
The aroma of melting butter filled the air.
When Isabella returned after freshening up, she found the table set with perfect fried eggs, toasted bread, and fresh fruit.
She noticed Vitale's movements had the precision of a professional chef.
"By the way," she said, cutting into her egg and pretending to be casual, "it seems like the neighbors in this building have changed. The new ones look familiar. I've seen a few of them near the Tyson Group building."
Vitale's hand barely paused as he poured coffee. "Oh? How do you know?"
"Last week, when the elevator broke down, I saw a tattoo on one of their wrists," Isabella looked up at him, "A leopard, just like the one on your chest. This whole building isn't full of your people, is it?"
After a brief silence, Vitale admitted, "Not the whole building, just the three floors above and below."
He handed her the coffee, "I don't want you to be bothered, Isabella. And this makes it easier for me to come over, doesn't it?"
"Easier for what?"
"Easier to see you anytime," He sat down, cutting into his own plate, "Try this. It should taste like the one we had at the castle."
Isabella took a bite and her eyes widened in surprise, "I thought a chef made that."
"Every meal I've made for you was done by me," Vitale chuckled, "Trust my skills, whether in the kitchen or in bed."
He lowered his voice, "Just like you can trust me to keep you in bed for seven days and nights straight."
Isabella's cheeks flushed red, "Don't say stuff like that right now."
After breakfast, Vitale suggested, "It's a rare weekend. Want to go out and wander around? Like normal people?"
The idea sparked something in Isabella.
Since meeting Vitale, their relationship had always teetered between danger and passion, never the mundane routine of regular couples.
"Sure."
And so, they walked hand in hand down the shopping street. Isabella, like any girl in love, stopped at store windows, tried on a few pieces of jewelry, and bought a street coffee.
But she could feel the black Bentley creeping along behind them, Henley pretending to read a newspaper by the newsstand, and a few random-looking pedestrians who always stayed exactly 15 feet away.
Isabella pretended not to notice.
If this was Vitale's way of making her feel safe, she'd accept it.
In the afternoon, Vitale took her to an estate on the edge of the city.
As the iron gates opened automatically, Isabella spotted the family crest on the pillar.
A leopard and a rose.
"Where are we?"
"A place I lived in as a kid," Vitale said, parking the car in front of the main house, "I come back sometimes. Mostly for that."
He pointed behind the house, where a massive glass greenhouse shimmered in the sunlight, like a crystal palace.
Isabella was drawn to it.
She tugged Vitale's hand toward the greenhouse, but he stopped at the entrance, pulling an old brass key from his pocket.
"It hasn't been opened in a while." he said, the key making a rusty click as it turned.
The moment the door opened, a mix of damp soil, decayed leaves, and faint floral scent rushed out.
Isabella stepped inside, stunned by the sight.
The greenhouse was like a fairy tale frozen in time.
On the left, a well-kept flowerbed bloomed with roses, lilies, and irises, thriving under an automatic watering system.
On the right, a small orchard bore lemons and oranges.
In the center, there was even a tiny fountain, though it had long dried up.
"It's beautiful." Isabella whispered.
Vitale picked up a pair of gardening shears from the corner and started trimming excess branches from a rose bush.
In that moment, Isabella saw a different Vitale.
Not the mafia boss, not the business tycoon, but a Lumaria boy who grew up in a garden.
"This was designed by my great-grandmother," Vitale's voice echoed in the empty greenhouse, "she came from Veridian, a botanist. When she married my great-grandfather, her only request was to build this greenhouse."
Isabella touched the smooth glass walls, "Do you come here to take care of it often?"
"At least once a week," Vitale finished trimming the roses and walked toward her, "But now, close your eyes."
"Why?"
"There's a surprise."
Vitale's warm hands covered her eyes, guiding her deeper into the greenhouse.
Isabella smelled a stronger floral scent but also noticed the tension in Vitale's arms.
After about twenty steps, he stopped.
"Can I look now?" Isabella asked.
Vitale's voice sounded a bit nervous, "Are you sure you want to see?"
"Of course."
As his hands lifted, Isabella gasped.
They stood at the other end of the greenhouse, where the scene was completely different.
Broken glass, spiderwebs everywhere, overturned benches, shattered flowerpots, and scattered soil.
It looked like a violent storm had torn through, leaving devastation behind.
"What is this?" she asked softly.
Vitale pulled out a smaller key from his pocket and unlocked a tiny door in the corner, almost hidden by vines, "This is my real childhood."
Behind the door was a small room, more like a workshop.
Faded plant charts hung on the walls, dried specimens littered the workbench, and books on the shelf curled from dampness.
But what caught her eye most was a painting on the wall.
A red-haired woman smiled in the greenhouse, holding a bouquet of roses.
"This is my great-grandmother, Katya Luca," Vitale said, his voice unusually soft, "this was her private studio. She studied plant hybrids here, wrote observation journals, and escaped the family's conflicts."
Isabella touched a glass paperweight on the workbench, encasing a perfect white rose, "You locked this place up because..."
"Because of my great-grandfather," Vitale leaned against the doorframe, his gaze distant, "He loved her deeply, but this greenhouse became the place where she was kidnapped."
Isabella turned to him sharply.
"A rival family wanted to force my great-grandfather to back down, so they took her," Vitale said, his voice steady but sharp, "they held her here for three days. He gave in, but when she was returned..."
He paused, "She'd lost her mind. She never stepped into the greenhouse again, saying the flowers were mocking her."
"Oh my God."
"My great-grandfather wanted to tear it down, but she wouldn't let him. She said, 'The flowers aren't to blame, people are.' So he just locked it up. Every year on her birthday, he'd leave a bouquet of store-bought roses at the door."
Vitale stepped into the room, brushing dust off the workbench with his fingers, "I've thought about restoring it, but every time I start, I remember my grandmother's words, 'Some scars don't need to be hidden. They need to be remembered.'"
Isabella felt a pang in her chest.
She stepped forward and gently pressed Vitale's head to her chest.
He bent down willingly, burying his face in the softness of her neck, breathing in her scent deeply.
"You did it," Isabella said softly, running her fingers through his thick red hair, "you showed me the beauty and the scars, side by side, real as they are."
Vitale's arms wrapped around her waist, tightening.
In that room full of broken memories, they held each other quietly, like two kids finding shelter in a storm.
Until the sharp ring of a phone broke the silence.
Vitale didn't answer right away.
He held the embrace for a few more seconds before reluctantly letting go and glancing at the screen.
The caller ID showed Victor.