Safe in his Arms

Isabella's eyes fluttered open to the blinding whiteness of the hospital room. The antiseptic smell filled her senses, sharp and sterile, dragging her back to reality. Her body ached, every movement sending reminders of the torment she had endured. Her hands and feet were wrapped in pristine white bandages, her muscles weak, and her mind fragile.

The memories of the night came flooding back like an unstoppable tide—her sister's cruel sneer, the terror in her veins, the pain in her body. It overwhelmed her, suffocating her, until—

"Isabella."

That voice, deep and firm yet tender, broke through her spiraling thoughts. Dante. He was seated by her bedside, his large hand gently clasping hers. His dark eyes bore into hers, a storm of emotions swirling within them—anger, guilt, and a protectiveness so fierce it nearly stole her breath.

"Dante…" she whispered, her voice weak, her throat raw. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she looked at him, her anchor, the only thing keeping her from completely falling apart. "I—I thought…"

He leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers, his hand tightening around hers in reassurance. "You're safe now, micia" he murmured, his voice low but steady. "I've got you. No one will hurt you again."

Tears spilled from her eyes, and she let out a shaky breath. "She was going to sell me" Isabella choked out, the horror of her sister's betrayal still fresh. "Giulia—she… she said I belong to them. Like I'm some kind of—" Her voice cracked, and her free hand clutched at her chest as if trying to contain the pain.

Dante cupped her face with both hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You don't belong to anyone, Isabella. You are mine—not theirs, not hers. Mine." His voice softened, and his thumbs gently wiped away her tears. "And I'll kill anyone who dares to think otherwise."

She let out a small laugh despite the tears. His possessiveness, normally intimidating, felt like the safest thing in the world at that moment. "Dante… thank you" she whispered. "For saving me. For being here."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a moment as though grounding himself, too. "Always, micia" he whispered back. "I'll always be here."

They stayed like that for a while, finding solace in each other's presence. Dante's warmth and unwavering devotion chased away the shadows that still lingered in Isabella's mind. For the first time in hours, she felt like she could breathe again.

_

_

A couple of hours later, Clara walked into the hospital, Matteo having dropped her off before heading off to continue investigating the incident. She moved quickly through the halls, her worry for Isabella evident in the way her steps echoed in the quiet corridor.

As she approached the door to Isabella's room, Clara heard raised voices from inside. She paused, her curiosity piqued, and pushed the door open just in time to witness something she thought she'd never see in a million years.

Dante Vitale, the infamous il diavolo, was being scolded. And by none other than Isabella.

"Dante, you need to stop blaming Alexander!" Isabella said, her voice firm but slightly exasperated. She sat up in bed, her bandaged hands resting on her lap. "He was injured trying to protect me. You can't hold that against him. It's not fair."

Dante, standing at the foot of her bed, arms crossed and jaw tight, looked utterly unimpressed. "It was his job to protect you" he retorted, his tone clipped. "And he failed."

"Dante" Isabella sighed, shaking her head. "You can't be angry at him for something he couldn't control. He was hit in the head! What did you expect him to do? Miraculously heal and fight off armed men?"

Clara, unable to contain herself, burst into laughter from the doorway. Both Dante and Isabella turned to look at her, one annoyed and the other startled.

"Oh my god" Clara said, wiping a tear from her eye. "The devil himself is getting a verbal lashing from his wife. This is gold. Absolute gold."

"Clara" Dante growled, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel. "Unless you have something useful to say, leave."

Clara smirked, stepping into the room. "Oh no, I'm staying for this. It's not every day I get to see il diavolo humbled by his queen." She turned to Isabella. "Please, continue. I'm enjoying this."

Isabella rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "Clara, don't encourage him."

"Encourage him?" Clara gasped dramatically. "Bestie, I'm encouraging you! Someone has to keep him in check."

Dante pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. "You're insufferable."

"And you're overbearing" Clara shot back, crossing her arms. "Alexander nearly died protecting her, and you're mad because what? He's not invincible? Newsflash, Dante—neither are you."

Isabella let out a soft laugh, the sound light and airy. The banter between her best friend and her husband was somehow both ridiculous and comforting. For the first time since the ordeal, she felt like things were normal again—or at least as normal as they could be in her life.

Dante sighed, turning his attention back to Isabella. His gaze softened, and he reached out to take her hand. "Fine" he conceded reluctantly. "I'll back off."

Isabella smiled up at him, her eyes full of warmth. "Thank you."

Clara clapped her hands together. "Wow, he listens to you. Impressive. Truly."

Dante shot her a look. "Careful, Clara."

"Oh, I'm shaking in my boots" she quipped, her grin mischievous. "Now, how about we stop fighting and focus on what's important—Isabella recovering. You know, instead of trying to scare her bodyguard into retirement."

Isabella laughed again, the sound filling the room with a lightness that hadn't been there before. Despite everything that had happened, she felt safe. She was home—with Dante, Clara, and the chaotic love and support they surrounded her with.

And for now, that was enough.

_

_

Isabella had been discharged from the hospital, much to her relief. While the bruises and bandages still reminded her of the recent ordeal, her injuries were thankfully not deep enough to require a prolonged stay. Dante insisted on carrying her to the car, despite her protests, his protective nature in full swing.

When they arrived home, the household was treated to a sight none of them had ever imagined—Dante Vitale, the fearsome il diavolo, doting on his wife. He carried her inside, gently setting her on the couch, and fussed over her every need, though his intimidating aura never wavered.

Mirella watched the scene unfold with barely contained glee, her eyes sparkling with delight. "Signora" she whispered to Isabella when Dante stepped away to take a call, "I think you've turned our devil into a prince. A very broody, overprotective prince."

Isabella chuckled, wincing slightly from the movement. "Don't let him hear you say that. He'd deny it."

"Oh, I'm counting on it" Mirella said with a wink.

Soon, Matteo arrived, and with him, Clara, who had insisted on tagging along to check on her best friend. Clara immediately launched into a dramatic retelling of her encounter with Dante earlier, much to Isabella's amusement and Dante's thinly veiled irritation.

While the women chatted in the living room, the men retreated to Dante's study to discuss business. It wasn't long before Clara's curiosity got the better of her, and she dragged Isabella along to eavesdrop—not that either of them would admit to it.

Inside the study, Matteo was explaining the details of their investigation. "The men assisting Giulia weren't local" he said, his tone serious. "They were Russian. Part of a certain group."

Isabella, who had been quietly listening from the doorway, felt her chest tighten. She stepped into the room, interrupting the conversation. "Russian men?" she asked, her voice sharp with urgency. "Bratva?"

Dante's head snapped toward her, his dark eyes narrowing. "Isabella" he said, his tone both gentle and firm. "You should be resting."

She ignored him, her focus entirely on Matteo. "Matteo?" she pressed.

Matteo hesitated, glancing at Dante before Nodding. "Bratva."

The word sent a chill down Isabella's spine. Her hands trembled as memories she had tried so hard to bury began to surface. "The Bratva" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dante's expression darkened as he rose from his seat. "You know about Bratva" he asked, his tone laced with curiosity and concern.

Isabella nodded slowly, her gaze distant. "When I was 17… I was kidnapped by them."

The room fell silent. Matteo's eyes widened slightly, but it was Dante's reaction that was the most striking. His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "That's the kidnapping" he muttered, piecing it together. "The one I couldn't find any information about."

Isabella looked at him, confusion evident on her face. "You… you tried to find out?"

Dante stepped closer, his presence overwhelming but grounding. "Of course, I did. I've known about you longer than you realize, Isabella. But that part of your past was a mystery I couldn't solve." He gently cupped her face, his voice softening. "Until now."