Chapter Twenty one.

Isabella.

He said no.

Matteo looked me dead in the eyes, cold and unshaken, and said, “You’re not strong enough. You don’t belong in this world, you think it's all about playing hero but that's not it..”

Just like that. Like he was closing a door that was never meant to be open for me in the first place.

I stood there for a second, stunned, heart thudding hard in my chest. Not because I was surprised—he’d always tried to keep me at arm’s length—but because it still hurt. Deeply.

“You don’t get to decide that,” I said, my voice trembling not with fear, but rage. “You think because you’ve been through hell, no one else has scars?”

His eyes flicked over me, unreadable. “It’s not about scars. It’s about survival. You wouldn’t last.”

I laughed. A short, sharp sound. “You have no idea what I’ve survived. My father sold me off like I was nothing. My mother died crying for someone to save her. The mafia chewed through my childhood and spat me out. I’ve seen blood, Matteo. I’ve seen death and betrayal before I was old enough to understand the rules of this world.”

He didn’t respond. Just looked at me with that maddening, calm expression of his.

“I’m not asking for your approval,” I continued. “I’m telling you I belong here.”

“You think that’s all it takes?” he asked. “You think being angry and broken makes you an Assassin? You think wanting to wipe out evil makes you an Assassin? You think playing hero makes you an Assassin? It doesn't. You need discipline. You need to be ready to kill when it matters, you need to have that bloodlust, you need to be emotionless when you're asked to kill.

“I am ready.”

“No,” he said, turning away. “You’re not. And I’m busy. I’ll think about it.”

That was it.

He walked away like it was done—like I was dismissed. Just another loud voice in a room full of noise he didn’t care to hear.

My throat burned with everything I wanted to scream. Instead, I turned and stormed off, back to the room they'd given me in the compound. I barely noticed the walls as I walked—just the fire inside me, threatening to break through my skin.

The door slammed behind me with a loud crack. I paced the room, fists clenched. The rejection clawed at my chest, hot and humiliating.

“He doesn’t own me,” I hissed, to no one but the air. “He doesn’t get to decide who I am.”

But no matter how many times I said it, his words echoed in my mind like poison.

I dropped onto the edge of the bed, dragging my hands down my face. My muscles were tight, head spinning with the weight of everything. Anger. Hurt. And something I didn’t want to name.

I needed to calm down.

I needed space from my thoughts, from him.

“Take a bath,” I whispered. “Just breathe. Start over.”

The bathroom was warm and foggy by the time I turned off the tap. I slipped into the tub, the water scalding enough to distract me. I sank in up to my shoulders and let the steam soften the tension coiled in my spine.

But the quiet brought no peace. Instead, it brought memories.

Matteo’s voice. Matteo’s eyes.

Matteo standing in the training ring, sweat on his brow, jaw tight with focus.

The way he looked in the hallway last week, fresh from a mission, blood splattered on his sleeve, and not a trace of guilt in his eyes.

The way he had pressed a hand to my back once, just for a second. Just long enough to set my entire body alight.

I hated that he was everywhere in my mind. Hated that his coldness stirred something in me that felt too much like desire.

My hand moved under the water without thought, sliding over my stomach, down my thigh. Just to soothe myself, I told my reflection in the water. Just to quiet the noise.

But I couldn’t stop picturing him. Matteo, standing in that dark suit, voice low, eyes hard—but sometimes, softer when no one was looking. I imagined him closer. Too close. His breath on my skin. His hand around my wrist, pulling me in.

My body ached.

My fingers drifted lower, and I let out a shaky breath. I imagined it was his touch. His lips against my neck. His rough voice saying my name—not to scold, not to reject, but because he wanted me.

I hated how good it felt. How easily I gave in to the idea of him, even when he wouldn’t give me the time of day. It was as if touching myself was the only way to take back control, to feel something that wasn’t anger or sorrow or helplessness.

But when it was over—when I exhaled, trembling and raw—I didn’t feel victorious.

I felt hollow.

I leaned back in the tub, staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I whispered to the steam.

I wrapped my arms around myself, sinking deeper into the water, hoping it would wash away the part of me that ached for him.

Later, when I climbed out and stood before the mirror, I didn’t recognize my reflection. My eyes looked tired, but sharp. My jaw was set. I was still angry—but now at myself.

“Forget him,” I told the girl in the glass. “Forget Matteo.”

But my voice lacked conviction.

Because no matter how many times I said it, I knew the truth.

He was already under my skin.

And I freaking hated him for it.