There are moments when survival becomes the only thing that matters. When you run without knowing where you’re going because anywhere is better than where you’ve been. For Isabella Santos, that moment came at midnight on a cold October night in New York when she finally escaped the man who had been slowly destroying her for 8 months. She ran with nothing but the clothes on her back.
No phone, no money, no plan, just the desperate need to get away before he killed her. At 2 in the morning, soaked by rain and shaking from cold and terror, she collapsed in a doorway in Little Italy, certain she was going to die alone on the street. That’s when Roco Vital, a 42-year-old man returning from a business meeting, found her.
One look at her bruised face and terrified eyes, and he made a decision that would change both their lives. He knelt in the rain in front of her and said three words that felt like salvation. You’re safe now. What happened next involves dangerous protection, a war between criminal organizations, and a love story that proves sometimes the person who saves you is the one who needs saving just as much.
Isabella Santos ran through the streets of Manhattan at 2:00 in the morning. her lungs burning, her legs screaming in protest, rain plastering her long black hair to her face and making it almost impossible to see where she was going. She had been running for over an hour, zigzagging through neighborhoods she barely knew, driven by pure terror and adrenaline, and the absolute certainty that if Dererick caught her, she would not survive this time.
Her face throbbed where he had hit her 3 hours ago, the blow splitting her lip and leaving what she knew would be another bruise to add to the collection she had been carefully hiding for months. Her left wrist achd where he had grabbed her. His fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks that looked like a bracelet of purple and yellow fingerprints.

Her ribs hurt from where he had shoved her into the kitchen counter two days ago. Though at least those bruises were hidden under her clothes, where no one could see them and ask questions she was too afraid to answer. At 26 years old, Isabella had thought she understood what love was supposed to look like.
She had thought Dererick was charming when they met 9 months ago at the coffee shop where she worked as a barista. He had come in every morning for 2 weeks, always ordering the same thing, always leaving generous tips, always making conversation that felt flattering rather than creepy. He had been attentive and romantic, bringing her flowers and taking her to nice dinners at restaurants she could never afford on her own, saying all the right things about how beautiful she was, how special, how different from other girls he had dated. Looking back now, running
through rain soaked streets with bruises hidden under her clothes, Isabella could see all the red flags she had ignored. The way Dererick had lovebombed her in those early weeks, overwhelming her with attention and gifts and declarations of feeling.
The way he had gradually isolated her from her friends, always having reasons why they couldn’t be trusted. Why they were bad influences. Why Isabella was better off spending all her time with him. the way he had slowly taken control of every aspect of her life, always framed as caring and protection, but actually about ownership and power. The first time he hit her had been 4 months into their relationship.
They had been arguing about something trivial. She couldn’t even remember what now, and suddenly his hand was across her face, the slap shocking her into silence. He had apologized profusely afterwards, had cried real tears, and said he didn’t know what came over him, that his father had been abusive, and he had sworn he would never be like that, that it would never happen again.
Isabella had believed him because she wanted to believe him. Because admitting that she had made a terrible mistake felt worse than giving him another chance, because she had been raised to believe that everyone deserved forgiveness. But it had happened again two weeks later and then a week after that and then a each time a little worse. Each time with thinner excuses that eventually gave way to no excuses at all.
Each time making it clearer that Dererick enjoyed the power he had over her, enjoyed her fear, enjoyed the control. He had isolated her completely from friends. made her quit her job because he claimed he didn’t like men looking at her, but really because he wanted her financially dependent and trapped at home.
He had moved her into his apartment in the Bronx, far from the Manhattan neighborhood where she had lived and worked, where no one knew her, and no one would hear her scream when things got bad. The psychological abuse had been worse than the physical in some ways. The constant criticism that made her doubt her own worth. The gaslighting that made her question her own memory and perception. The threats about what would happen if she tried to leave.

Threats that she would never survive on her own. That he would find her anywhere she went. That no one would believe her if she told them what he was really like. Dererick had systematically destroyed her sense of self until she was a shadow of who she used to be.
Jumping at sounds, flinching at sudden movements, afraid to do anything that might set him off. Tonight had been different. Tonight, she had finally understood with absolute clarity that if she stayed, he was going to kill her eventually. Maybe not tonight, maybe not next week, but soon. She had seen it in his eyes when he was choking her against the bedroom wall, had felt it in the way his hands tightened around her throat, even as she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, could only claw uselessly at his arms while her vision started to gray at the edges. He had let go finally, had thrown her to the floor, and told her he was going
out, that she better be there when he got back, that if she even thought about leaving, he would find her and make her sorry. Then he had grabbed his jacket and left, slamming the apartment door so hard the walls shook.
Isabella had waited exactly 30 seconds after hearing his car start before she grabbed the first jacket she saw and ran. No phone because he had smashed hers weeks ago. No money because he controlled all the finances. No keys because he had never given her a set. Just her and the clothes she was wearing and the desperate need to get away. She had run down six flights of stairs and out into the October rain, running toward the subway with no plan except to put as much distance as possible between herself and Derek. She had jumped the turn style because she had no metro card, had taken the first train that
came without caring where it was going, had ridden it to the end of the line, and then started running again through streets she didn’t recognize. Now, somewhere in lower Manhattan, exhausted and soaking wet and starting to shake from cold, Isabella finally had to stop. Her body simply would not run anymore.
She collapsed into the doorway of what looked like a closed restaurant, sliding down until she was sitting on the cold concrete, wrapping her arms around herself in a feudal attempt to stay warm. The rain was coming down harder now, and even the shallow protection of the doorway wasn’t enough to keep her dry. She was shivering so hard her teeth were chattering, and she was pretty sure she was going into shock because everything felt distant and unreal, like she was watching this happen to someone else from very far away.
She didn’t have a phone to call anyone, even if she could think of who to call. She didn’t have money for a hotel or a shelter. She didn’t know where she was or how to get anywhere else. And she was terrified that Dererick was out looking for her, that he would find her somehow, that she had only delayed the inevitable by running. Isabella put her head on her knees and tried not to cry, because crying required energy she didn’t have.

She needed to think, needed to plan, needed to figure out her next move. But all she could think about was how cold she was, how much her face hurt, how tired she was of being afraid all the time. That’s when she heard footsteps approaching through the rain. Heavy footsteps, boots splashing through puddles coming closer.
Isabella’s head jerked up and she pressed back against the door, terror flooding through her system and giving her a surge of adrenaline that momentarily overrode her exhaustion. If this was Derek, if he had somehow found her already, she had nowhere left to run. The man who appeared out of the rain was not Derek. He was taller, broader, older, with dark hair that was wet from the rain, and a face that was all hard angles and shadows in the dim streetlight.
He wore an expensive looking dark coat and moved with the kind of confident grace that suggested he was someone used to being in control of his surroundings. He stopped when he saw her, his eyes taking in her position huddled in the doorway, and Isabella saw his expression shift from neutral to something harder as he registered whatever he was seeing on her face.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice deep with a slight Italian accent that made certain words sound musical despite the concern in his tone. Isabella wanted to say yes, wanted to tell him she was fine and he should just keep walking and leave her alone. But the word wouldn’t come out. Instead, she just stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, shaking so hard she couldn’t speak.
The man took a careful step closer, moving slowly like someone approaching a frightened animal. He crouched down so he was at her eye level rather than looming over her. And Isabella noticed that his eyes were an unusual color, somewhere between gray and blue, striking against his olive skin. “You’re hurt,” he said quietly, his gaze moving over her face with professional assessment. “And you’re freezing.
How long have you been out here?” I don’t know, Isabella managed to say through chattering teeth. An hour, maybe, maybe more. Are you running from someone? The question was asked gently, but with an undertone that suggested he already knew the answer. Isabella hesitated, years of Dererick’s threats about what would happen if she told anyone waring with her desperate need for help. Yes, she finally whispered.
Is he looking for you right now? Probably. The man nodded once, as though this confirmed something he had suspected. Then you can’t stay here. If someone’s looking for you, they’ll find you eventually sitting out in the open like this. My name is Roco Vital. I live two blocks from here. Come with me.
I’ll get you dry and warm, and we can figure out what to do next. I can’t, Isabella said automatically. Dererick’s voice in her head telling her never to trust anyone, never to ask for help, never to make him look bad by admitting what happened in private. I don’t know you. No, you don’t. Roco agreed. But right now, your options are freeze to death in this doorway. Go back to whoever hurt you or trust me.
I’m not saying I’m a good option, but I’m probably better than the other two. And I promise you, I’m not going to hurt you. That’s not who I am. There was something in his voice, in the steady way he held her gaze, in the careful distance he maintained even while offering help that made Isabella want to believe him. Or maybe she was just desperate enough that any offer of shelter sounded better than staying in this doorway waiting for Derek to find her. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” she asked.
“How do I know you’re not worse than what I’m running from?” “You don’t. But here’s what I can tell you. I’m 42 years old. I run several businesses in this city. I have a mother and a sister who would be horrified if I left a woman sitting in the rain when I could help. And I’m very good at protecting people who need protecting. That’s what I do.
Why would you help me? You don’t know me either. Because Roco said simply, I recognize the look on your face. I’ve seen it before on people who’ve been hurt by someone who was supposed to care about them, and I can’t walk past that and do nothing. So, are you going to come with me, or are you going to stay here and hope for the best? Isabella looked at him at this stranger with intense eyes and a calm voice who was offering her exactly what she needed most in this moment, safety and warmth and protection. She knew this was potentially a terrible decision. that accepting help from a strange man
could be walking into a worse situation than the one she had just escaped. But she was so cold and so tired and so scared. And the alternative was sitting in this doorway until Dererick found her or until she died of hypothermia. At least this way she was choosing something instead of just passively waiting for whatever happened next. “Okay,” she said quietly.
Yes, I’ll come with you. Rocco stood and held out his hand to help her up. Isabella hesitated for just a moment before taking it, and his hand was warm and rough and solid, the kind of hand that suggested he worked with them despite his expensive clothes.
He pulled her to her feet gently, steadying her when she swayed slightly from exhaustion and cold. Can you walk? I think so. Good. It’s just two blocks. Stay close to me. They walked through the rain, Rocco matching his pace to hers. Even though she was moving slowly, her body protesting every step. He kept himself between her and the street, a position that felt protective rather than threatening, and didn’t try to touch her except when she stumbled once, and he caught her elbow to steady her.
True to his word, two blocks later, they arrived at a building that looked expensive and well-maintained, all restored brick and elegant details. Rocco used a key card to let them into a lobby that was warm and dry and felt like paradise after the cold rain. An elevator took them to the top floor, opening directly into what appeared to be a penthouse apartment.
The space was masculine and elegant, all dark leather and exposed brick and furniture that looked comfortable rather than decorative. Isabella stood dripping on the hardwood floor, shivering so hard she could barely stand, taking in her surroundings with a kind of numb detachment. Bathroom is this way, Rocco said, guiding her down a hallway.
You need to get out of those wet clothes before you get hypothermia. There’s a shower, hot water, towels. Take as long as you need. I’ll find you something dry to wear. He showed her into a bathroom that was larger than the bedroom she had shared with Derek. All marble and expensive fixtures and heated floors that felt amazing against her frozen feet.
Then he left, closing the door behind him and giving her privacy she hadn’t expected. Isabella locked the door, then stood for a long moment, just staring at herself in the mirror. She looked like a nightmare. Her long black hair hung in wet tangles around her face.
Her left cheek was swollen and bruised, the skin already darkening to purple. Her lip was split and puffy. Her dark eyes were huge and scared in her too thin face. The oversized hoodie she had grabbed when she ran was soaked through, hanging off her small frame and making her look even smaller and more fragile than she actually was.
She didn’t recognize this person in the mirror. When had she become this scared, broken thing? Isabella stripped off her wet clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as she could stand and just standing under the spray for several minutes, letting the heat slowly penetrate her frozen skin. She washed carefully, wincing when the soap touched the cut on her lip or the bruises on her ribs. The hot water revealed other marks she had been too cold to notice before.
More fingerprint bruises on her arms. A dark mark on her shoulder from where Dererick had grabbed her last week. She stayed in the shower until she started to feel warm again until her shivering finally stopped and she could think clearly for the first time in hours.
Then she dried off with towels that were thick and soft and expensive, wrapping one around her body and one around her hair. There was a knock on the door. I’m leaving clothes outside for you. Rocco’s voice called through the wood. Take your time. When Isabella cracked open the door, she found a neat stack of clothes sitting on the floor.
sweatpants that would be too big for her but had a drawstring waist, a t-shirt that would probably hang to her knees, clean socks, even women’s underwear still in the package, which suggested Rocco had somehow acquired them in the 20 minutes she had been in the shower. She dressed quickly, rolling up the waistband of the sweatpants multiple times until they stayed up, swimming in the t-shirt that did indeed hang almost to her knees.
But the clothes were clean and dry and warm, and that was all that mattered right now. When she emerged from the bathroom, she found Rocco in the kitchen, his back to her as he did something at the stove. He had changed out of his wet clothes, too, now wearing jeans and a dark Henley shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders.
His hair was still damp, pushed back from his face in a way that made him look younger despite the gray threading through the dark brown. “Feeling better?” he asked without turning around as though he had heard her approach despite her bare feet making no sound on the floor. “Yes, thank you for the clothes and the shower and all of this. You’re welcome.
” Rocco turned around and Isabella got her first clear look at him in good light. He was handsome in a rough, mature way, with strong features and a small scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His eyes were as striking as she had noticed earlier. that unusual gray blue color that seemed to see right through her.
“He looked tired,” she thought, like someone who had seen too much and carried too many burdens. “Come sit,” he said, gesturing to the kitchen island where he had set out a bowl of soup and bread. “You need to eat something. When was the last time you had food?” Yesterday, Isabella said, sitting carefully on one of the stools and immediately feeling how much her body hurt now that adrenaline was wearing off. Maybe the day before. I’m not sure.
Rocco set the soup in front of her without comment on how long it had been since she had eaten. Eat slowly. Your stomach is going to be sensitive after that much time without food and all the stress you’ve been under. The soup was simple, just chicken broth with pasta and vegetables.
But to Isabella, it tasted like the best thing she had ever eaten. She ate carefully, aware that Rocco was watching her with those intense eyes, assessing her in a way that felt clinical rather than creepy. “What’s your name?” he asked after she had eaten about half the soup. “Isabella, everyone calls me Issa.” “Isa, it suits you.” He poured her water from a filter pitcher in the refrigerator.
How old are you? 26. And the person you’re running from? Boyfriend, husband, boyfriend, ex-boyfriend as of tonight, I guess. How long were you with him? 9 months total. 4 months before it got bad. Rocco’s expression darkened. 4 months. And tonight was bad enough that you ran with nothing.
What happened? Isabella set down her spoon, her appetite suddenly gone as memory washed over her. He was choking me against the wall. I couldn’t breathe. I thought he was going to kill me this time. When he finally let go, I knew if I didn’t leave right then, I was never going to get another chance. Did he hit you before the choking tonight? Was that the first time? No, he’s been hitting me for months.
Tonight was just the worst it’s been. Roco was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was dangerously calm. I need you to tell me his full name and where he lives. Why? Because I’m going to make sure he never touches you again. You can’t do that. You don’t understand. Derek is connected to people. Dangerous people.
He’s not just some guy you can scare off. What kind of dangerous people? Isabella hesitated. Russian. I don’t know all the details, but I’ve heard him on the phone. He works for someone named Vulov. Does collection or something? He always has a lot of cash and guns, and sometimes people come to the apartment who scare me even more than he does.
Roco’s expression shifted to something colder. Vulov as in the Bratva. Your ex works for the Russian mob. I think so. Yes. That’s why you can’t get involved. If he finds out you’re helping me, he’ll come after you, too. Issa, Roco said. And there was something almost like amusement in his voice despite the serious situation.
I appreciate your concern for my safety, but you need to understand something. I’m not just some civilian who stumbled into this. I run significant operations in this city. The people Vulkoff works for, they know my name, and they know better than to cause me problems. Your ex working for them complicates things, but it doesn’t scare me.
If anything, it makes me more certain that I need to help you. I don’t understand. What operations? What do you do? Roco studied her face for a moment, seeming to decide how much to tell her. My family has been in New York for three generations. We control certain business interests in Little Italy and surrounding neighborhoods. Some of those interests are completely legitimate.
Some of them exist in areas that the law doesn’t always approve of. Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re in the mafia, Isabella said flatly. That’s a very dramatic word, but essentially yes. Which means I have resources and connections that can keep you safe from your ex and anyone he works for. It also means that him being brought makes this personal because we have territorial agreements that they’ve been violating.
If one of their people has been operating in my territory without permission, hitting women and causing problems, that’s something I’m going to handle regardless of my personal feelings about it. Your personal feelings? Roco leaned forward, his gray blue eyes intense. I don’t like men who hit women. I especially don’t like men who strangle women and terrorize them and make them run through the rain at 2 in the morning with nowhere to go.
That’s not how men in my world operate. We have rules, codes. What your ex did to you violates every one of them. So, yes, I have personal feelings about this. And those feelings say he needs to learn a very clear lesson about what happens when you hurt someone under my protection. I’m not under your protection. We just met. You are now.
The moment you accepted my help, you became my responsibility. That’s how this works, Issa. You’re safe now. I promise you that he’s not going to touch you again. The certainty in his voice, the absolute conviction that he could protect her when Dererick had spent months making her believe no one could help her made Isabella feel something crack in her chest. Before she could stop herself, she was crying.
Really crying for the first time since she had escaped. All the fear and pain and exhaustion pouring out in shaking sobs. Rocco came around the kitchen island immediately, careful not to startle her, but moving close enough to offer comfort if she wanted it.
When Isabella turned toward him, he pulled her against his chest and held her while she cried. One large hand stroking her wet hair, murmuring words in Italian she didn’t understand, but that sounded soothing anyway. You’re safe,” he repeated, his voice rumbling through his chest where her face was pressed against him. “You’re safe now, Issa. I’ve got you. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.
” And Isabella, who hadn’t felt safe in months, who had been so terrified for so long that fear had become her constant companion, found herself actually believing him. She woke up the next morning in a bed that was not hers, in a room she didn’t recognize. momentarily disoriented and panicked before memory returned.
Rocco the rain running from Derek. She was safe. She was in Rocco’s guest room where he had left her last night after she had finally stopped crying, had changed the sheets himself and brought her more water and told her to lock the door if it made her feel safer. Sunlight was streaming through windows that overlooked what appeared to be a private courtyard.
The room was elegant and comfortable, decorated in soft neutrals. The bed was huge and comfortable, and Isabella had slept better than she had in months, despite the strangeness of her surroundings. She found Rocco in the kitchen making espresso with a complicated machine that looked like it cost more than Isabella used to make in a month.
He glanced up when she entered, his eyes moving over her face as though checking her condition. Good morning. How did you sleep? Better than I expected. Thank you for,” she gestured vaguely. “All of this, letting me stay, taking care of me. You don’t need to thank me for basic human decency, Issa.” Roco poured espresso into two small cups.
“But you’re welcome. Coffee, please.” They sat at the kitchen island, and Isabella found herself studying him in the morning light. He looked tired, she thought, like maybe he hadn’t slept as well as she had. There were dark circles under his unusual eyes, and he moved with a kind of weariness that suggested this wasn’t just physical exhaustion, but something deeper. Did you sleep at all? She asked. A few hours.
I had some calls to make, some arrangements to handle. Arrangements? Rocco sat down his espresso cup and looked at her directly. I put the word out last night that you’re under my protection. By now, everyone who matters knows not to touch you. I also had some people look into your ex.
Derek Morrison lives in the Bronx, works as an enforcer for the Brata, doing collections and intimidation. He’s been operating in parts of the city that technically fall under my family’s territory, which violates agreements we have with the Russians. So, I called Vulov this morning and informed him that his employee has been causing problems that need to be addressed. What did he say? That Derrick is a loose cannon they’ve been meaning to handle anyway.
That he’s sorry for any inconvenience. That he’ll make sure Dererick doesn’t bother you again. Just like that. He’s just going to tell Derrick to leave me alone and Dererick will listen. Roco’s expression was grim. When Volkov tells one of his people to stop doing something, they stop. Whether they want to or not. Trust me, Dererick is going to be more worried about disappointing his boss than about getting revenge on you.
What if he doesn’t care? What if he comes after me anyway? Then I handle it personally, which is what I wanted to do anyway. But politics required that I give Vulov the courtesy of dealing with his own people first. If Dererick doesn’t take the hint, the next conversation won’t be a courtesy. The casual way Rocco spoke about violence, the implicit threat in his words should have scared Isabella.
Instead, she felt something like relief. After months of Dererick making her feel helpless and small, there was something empowering about having someone on her side who was actually dangerous enough to follow through on threats of protection. “What happens now?” she asked. Do I just stay here? Do I try to go back to my life? Do I hide forever? Now, Rocco said, “You recover. You stay here as long as you need to. You rest.
You heal. You figure out what you want your life to look like. I’m not going to throw you out, Isa. You’re safe here. I can’t just stay here indefinitely as your charity case. You’re not a charity case. You’re someone who needed help and I had the resources to provide it. That’s not charity. It’s just being a decent human being. You barely know me.
So, I know enough. You’re brave enough to run when staying would have killed you. You’re smart enough to accept help when you needed it. You’re strong enough to survive 8 months with someone who was trying to break you. That’s all I need to know. Isabella felt tears threatening again and blinked them back.
Why are you being so nice to me? Roco reached across the counter and gently touched her bruised cheek. The gesture so careful and tender it made her breath catch. Because someone should be. Because you deserve kindness after what you’ve been through. Because I can help.
And not helping would make me an Take your pick. Over the following days, Isabella settled into an uneasy routine in Roco’s penthouse. He gave her space, but was always nearby if she needed anything. He had people bring her clothes in her actual size, basic necessities, books when she mentioned she liked reading. He never pushed her to talk about what had happened with Derek, but was willing to listen when she voluntarily shared things. Slowly, Isabella began to relax.
The constant tension she had been carrying for months started to ease. She slept without nightmares of Derek finding her. She ate regular meals and started to put back on the weight she had lost from stress. The bruises on her face and arms started to fade from purple to yellow to nothing.
And she started to see Rocco as more than just her rescuer. She saw how he was gentle with his elderly mother when she called every evening. how he teased his younger sister with obvious affection, how he treated the people who worked for him with respect rather than demanding blind obedience.
She saw how he was tired all the time from working too much, how he rarely seemed to do anything just for himself, how he carried the weight of his responsibilities with a kind of resigned determination. She also saw how he looked at her sometimes when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. How his eyes would linger on her face as though memorizing her features.
How he seemed to track her movements whenever she was in the room with him. How careful he was never to touch her without permission as though afraid of scaring her. 2 weeks after the night he had found her in the rain, Isabella was making dinner in his kitchen, something she had started doing as a way of feeling useful.
Rocco came home earlier than usual, finding her stirring pasta sauce at the stove. You don’t have to cook for me, he said. But there was appreciation in his voice. I know, but I like it. Makes me feel less like a burden. You’re not a burden, Issa. She turned to face him, wooden spoon still in her hand.
Then what am I? Rocco was quiet for a moment, seeming to choose his words carefully. You’re someone I care about. Someone I want to make sure is okay. Why? Why do you care? You didn’t know me two weeks ago. He moved closer until he was standing right in front of her. Close enough that she could smell his cologne and see the flexcks of darker blue in his gray eyes.
Because from the moment I saw you in that doorway, soaked and terrified and still trying to be brave, something in me decided you were mine to protect. And I don’t make those kinds of decisions lightly, Issa. When I commit to protecting someone, it’s not temporary. It’s permanent. That sounds possessive, Isabella said. But there was no fear in her voice, just curiosity. It is possessive.
I told you I’m not good at sharing once I’ve decided someone belongs under my protection. You’re safe here. You’re mine now. and I take care of what’s mine.” The way he said mine sent heat flooding through Isabella’s body, a physical response that she hadn’t felt in so long she had almost forgotten what attraction felt like. She should probably be concerned about how possessive he sounded.
Should be worried about jumping from one controlling relationship into another. But Rocco’s possession felt different from Dererick’s. Dererick had wanted to own her, to break her, to make her smaller. Rocco wanted to protect her, to help her recover, to make her stronger. What if I don’t want to be possessed? She asked, testing him.
Then I’ll respect that. I’m not Derek, Isa. I’m never going to force you into anything. But I’m also not going to apologize for caring about your safety or wanting to keep you close where I can make sure you’re okay. What if I want to stay? What if I don’t want to leave when I’m healed? Rocco’s eyes darkened and he reached out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, the gesture achingly gentle.
Then you stay for as long as you want. This can be your home if you want it to be. And what would I be to you? Your charity case, your responsibility? You’d be, Roco paused, then seemed to decide on honesty. You’d be mine in whatever way you’re comfortable with. as someone under my protection at minimum.
As something more if you wanted that something more. I’m attracted to you, Issa. Have been since the beginning, though I’ve been trying to give you space to heal before saying anything. But you’re asking direct questions. And I’m not going to lie to you. I want you. I want you to stay. I want to keep you safe and happy and see you smile.
I want a lot of things I probably shouldn’t want given the circumstances, but I’m not going to push. The ball is in your court. Isabella looked at this dangerous, powerful man who had taken her in without hesitation, who had protected her without asking for anything in return, who looked at her like she was something precious instead of something broken.
She thought about what it would mean to give in to the attraction she felt to let herself want someone again after Dererick had made her afraid of intimacy. And she decided that maybe taking that risk was worth it if the person she was risking for was someone like Rocco. Kiss me, she said quietly. Rocco’s eyes widened slightly. Are you sure? I’m sure. I want you to kiss me, Rocco. Please.
He moved slowly, giving her time to change her mind, his hand coming up to cup her uninjured cheek with incredible gentleness. Then he leaned in and kissed her, and it was nothing like the brutal, demanding kisses Dererick had given her. This was soft and careful and asking rather than taking. Isabella made a small sound in the back of her throat and pressed closer, her hands going to his broad shoulders.
Rocco deepened the kiss but remained gentle, his other hand moving to her waist to pull her against him. When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, he rested his forehead against hers. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly. “Was that okay?” “Yes, more than okay. Can we do it again?” Rocco smiled, the expression transforming his usually serious face. Anytime you want,
Issa. Anytime you want. They took things slowly after that, building towards something real without rushing past Isabella’s need to heal. Rocco never pushed for more than she offered, seemed content to kiss her and hold her, and let things develop naturally. He was patient in a way Dererick had never been, attentive to her comfort and boundaries, making it clear that her well-being mattered more to him than his own desires.
Three weeks after he had found her, Isabella woke to the sound of shouting from the living room. She sat up in bed, heart racing, old fear flooding back. It was 2:00 in the afternoon, an odd time for Roco to have visitors. She crept to her bedroom door and opened it slightly, listening. I don’t care what Vulov told you to do. Rocco’s voice carried clearly, cold and dangerous.
You’re not taking her. She’s under my protection and that means you don’t touch her. She’s mine. Dererick’s voice. And Isabella felt ice flood her veins. He had found her. He was here. She’s my girlfriend and she ran away and I want her back. She’s not your anything. Roco said she’s a woman who finally escaped an abuser. You’re not getting near her.
You can’t keep me from her forever. She’ll have to leave eventually. And when she does, I’ll be waiting. No, you won’t. Because if you ever come near her again, if you so much as think about her, I will personally ensure you disappear. Do you understand me? This isn’t a negotiation. This isn’t a warning.
This is me telling you that Isabella Santos is mine now. And mine means untouchable. You’ve already been told by your boss to leave her alone. The fact that you’re here anyway means you’re too stupid to listen. But you’re going to listen to me, Derek.
Because unlike Vulov, I don’t give second chances to men who threaten women under my protection. You think you scare me? Dererick’s voice was full of bravado. But Isabella could hear the fear underneath. You’re nobody. Just another Italian thinking he’s tough because he’s got some muscle. There was a sound of movement, something hitting a wall. And then Rocco’s voice was quieter, but infinitely more dangerous.
I’m going to explain this once. Isabella is mine. That means if you touch her, you answer to me. If you look at her, you answer to me. If you even say her name, you answer to me. And I promise you, Derek Morrison, you do not want to answer to me.
Now get out of my home before I stop being diplomatic and start being honest about what I want to do to men like you. More sounds of movement, then the apartment door slamming. Silence. Isabella stood frozen in her doorway, trying to process what had just happened. You can come out, Issa, Rocco called. He’s gone.
She emerged slowly and found Rocco standing by the windows, his usually controlled expression showing cracks of anger. I’m sorry you had to hear that. How did he find me? He’s been watching the building for days. Apparently, one of my people spotted him yesterday, but I wanted to see what he would do. Today, he got bold and tried to come up. I was ready for him.
What happens now? Now he understands that you’re off limits. And if he doesn’t understand, I’ll make it clearer. He said he’d wait for me to leave, that he’d be watching. Rocco crossed to her and pulled her against his chest, his arms wrapping around her securely. Then you don’t leave without protection and he can watch all he wants because he’s not going to get another chance to hurt you. I promise you that.
What if he tries anyway? Then I deal with it permanently. his handstroked her hair, the gesture soothing despite the violence implicit in his words. “Do you trust me to keep you safe?” “Yes,” Isabella said, and realized she meant it. “I trust you.” “Good, because you’re mine now, Isa. Mine to protect, mine to care for, mine to keep safe, and I’m very good at protecting what’s mine.
” 2 days later, Derek Morrison was found in the Bronx with multiple injuries that suggested he had been taught a very clear lesson about following orders. He was hospitalized for a week, and when he got out, he immediately left New York for Florida, telling anyone who asked that he was done with the city.
Rocco never explicitly said what had happened, but Isabella knew, and instead of being horrified, she felt relief. Dererick was gone. The threat was eliminated. She was actually truly safe. The weeks that followed Dererick’s departure from New York brought changes that Isabella hadn’t anticipated. She had expected to feel only relief, only safety, but instead found herself grappling with a complicated tangle of emotions that Roco seemed to understand better than she did herself.
“You’re allowed to grieve,” he told her one morning when he found her staring out the window with tears on her face. even for something that hurt you. Even for someone who was terrible to you. You’re not grieving him. You’re grieving what you thought you had, what you hoped it could be. How do you know that? Isabella asked, wiping her eyes. Rocco was quiet for a moment, then sat down beside her. My father was not a good man.
He was violent, unpredictable, dangerous to everyone around him, including his own family. When he died 10 years ago, I thought I would only feel relief. Instead, I cried at his funeral. Not for who he was, but for who I had needed him to be and never got. It was the first truly personal thing Rocco had shared about his own past.
And Isabella felt the weight of the trust implicit in that sharing. What happened to him? He made enemies of the wrong people. Made decisions based on ego rather than strategy. In our world, that kind of mistake only happens once. Rocco’s voice was matter of fact, but Isabella could see the old pain in his eyes.
My mother and sister were relieved when he was gone, but they pretended to mourn for appearances. I was the only one who actually felt the loss, even though I knew intellectually that we were all better off. Do you think that makes you weak? Isabella asked softly. I used to. Now I think it makes me human. Emotions don’t follow logic, Issa.
You can know someone was bad for you and still feel the loss of what you wanted them to be. That doesn’t make you foolish or weak. It makes you someone with a heart. That conversation opened something between them, a deeper level of trust and vulnerability. Isabella began to share more about her life before Derek, about her family in Brazil, who she hadn’t spoken to in years, about dreams she had abandoned when Dererick had systematically convinced her she wasn’t capable of achieving them. “I wanted to go to school for graphic design,” she admitted
one evening while they were cooking dinner together, something that had become a comfortable routine. I was good at it, had a scholarship and everything. But Dererick said it was a waste of time, that I’d never make money doing art, that I should focus on supporting him instead.
And you believed him? I believed that he knew better than me. That’s what he convinced me of little by little, that my judgment was flawed, that my dreams were naive, that I needed him to make decisions for me because I couldn’t be trusted to make good ones myself. Roco set down the knife he was using to chop vegetables and turned to face her fully.
You were 25 years old when you met him, working, supporting yourself, managing your life. You were capable then and you’re capable now. He didn’t make you more capable, Isa. He made you doubt capabilities you already had. I know that logically, but emotionally, she trailed off. Emotionally, you’re still working through the damage he did. That’s normal.
Trauma doesn’t heal on a schedule. Rocco reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture now familiar and comforting. But maybe we can do something about the practical side. What if you enrolled in classes? Started working toward that design degree again. Isabella felt a flutter of something that might have been hope.
I don’t have money for tuition. I have money. And before you argue, he continued as she opened her mouth to protest. This isn’t charity. Consider it an investment. You’re talented. You’re motivated. And you deserve the chance to pursue what you’re passionate about. Let me help make that happen.
Why do you keep helping me? You’ve already done so much. Rocco’s expression softened. Because seeing you happy makes me happy. Because I have resources and using them to help someone I care about is the best possible use of those resources. Because you matter to me, Issa. Your happiness, your dreams, your future, they all matter to me.
Two weeks later, Isabella was enrolled in online classes at NYU, slowly working toward the degree she had abandoned. It felt strange at first, liberating and terrifying in equal measure. But Rocco’s quiet confidence in her abilities helped her push through the fear. She met Rocco’s mother on a Sunday afternoon in late November.
Rosa Vital was a small, elegant woman in her late 60s with sharp eyes that missed nothing and a warmth that immediately put Isabella at ease despite her nervousness. “So, you’re the girl my son won’t stop talking about,” Rosa said in accented English. pulling Isabella into a hug before she could respond.
He calls me every day and somehow you come up in every conversation. Issa did this today. Issa said something funny. Issa is so smart. I tell him, Rocco, just bring her to meet me already. Mama, Rocco said, but there was affection in his exasperation. Rosa waved him off and linked her arm through Isabella’s. Come sit with me.
I want to hear everything about you from you. Not filtered through my son’s obvious infatuation. Over espresso and homemade biscotti, Isabella found herself opening up to Rosa in a way she hadn’t expected. There was something about the older woman’s direct manner, her obvious love for her son, her lack of judgment that made Isabella feel safe sharing pieces of her story.
My Rockco, he has a good heart,” Rosa said when Isabella had finished. “Always has, even when he was a little boy, his father tried to beat it out of him, make him hard and cruel like himself. But Rocco, he refused. He learned to be strong, yes, to be smart and strategic and dangerous when necessary, but he never lost his kindness. Never stopped caring about people who were hurt or in trouble.
He saved my life,” Isabella said quietly. “And you saved his, I think,” Rosa replied, patting her hand. “You gave him someone to protect, yes, but also someone to care for in a different way than family.” “Someone who chose him, not because of obligation or fear or family ties, but because of who he is.
That matters to a man like my son more than you might realize.” That conversation stayed with Isabella, made her see Rocco’s devotion to her protection in a new light. He wasn’t just being kind to a stranger in need. He was choosing her deliberately and consistently in ways that Dererick had never truly chosen her.
Rocco’s sister, Gabriella, was a different experience entirely. At 35, she was stylish, sharp tonged, and clearly protective of her older brother. She showed up at the penthouse unannounced one afternoon when Rocco was out ostensibly to drop off some documents. But really, Isabella suspected to assess the woman who had taken up residence in her brother’s life.
So, Gabriella said, settling onto the couch with a glass of wine. You’re the one who’s got my brother acting like a lovesick teenager. I don’t know about that, Isabella said carefully. Oh, I do. I’ve known Rocco for 35 years. He’s had girlfriends, sure, but he’s never brought someone into his home like this. Never looked at anyone the way he looks at you. Never rearranged his entire life around making sure someone was okay.
Gabriella studied her with eyes that were a darker version of Rocco’s unusual gray blue. The question is whether you’re going to hurt him. Hurt him? He’s the one who saved me. And now he’s invested emotionally, not just in terms of protection. Rocco doesn’t do anything halfway. When he commits, he commits completely.
So if you’re just using him as a safe harbor until you find something better, you should leave now before he’s in too deep. Isabella felt anger flare, surprising herself with its intensity. I’m not using him. I care about him. I’m She paused, then decided on honesty. I’m falling in love with him, which scares me because I haven’t even recovered from my last relationship.
And I don’t know if what I feel is real or just gratitude or trauma bonding or some mess of all of it, but I’m not using him, and I wouldn’t hurt him deliberately. Gabriella’s expression softened. Good answer. The fact that you’re questioning your own motives is actually reassuring. It means you’re thinking about his well-being, not just your own. She took a sip of wine.
For what it’s worth, I think it’s real. You can’t fake the way you light up when he comes home, or the way you watch him when you think no one’s looking. And trauma bonding is real, but so is connection formed through adversity. Sometimes the person who helps you through hell is exactly the right person for you.
They spent the rest of the afternoon talking and by the time Rocco came home, Isabella had gained not just his sister’s approval, but something that might become genuine friendship. The nightmares started about 6 weeks after Dererick left.
Isabella would wake up gasping, certain she felt hands around her throat, convinced she heard Dererick’s voice, sure that the safety of Rocco’s apartment was an illusion that would shatter at any moment. The first time it happened, Rocco appeared in her doorway within seconds of her waking scream, his presence solid and reassuring in the darkness.
“Just a dream,” she managed to say through chattering teeth. “I’m sorry I woke you. Don’t apologize. Come here. He sat on the edge of her bed and pulled her against his chest, letting her shake and cry until the fear subsided. Do you want to talk about it? I dreamed he found me. That he got past your protection somehow and he was here in this room and I couldn’t run because my legs wouldn’t work and I couldn’t scream because no sound would come out.
That’s not going to happen. Roco said firmly. He’s gone, Issa. He’s in Florida. Too scared of what I’ll do if he comes back to even think about it. And even if he wasn’t, he’d have to get through me to get to you. And that’s not possible. You can’t watch me every second. No, but I have people who can.
This building has security that most banks would envy. And beyond that, you’re not helpless anymore, Issa. You’re getting stronger every day. If Dererick somehow managed the impossible and got to you, you’re not the same terrified woman he used to control. You’d fight and you’d win. The nightmares continued, but their power lessened over time. And Isabella discovered that Roco was right.
She was getting stronger. She was sleeping better, eating regularly, laughing at things again. the person she had been before. Dererick was slowly emerging from underneath the damage he had caused. 3 months after that first night in the rain, Isabella surprised herself by wanting to go outside, not just to the courtyard or the building’s gym, but actually out into the city.
Rocco hired a driver and two discreet bodyguards, and they spent the afternoon wandering through the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Isabella rediscovering her love of art and design while Roco followed along with patient interest. “You see things I don’t,” he said while they stood in front of a contemporary piece that looked like chaos to him, but that Isabella was explaining with animated enthusiasm.
“The way you talk about composition and color theory and emotional impact, it’s like you’re reading a language I can’t see.” “That’s how I feel when you talk about business strategy,” Isabella replied. like you’re seeing 10 moves ahead in a game I don’t even know the rules to. Maybe that’s why we work. We each bring something different to the table.
He took her hand, the gesture now natural and comfortable between them. You make me see beauty in things I used to overlook. I hope you feel safe enough to enjoy that beauty again. That night, in the quiet darkness of Rocco’s bedroom, where she now slept more often than not, Isabella realized that she had stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. She had stopped expecting this to end badly.
She had started to believe that maybe possibly she deserved this happiness, this safety, this man who loved her with a fierce protectiveness that felt nothing like Dererick’s possessive control. I love you, she whispered into the darkness. Rocco’s arms tightened around her. I love you too, Issa. More than I thought I could love anyone. Even though I’m still figuring myself out.
Even though I’m still healing, especially because of that. You’re brave and strong and you’re fighting every day to reclaim yourself. How could I not love that? How could I not love you? And Isabella, held safe in the arms of a dangerous man who had chosen gentleness for her, finally believed that love could be something other than pain.
That night, she went to Rocco’s bedroom instead of her own. He looked up from the book he was reading, surprise clear on his face. Issa, what’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong. I just She climbed onto the bed beside him. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight. Can I stay here? Roco set aside his book immediately. Of course, whatever you need.
They lay down together, Rocco’s arm around her shoulders, Isabella’s head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It felt safe and warm and right in a way nothing had felt right in a very long time. “Roco,” she said quietly. Thank you for everything, for protecting me, for caring, for being patient, for being you. You don’t need to thank me.
His voice rumbled through his chest. Taking care of you is not a hardship, Issa. It’s a privilege. I think I’m falling for you. Is that crazy? Is it too soon? Rocco tilted her face up so he could look into her dark eyes. If it’s crazy, then I’m crazy, too. Because I’m already gone for you, Issa. Have been since that first night.
Even though I was broken, you were never broken. Just hurt. There’s a difference. And the fact that you survived what you survived, that you were brave enough to run, that you’re recovering and getting stronger every day, that makes you one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. Isabella kissed him, and this time when he responded, she didn’t pull back.
She let herself want him. Let herself be wanted by him. Let the fear and trauma of Derek fade away under Rocco’s careful hands and gentle touches. He made love to her like she was precious, like she was something to be cherished rather than owned. And Isabella felt pieces of herself that Dererick had damaged start to heal.
Afterwards, wrapped in Rocco’s arms, safe and warm and cared for, Isabella realized that being found in the rain by a dangerous stranger had been the best thing that could have happened to her. She had been running from death and had found life instead. Had been running from pain and had found healing.
Had been running from fear and had found safety in the arms of a man who promised to protect her always. You’re mine now, Rocco murmured against her hair. For as long as you want to be. Maybe forever if I’m lucky. Forever sounds good, Isabella whispered back. Forever with you sounds perfect. And 6 months later, when Rocco asked her to marry him properly, legally, permanently, Isabella said yes without hesitation because she had learned that sometimes the person who saves you is exactly the person you were meant to find. And sometimes being pulled out of the rain by a stranger is actually being
pulled into the rest of your