Chapter 47: Unlikely Caretaker

Isabella woke to the sound of her own cough echoing through the quiet house, her throat raw and her head pounding even more than before. She blinked, disoriented, as she tried to sit up, but her body felt as though it were made of lead. Just as she struggled to rise, a warm hand settled gently on her shoulder, urging her back down.

“Isabella,” Antonio’s voice was calm, yet filled with concern. He looked down at her, his gaze softened in a way she hadn’t seen before. She could barely process his presence before he gently lifted her into his arms, carrying her out of the room with surprising tenderness.

Her fevered state made everything seem surreal, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, feeling the solid rhythm of his steps. She wasn’t sure if it was the fever or the strange warmth in his voice, but something about this moment made her feel safe in a way she hadn’t in a long time.

They reached his room, and Antonio carefully laid her on his bed, tucking her in with surprising gentleness. As he adjusted the blankets around her, she caught a glimpse of his expression—focused, protective, and perhaps even a bit worried. He placed a hand on her forehead to check her temperature, his brow furrowing.

“You’re burning up,” he murmured. “Rest here. I’ll take care of everything.”

Her lips parted to protest, but the stern look in his eyes silenced her. Instead, she nodded slightly, nestling into the soft sheets and allowing her tired body to sink into the mattress. Antonio’s scent lingered on the pillow—a mix of cedar and something darker, something uniquely him. The warmth enveloped her, grounding her even as her fever clouded her senses.

As she lay there, watching him through half-closed eyes, she was struck by the contrast. Antonio, dressed impeccably in a dark, tailored suit and crisp white shirt, looked every bit the ruthless mafia leader that he was known to be. Yet here he was, bustling around with domestic determination, moving with care as he gathered items to make her more comfortable.

The sight of him, his brows knitted in concentration as he pulled up an extra blanket, made her lips twitch into a faint smile. Despite her discomfort, a small laugh escaped her.

“Something funny?” Antonio asked, raising an eyebrow as he glanced down at her.

She coughed lightly, her throat scratchy. “It’s just... you, taking care of all this... dressed like that.”

A look of confusion flickered over his face before realization dawned. He glanced down at himself and then back at her, shaking his head with a hint of a smirk.

“Well, I am Antonio de Luca,” he said, his tone filled with mock seriousness. “Taking care of you doesn’t mean I have to stop being myself.”

Isabella laughed weakly, her laughter turning into another cough. Antonio’s expression softened further, his hand reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from her face. She stilled at his touch, warmth spreading through her that had nothing to do with the fever. He was so close, his gaze intent, and in that moment, she felt as though she could see past the walls he’d built, straight into the man he tried so hard to keep hidden.

With surprising ease, Antonio moved around the room, setting a glass of water and a small plate of crackers beside her. He glanced at her as if daring her to refuse, and she took a small sip, trying to appease him. Her giggle and subsequent cough had exhausted her, and she leaned back into the pillows, closing her eyes.

As he stood there, watching her rest, Antonio’s mind was racing. He had never imagined that he would find himself here, looking after Isabella with such care. Yet each small action felt instinctual, something he felt compelled to do. The past months had been a whirlwind of emotions—his initial coldness, his guardedness, the undeniable pull he felt toward her. But seeing her vulnerable, seeing her trust him enough to let him take care of her, was something he hadn’t been prepared for.

Hours passed as he moved around the house, taking care of everything as if it were second nature. His men would have been stunned to see him like this—cleaning dishes, managing the household tasks, all while maintaining his unyielding demeanor. Dressed in his dark suit and meticulously polished shoes, he looked entirely out of place, yet somehow perfectly in control.

Every so often, he would pause to check on her, his gaze lingering on the way her breathing seemed to ease as she lay wrapped in his blankets. He found himself wondering about things he had long ignored, things he had buried after Valentina’s betrayal. There was a tenderness in him that Isabella seemed to bring out effortlessly, a tenderness he thought had died years ago.

As the evening grew late, Antonio returned to her side with a warm washcloth. He gently pressed it to her forehead, his touch light and careful. Isabella stirred, her eyes fluttering open as she looked up at him, her gaze hazy with fever.

“Antonio…” she murmured, her voice soft and almost vulnerable.

“Yes?” he responded, his tone gentler than he intended.

She hesitated, her eyes drifting over his face, as if searching for something. “Thank you… for taking care of me. I… didn’t expect it.”

His lips tightened, and for a moment, he struggled with his own emotions. Her gratitude, so simple and sincere, stirred something inside him, something he wasn’t ready to face. But instead of pushing her away or retreating, he simply nodded, his hand lingering on her shoulder.

“You’re my wife,” he said softly, surprising even himself with the weight of his words. “I… I should be here for you.”

Isabella’s heart fluttered at his words. In that moment, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in a fragile yet profound connection. She felt her eyes growing heavy once more, her body sinking back into the comfort of the bed.

As she drifted off, Antonio sat beside her, his gaze never leaving her face. He couldn’t quite explain it, but something inside him had shifted—a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years, something he thought he’d lost.

For the first time, he wondered if he could be more than the ruthless leader, more than the cold-hearted man he had become. Perhaps, in Isabella’s quiet strength and unwavering kindness, he had found a reason to let himself believe again.