Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6)

that were shaking courtesy of the frigid temperature, she pulled her phone from her pocket once more, almost dropping it so she had to move quickly to save it from crashing to the ground. “That’s all I need,” she muttered, shaking her head as she caught it about an inch off the stones at her feet, bringing it closer to her face and trying an internet browser. There was still no reception here, but a wifi signal showed as available – and password protected.
Il Nido
Her heart stammered. It was a word she’d heard only that morning, when she’d passed through the village of Inbasso, and paused to look in a quaint giftshop near the markets. There, on a shelf near the back, was the most beautiful thing Isabella had ever seen, and as a long-time Christmas tragic, something she absolutely couldn’t resist. Spun from glass and copper wire, tiny threads had been wound around and around to form a perfect little bird nest. In its centre, instead of a bird, there were three golden eggs, one with an infinitesimal crack down its side. A red velvet ribbon was looped from the centre, so that the ornament could be hung in a tree.
“What is it?” Isabella had asked the shopkeeper, already reaching for her credit card – of course she had to have the delicate, lovely ornament.
“Ah, il nido. The bird’s nest.”
She stared up at the castle now, nervousness briefly overriding everything else. But the snow was still falling, and survival instincts propelled her forward. There was no doorbell, and in the centre of the timber door, the wood had faded in the shape of a rounded diamond – Isabella guessed it was where a door knocker had, at one point, been hung and since removed, decades of sunlight caused the discolouration now.
She formed her hand into a fist and banged it against the wood, startling herself with how loud it sounded in the silence of the night. Having broken the seal though, she kept banging, desperate to be allowed inside, no longer able to tell herself she wouldn’t freeze to death – that the idea was melodramatic.
For at least a minute Isabella banged, before it occurred to her that her first appraisal might be correct. Perhaps the castle was uninhabited, the lights on a timer or similar. Biting down on her lower lip, she moved her hand to the doorknob, testing it with eyes that she squeezed shut, hoping, desperately, that the door would give.
And to her absolute shock – and relief – it did! The door pushed inwards, so Isabella expelled a soft cry as she stepped into the black and white tiled entranceway, shuddering from head to toe as she slammed the door shut behind herself. There was no relief though – this hallway was as arcticly cold, if not more so than the snowy forest she’d just come through.
And no wonder. Tiles stretched for miles, and beyond the entrance way, there was a grand hall with a sweeping staircase and a cavernous roof. The light was dim – only a single lamp glowed in the corner, but she could see the sheen of marble on the stairs.
A shiver that had little to do with the cold ran down her spine as she stepped deeper into the castle, shrugging out of a jacket that was now damp from snow.
Biting down on her lip, she looked left, then right, but could see no signs of occupancy anywhere. Ancient artwork hung in thick, gold frames along the walls, art that she’d like to look at better, in the daylight. If she survived until then.
The thought goaded her to act. Moving to the bottom of the stairs, she tilted her face upwards. “Hello?” Then, remembering where she was, she tried again. “Ciao? Buonasera?”
Nothing. But without too much exaggeration, Isabella truly believed that if she didn’t find somewhere to warm up properly, she would freeze to her death, and that she wasn’t ready for.
With a hand on the cold marble banister, she put one foot on the bottom step, peering up the staircase just as a man loomed into sight. Perhaps he didn’t really loom, but he was backlit, creating the impression of almost a beastly frame, broad shouldered, wide through the chest and then narrow at the waist, arms that were clearly muscled, even from this distance. He was tall, too, and not just because he had the advantage of being at the top of the staircase. Tall, like six and a half feet, could-touch-the-ceiling-without-a-ladder tall.
What had she been telling herself about this alleged safe-haven? Assuring herself that she’d be fine here? Steeling herself not to be timid, she forced a smile to her face, suspecting he could see her better than she could see him.
“Who the hell are you?” His English was tinted with a light Italian accent, and something else. Anger. Impatience.
So much so that she flinched, and took a step backwards, dropping her hand from the bannister.
He began to walk downwards, his size all the more impressive as he drew closer.
“What are you doing here?” He demanded, and she could see now that he was scowling at her. His face was beautiful. It was a strange word to fall upon in that moment, but it was true. Every feature seemed carved from granite with determination and precision. A square jaw framed his face, giving it strength. A divot in his chin lent character. Cheekbones were slashed high and spoke of determination and triumph, and his nose was long and straight, autocratic. His lips were wide, currently set in a flattened line, but she could imagine them in a smile, the way they’d curve at the corners. The idea made her stomach flip. His brows were thick and dark, adding more definition to his face, his forehead high, his hair brown and thick. Up close, despite the cold of the night, he wore only a tee shirt, so she could see the tattoos that crossed his upper-arms, detailed and