Isabella POV

The phantom heat of Damon’s touch still burned against my skin as Gina helped me dress for my classes at Trinity College. Needing to clear the lingering madness of my dream, I stepped out into the estate’s Rose Garden. The morning air was crisp, heavy with the sweet, suffocating scent of blooming roses. Yet, the marble paths beneath my shoes felt like ice, and the thorns on the stems were a sharp reminder of the reality I lived in.

"Are you happy now, Isabella?"

I stopped. Grayson stormed down the path, his usually perfectly styled hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. He looked like a cornered animal.

"Grayson," I said, keeping my voice soft, though my pulse steadied into a cold rhythm. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't play dumb!" He closed the distance between us, his face twisting with ugly resentment. "Clara is locked in her apartment. My grandmother cut off her allowance and threatened her life. All because you couldn't just keep your mouth shut and accept how things work!"

Before I could respond, Gina stepped in front of me, her chin raised in defiance. "How dare you speak to Miss Rossi this way? You publicly humiliated her, paraded a showgirl in front of the entire New York syndicate, and you have the nerve to blame her?"

"Shut up, you stupid maid," Grayson spat.

I gently pulled Gina back, forcing tears to well in my eyes. I let my lower lip tremble, playing the exact role he expected. "Does my dignity mean nothing to you, Grayson? I am your betrothed. I only wanted to protect our family's honor."

"Honor?" Grayson sneered, stepping so close I could smell the stale whiskey on his breath. He reached out and grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging brutally into my fragile skin.

I gasped, genuine pain flaring up my arm.

"You will go to my grandmother today," he hissed, shaking my arm slightly. "You will apologize. You will tell her you overreacted and beg her to lift the restrictions on Clara. If you don't, Isabella, I swear I will make your life a living hell."

He shoved my hand away as if touching me disgusted him, turning on his heel and storming back toward the manor.

I stood frozen, rubbing my throbbing wrist. But it wasn't Grayson's threat that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

A sudden, suffocating weight dropped over the garden. The temperature seemed to plummet. I slowly turned my head toward the edge of the garden. Behind a row of towering, gloomy Italian cypresses, two tall silhouettes stood perfectly still. One was Aldo, the Underboss.

The other was Damon.

Even from this distance, hidden in the shadows, the sheer force of his presence was paralyzing. I couldn't see his eyes, but I could feel them. The predatory, Siberian coldness radiating from the trees was identical to the dark, obsessive madness in my dream. He had seen Grayson touch me. He had seen everything.

A shiver violently wrecked through my spine. I quickly turned away, hurrying toward the driveway with Gina close behind.

The heavy, armored door of the black Cadillac V-16 shut with a solid thud, sealing us in a soundproof vault of leather and mahogany.

The moment the car pulled away from the estate, the tears vanished from my eyes. The trembling stopped. I leaned back against the plush leather, my expression hardening into something cold and unrecognizable.

"Miss Isabella..." Gina whispered, looking at my bruised wrist with tearful eyes. "We have to tell the Don. He will kill him for touching you."

"No," I said, my voice devoid of any emotion. "Damon Falcone only cares about his family's name. I am just collateral."

"But you can't let him treat you like this! You're heartbroken!"

I looked at Gina, a bitter, humorless smile touching my lips. "I'm not heartbroken, Gina. I feel absolutely nothing for that boy but disgust."

Gina blinked, stunned by the sudden shift in my demeanor.

"Waiting for Henrietta to protect me isn't enough anymore," I murmured, staring out the tinted window at the passing city. "If I break the betrothal, I lose my shield. Grayson has to be the one to destroy it. Publicly. Irrevocably."

"How?"

"By becoming his worst nightmare," I said, the plan crystallizing in my mind like sharp glass. "I will become the perfect, suffocating fiancée. I will obsess over his studies. I will buy us tickets to the longest, most tedious classical music concerts he despises. I will corner him in front of his friends and talk endlessly about our 'artistic' future together."

I turned to look at my loyal maid, my eyes cold and clear. "I am going to wrap myself around his neck like a perfect silk tie, and I will pull until he suffocates. I will push him until he loses his mind and commits a sin not even Henrietta can forgive."

The Cadillac glided toward the wrought-iron gates of Trinity College, carrying me toward the vipers' nest.

Isabella POV

The common room at Trinity College for Young Ladies was exactly as I expected: a gilded cage smelling of expensive rosewater, Earl Grey tea, and thinly veiled venom. I sat on a velvet sofa, my bruised wrist carefully hidden beneath the lace cuff of my blouse.

"I heard the new shooting club is fully funded by the Falcone family," Alice O'Donnell whispered excitedly, leaning in. "There's even a rumor that Don Falcone himself might oversee the first session!"

My blood ran cold at the mention of Damon. The memory of his paralyzing stare in the garden yesterday still made my pulse erratic.

Before I could process the threat of his proximity, a sickly sweet voice cut through the chatter.

"Don't be ridiculous, Alice," Valentina Mendoza sneered, stepping into our circle. Her dark eyes locked onto me with undisguised malice. She had always harbored a sick obsession with Damon, and my betrothal to his nephew made me her favorite target. "Some people are like cheap glass in a storefront window. Even with a Falcone label slapped on, they’ll never be diamonds. A collateral bride is still just collateral."

The room fell dead silent. A few girls exchanged mocking glances.

Yesterday, I might have lowered my head. Today, I remembered my vow in the Cadillac.

I met Valentina’s glare, keeping my voice perfectly even. "Miss Mendoza, I don't quite understand your meaning. Are you implying that the betrothal used to maintain Falcone honor is worthless to you? Because that sounds dangerously like you are questioning Don Falcone's personal judgment."

Valentina’s smug smile faltered. "I—that's not what I—"

"Watch your mouth, Valentina," a sharp voice snapped.

Kianna Falcone stepped out from the shadows of the bookshelves. She had always ignored me, but right now, her eyes were blazing with familial pride. "You do not insult my family's honor. If you have a problem with my uncle's decisions, perhaps you should tell him yourself."

Valentina paled, her bravado crumbling. She spun on her heel and fled the room without another word.

Kianna turned to me. For the first time, there was a flicker of calculating respect in her gaze, rather than pity. I offered her a slight, polite nod. I was no longer just a canary in a cage.

*

Damon POV

The Mayor’s Office at City Hall reeked of stale leather, old books, and political desperation. I sat across from Mayor James 'Jimmy' Walker, the tip of my Cuban cigar glowing in the dim light.

"A girls' shooting club, Damon?" Jimmy asked, wiping sweat from his brow despite the cool room. "Why are you personally overseeing this? A Capo could handle it. It’s not your style to play babysitter."

I took a slow drag of my cigar, letting the smoke veil my expression. Jimmy didn't need to know the truth. He didn't need to know that the image of Grayson's hands on Isabella's fragile wrist was burning a hole through my sanity. I needed a legitimate, public reason to step into her world, to watch her, to ensure she belonged to no one else.

"Mayor," I said, my voice devoid of any inflection. "The fathers and future husbands of those girls control Wall Street, the courts, and Fifth Avenue."

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on his mahogany desk. "Having them learn to pull a trigger—and making sure they are aiming at the targets I designate—is a far more valuable investment than building a new railroad."

Jimmy blinked, the confusion in his eyes slowly morphing into deep admiration. "Brilliant," he muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Absolutely brilliant, Damon. You'll have all the official permits and facilities by tomorrow."

"Make sure of it," I replied coldly.

I stood up, buttoning my tailored suit jacket. The board was set. Isabella thought she could navigate the treacherous waters of my family on her own, but she was about to learn that every path she took would inevitably lead straight back to me.

Damon POV

The shadows of the colonnade near The Villa’s kitchens provided the perfect vantage point. I stood perfectly still, the scent of roasting garlic and blooming ivy masking the faint smoke of my Cuban cigar. Beside me, Aldo watched the discreet exchange happening near the servant's entrance.

Isabella’s maid, Gina, was slipping a thick envelope of cash to Leo, one of Grayson’s valets.

"She's buying information, Boss," Aldo murmured, his eyes narrowed. "Specifically, Grayson's personal preferences. His favorite things."

A cold, violent rage coiled in my chest. After the dinner, after the way I had looked at her in the garden, she was still trying to win the affection of that worthless boy? My jaw tightened. She belonged to me, even if she didn't know it yet.

"*Che stupida*" (How stupid), I whispered, a dark, mocking smirk touching my lips. If she wanted to play the devoted bride, I would give her the tools to destroy him.

"Intercept the informant," I ordered Aldo, my voice devoid of mercy. "Feed the maid a fabricated list. Make sure it includes a deep, nostalgic love for traditional Sicilian marzipan."

Aldo blinked, knowing full well that even a trace of almond would send my nephew into a fatal anaphylactic shock. "Yes, Don Falcone."

*

Isabella POV

My suite at The Villa felt like a gilded cage, but today, it was my war room.

Gina slipped through the door, her eyes bright with triumph. "I got it, Miss. It cost a fortune, but the informant swore it's accurate."

She handed me a neatly typed sheet of paper. I scanned the list of Grayson’s supposed "secret passions." Wagner operas? Modernist poetry? I highly doubted a brute like Grayson could comprehend T.S. Eliot. But the last item caught my eye: a nostalgic obsession with traditional Sicilian marzipan.

A slow smile spread across my face. My plan to become the suffocating, overly-affectionate fiancée required the perfect prop. I would drown him in sticky sweetness until he felt so repulsed that he publicly broke the engagement himself.

"Perfect," I murmured, folding the paper. "I'll bake them myself."

The next afternoon, the sun beat down on the stone steps of Butler Library at Columbia University. I smoothed the skirt of my conservative green dress, holding the ribbon-tied box of marzipan like a concealed weapon.

Grayson was holding court with his sycophantic friends, laughing loudly. I forced my features into a mask of pure, submissive adoration and approached him.

"Grayson," I said softly, pitching my voice to sound fragile and innocent. "I wanted to apologize for the tension lately. I made these just for you."

His friends snickered. Grayson’s chest puffed out, his fragile ego instantly soothed by my public display of subservience. He snatched the box, popping a piece of the almond confection into his mouth with a smug grin. "Learn your place, Isabella, and we'll get along fine."

I lowered my eyes, hiding my revulsion, and quickly excused myself.

An hour later, I was sitting on a bench across the quad when Alice O'Donnell rushed up to me, breathless.

"Isabella! Did you hear?" Alice gasped, her eyes wide with morbid excitement. "Grayson collapsed! He started turning purple and couldn't breathe. They had to rush him to the Falcone private doctor. They say it was severe anaphylactic shock!"

My heart skipped a beat. *Anaphylactic shock?*

I had only meant to give him a stomachache, to annoy him with a cloying gesture. I had no idea he was deathly allergic to almonds. A dark, thrilling rush of vindication swept through my veins.

"Is that so?" I whispered, carefully masking my smile.

I had struck my first blow. As I gathered my books, my mind drifted to the upcoming shooting club session at Trinity College. I felt a newfound surge of confidence, completely unaware that the true architect of Grayson's near-death experience was already waiting to teach me a lesson in submission.