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.

Isabella POV

The late summer sun beat down mercilessly on the yellowing grass of the Trinity College shooting range. The scent of expensive French perfumes clashed with the metallic tang of dry earth and old gunpowder. I stood in the line of girls, the dark thrill of Grayson’s near-fatal collapse fading into nervous exhaustion as we waited.

Valentina Mendoza fanned her flushed face, her patience finally snapping. "This is absurd," she complained loudly, making sure everyone heard. "Whoever this 'instructor' is, he clearly doesn't understand who he's keeping waiting. I should have my father call the Falcones to remind them of our arrangement."

Before the murmurs of agreement could spread, a black, bulletproof Cadillac V-16 rolled silently to a halt near the dirt berms.

The heavy door opened, and Damon Falcone stepped out.

The air instantly grew heavy, suffocatingly dense. He didn't even glance at Valentina as his storm-blue eyes swept the range, calculating and cold. "My business does not wait for your schedule, Miss Mendoza," he said, his voice a lethal, icy drawl that cut through the heat.

Valentina paled instantly, her mouth snapping shut. The silence that followed was absolute. Damon had established his unquestionable authority with a single sentence.

He didn't waste time on pleasantries. At his gesture, heavy Springfield M1903 rifles were distributed to each of us. "Standard firing position. Fifteen minutes," he commanded.

A collective gasp rippled through the line. The wood and steel were incredibly heavy. Within seconds, Valentina lowered her barrel an inch, her face twisting in indignation. "This is barbaric. It's not suitable for ladies—"

Damon’s gaze pinned her, devoid of any mercy. "A woman who cannot bear the weight of steel does not deserve the protection of the Falcone family. You may leave."

The threat hung in the air, sharp as a blade. Valentina swallowed her pride and raised the rifle, her cheeks burning with humiliation.

I tried to focus on the target ahead, but my own arms were trembling violently. My physical conditioning was abysmal. The rifle felt like lead, pulling my shoulders down, my posture crumbling with every passing second. I prayed to remain invisible, but Damon’s heavy footsteps crunched on the dry grass, stopping right behind me.

I stopped breathing.

He didn't use his hands. Instead, the freezing muzzle of his ivory-handled Colt M1911 pressed against the base of my spine. I gasped. He pushed the barrel upward, forcing my back straight, then traced the cold metal along the underside of my arm until my elbow locked into the correct height.

The phantom touch of the gun sent a violent shiver through me, perfectly mirroring the dark, possessive dream I’d had in his study. My heart hammered against my ribs.

He leaned in, his chest brushing my back, and whispered into my ear. "Your face is very red, *piccola*" (little one).

The nickname struck me like lightning. *Piccola*. It wasn't just a dream. It was a promise. Heat flooded my neck, a mix of profound shame and terrifying awareness. I opened my mouth to blame the sun, but Damon had already straightened.

His mask of indifference snapped back into place. "Your physical conditioning is pathetic," he announced loudly, the words echoing across the silent range.

The public slap of his words tore through me, unlocking a vault of agonizing memories. In my past life, it was this exact physical weakness that had left me defenseless when Grayson and Clara locked me in that freezing warehouse. They had broken my frail body with effortless cruelty, leaving me to die like a clipped bird.

The humiliation burning in my chest didn't break me; it forged something lethal. I stared down the sights of the heavy rifle, my muscles screaming in agony, but I refused to lower the barrel. I would master this steel. I would build my strength. I would survive long enough to watch Grayson and Clara drown in their own blood.

Isabella POV

The brief summer storm had turned the Trinity College shooting range into a miserable pit of wet earth. My resolve from yesterday was currently drowning in the mud beneath me.

Damon’s cruelty was calculated. To break the aristocratic pride of the girls, he had ordered fifty standard push-ups in the muck. Any failure was met with immediate punishment. It was a brutal filtration of the weak, and my body was failing me.

My arms, still screaming from the weight of the Springfield rifle, gave out completely at fifteen. I collapsed face-first into the cold mud, gasping for air, my muscles burning with a pathetic, agonizing fire.

Valentina Mendoza, who had completed her set with infuriating ease, sauntered over. The tip of her expensive leather boot nudged my trembling arm.

"Look at our future Mrs. Falcone," she sneered loudly, making sure her voice carried over the heavy breathing of the other girls. "Not even fit to be a Soldier's wife. With stamina like this, how will you ever please your... uncle?"

She dragged out the word 'uncle', lacing it with venomous implication. A chorus of muffled giggles erupted around us.

Humiliation burned hot in my throat, choking me. "The ground is too soft here!" I snapped, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

It was a pathetic, weak defense, and Valentina knew it. She threw her head back and laughed, a sharp, triumphant sound.

Before she could twist the knife further, Damon’s voice cut through the damp air. He hadn't moved from his position, his storm-blue eyes entirely devoid of pity.

"Isabella Rossi," he commanded, his tone absolute. "Twenty more."

The public execution of my pride was complete. I bit my lip, tasting mud and copper, and forced my trembling arms to push my chest off the ground. Through the haze of my exhaustion, I caught sight of Kianna Falcone standing a few feet away. She wasn't laughing. Her dark eyes were fixed on Valentina, her brow furrowed in unmistakable disgust. The unbreakable alliance of the elite girls was fracturing.

By evening, the mud was washed from my skin, but the sting of Damon's punishment lingered. I needed an outlet. I needed a victory, however small. Grayson was the perfect target.

According to my friend Alice, my little "food poisoning" plan had left him bedridden. I had no idea he had nearly died from anaphylactic shock—I only knew he was suffering, and I wanted to witness my masterpiece. I wanted to play the devoted fiancée, twisting the knife of his misery.

Carrying a silver tray with a bowl of clear broth, I approached the opulent Art Deco doors of Grayson’s wing with my maid, Gina. The air in the corridor smelled sharply of antiseptic and stale cigars, a stark contrast to the usual scent of expensive cologne.

Leo, Grayson’s stoic valet, stepped into the doorway, blocking my path like a stone wall.

"Miss Rossi," he said flatly, his face a mask of professional indifference. "The young master says he doesn't want to see anything 'unclean.' Especially you."

I forced my eyes to widen, summoning a sheen of unshed tears. "But... I made this broth myself," I whispered, my voice trembling perfectly. I pressed the tray into Leo's hands, looking up at him with desperate innocence. "Please, just make sure he drinks it. He needs his strength."

I turned away, letting my shoulders slump in mock defeat. But the moment my back was to Leo, the tears vanished, replaced by a cold, triumphant smile.

Later, in the safety of my room, Gina brushed out my damp hair.

"He went mad, Miss," she whispered, her eyes wide with residual shock. "I lingered in the hall. I heard him screaming and throwing things. He told Leo to dispose of the soup like a plague."

I smiled at my reflection in the vanity mirror. Perfect. Grayson’s hatred and fear were exactly what I needed. He was terrified of me, disgusted by me.

"Let him scream, Gina," I murmured, tracing the edge of my vanity. "The more he hates me, the faster he'll break the engagement himself. We just need to figure out how to use this new attitude of his to our advantage."