Isabella POV

His hand paused on the crystal stopper. The soft clinking of glass ceased, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in its wake.

Damien turned, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and walked back to me. He stood at the edge of the bed, a towering shadow of authority, looking down at me as if I were a subordinate awaiting orders.

"Let us be clear about your duties as my wife—"

"First," I interrupted, my voice steady despite the frantic beating of my heart, "you will call me Isabella. Not 'wife,' not 'madam.' Second, you will sit down and look me in the eye while we speak. Otherwise, I will ignore every word you say."

A dangerous, lethal stillness settled over him. His obsidian eyes narrowed into slits. No one gave the Don of Chicago orders. But after a tense standoff, he moved to the velvet armchair opposite the bed and sat, his posture rigid, his gaze locked onto mine.

"This marriage is a transaction," Damien stated, his baritone devoid of warmth. "You will be provided with every luxury and the absolute protection of the Russo family. In return, you will remain entirely out of my business. Do not harbor any foolish romantic illusions. *Capisce*(Understand)?"

I smoothed the silk of my gown, entirely unbothered by his icy declaration. "Perfectly. A pure transaction. Which means you will also strictly honor the three conditions my father secured in our prenuptial agreement."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. The reminder of the contract—a binding deal he had signed to secure the shipping routes—seemed to irritate him, but he gave a curt nod. A Don's word was his bond.

He set his glass down and stood, unbuttoning his tailored vest. The negotiation was over; it was time to consummate the alliance. As he reached out to pull me against him, I turned my face away.

"I can't stand the smell of whiskey and cigars," I murmured, stepping out of his reach. "Bathe first."

For a second, I thought he might drag me to the bed anyway. Instead, he let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated in my chest, and walked into the adjoining marble bathroom.

When Damien emerged fifteen minutes later, his dark hair damp and a towel slung low on his hips, he stopped dead in his tracks. I hadn't undressed in a panic. Instead, I was propped against the silk pillows, casually flipping through a book of explicit Viennese Secession erotic art I had packed in my trunk.

His gaze dropped to the scandalous illustrations, then up to my face. The temperature in the room spiked instantly.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden, raw hunger.

I slowly closed the book and met his burning stare with a lazy smile. "I thought a man of your... experience... would know how to proceed."

The last thread of his legendary control snapped. In two strides, he was on the bed. He tore the book from my hands, tossing it to the floor, and pinned my wrists above my head. His mouth crashed down on mine, tasting of mint and danger. It wasn't a gentle claiming; it was a primal, possessive conquest. Yet, as my nails dug into his broad shoulders, I knew I hadn't just surrendered—I had orchestrated the exact moment he lost his mind.

The next morning, the sharp click of a pocket watch woke me.

I cracked an eye open. The clock on the nightstand read 6:00 AM. Damien was already fully dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, his hair perfectly slicked back, looking as untouchable as he had yesterday. He stood at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes studying my tangled form with an unreadable expression.

"Get up, Isabella," he commanded, his tone flat and leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "We are to meet my mother at half-past seven."

My body ached from the brutal intensity of the night before. Without a word, I simply turned my back to him, pulled the heavy velvet comforter over my head, and closed my eyes.

Isabella POV

A heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder, effortlessly flipping me onto my back. The velvet comforter fell away, exposing me to the chill of the room. Damien’s obsidian eyes were practically vibrating with suppressed rage.

"Do not turn your back on me when I am speaking to you," he warned, his voice a lethal whisper.

I blinked lazily up at him, entirely unfazed by the Don's wrath. "And do not forget the first condition of our prenuptial agreement, Don Russo."

He frowned, clearly having dismissed the legalities the moment he signed them. I didn't bother explaining. Instead, I called out toward the slightly ajar dressing room door. "Clara."

My maid peeked her head out, her face pale. "Yes, Miss?"

"Remind my husband of the first condition."

Clara swallowed hard, avoiding Damien's terrifying gaze. "My lady has the right to wake naturally, without being disturbed by anyone."

Damien’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter. His fists curled at his sides, fighting a violent urge to reassert his dominance. But a Don's word was his bond. To break the contract on the very first day was to admit his word meant nothing. He released my shoulder, his chest heaving once before he turned on his heel.

"Tell my mother I am feeling unwell," he barked at the guard stationed outside the bedroom door. "We will meet her later."

He was lying to the Matriarch to save face for a contract. I smiled into my pillow, pulling the comforter back over my head.

Sunlight was streaming brightly through the heavy drapes when I finally stretched awake near noon. Damien was sitting in the velvet armchair opposite the bed, a book open in his lap, though his murderous glare proved he hadn't read a single word.

"You have severely delayed—" he began, his baritone dripping with reprimand.

I cut him off with a languid stretch, letting the silk sheets slip down to expose the dark, bruising marks he had left across my collarbone. "If you hadn't been so... tireless last night, Don Russo, perhaps I would have been able to wake earlier."

His breath hitched. The reprimand died instantly in his throat.

Before he could recover his icy composure, I slipped out of bed and sat at the vanity. I lined up three bullets of red lipstick on the silver tray and pushed them toward his reflection in the mirror. "Pick one. Which color do you think will please your mother more?"

He stared at the lipsticks, completely derailed by the sudden, intimate command. When he remained frozen, I picked the deepest, blood-red shade and applied it meticulously. I stood, walking over to his chair, and leaned down until my lips were a breath away from his. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the obsidian irises entirely.

"Do you smell the fragrance?" I whispered.

He went rigid, giving a stiff, barely perceptible shake of his head.

I let out a soft laugh, pulling back. "How boring."

By the time we were announced at Eleonora’s private solarium, it was well past lunch. The glass room was suffocatingly warm, thick with the scent of blooming white orchids and gardenias.

Eleonora Russo sat on a white rattan chair, speaking in hushed tones with her loyal housekeeper, Maria. She didn't look up immediately. She took her time, taking a slow sip from her bone china teacup before finally raising her eyes. They were the same bottomless black as Damien's, but sharper, calculating.

"Ah, you finally arrived," Eleonora said, her tone perfectly polite but laced with unmistakable venom. "I thought I would have to wait until dinner to see my new daughter."

Damien stood rigid beside me, offering no excuse for his supposed illness.

Eleonora set her cup down with a sharp clink and turned to her housekeeper. "Maria, go fetch Sophia and Gloria. And see if Angelina has finished her equestrian lesson. I think it is time Isabella met the rest of her family."

Isabella POV

Eleonora’s cold eyes assessed me over the rim of her teacup. Slowly, she tilted her chin, silently demanding the traditional kiss on the cheek. I stepped forward, leaning in to offer the gesture of submission. But just as my lips neared her powdered skin, she abruptly turned her head away.

"Maria, ensure the silver is polished for dinner," she ordered the housekeeper, leaving me frozen in a humiliating, half-bowed posture.

The air in the solarium thickened. Instead of straightening up in defeat, I let my body sway slightly, catching myself on the arm of a white rattan chair. I let out a soft, breathless sigh.

"Forgive me, Donna Eleonora," I murmured, my voice laced with innocent exhaustion. "I suppose... my husband was far too eager to teach me the Russo family 'traditions' last night. I am still a bit unsteady on my feet today."

Damien’s gaze snapped to me, burning like a physical brand against my skin. Eleonora’s lips parted in shock, her attempt to humble me instantly twisted into an inappropriate, scandalous joke. She opened her mouth to reprimand me, but how could she without insulting her Don's virility?

"Mother, enough," Damien cut in, his baritone freezing the room. He was furious at my audacity, but he had just shielded me.

Eleonora’s eyes narrowed with fresh venom. She abandoned the physical test and moved to a stricter law. "Since you are now the Mafia Queen, you will attend the family breakfast every Sunday at eight sharp. It is a mandatory display of respect to the Don and this family."

I didn't argue. Instead, I let a distressed, obedient expression wash over my face. I glanced at Damien, then back to the Matriarch.

"I would be honored to observe every rule," I said softly. "But... my father consulted Dr. Marino before the wedding. He warned that for a woman of my delicate constitution, any undue stress or lack of sleep in these crucial first months might... severely impact my chances of providing the Russo family with a healthy heir."

The word *heir* dropped like a bomb. Eleonora’s face paled. Beside me, Damien remained perfectly stoic, though I noticed his large fists clenching at his sides. He knew I was lying through my teeth, yet he said absolutely nothing. By remaining silent, the Don of Chicago had just become my co-conspirator.

Eleonora swallowed her pride, unwilling to risk the sacred bloodline. "You are excused from Sunday breakfasts," she forced out through gritted teeth. "Until you bear the first child."

Before the tension could settle, Rocco, Damien's bodyguard, stepped into the glass room and murmured something in his ear. Damien’s jaw tightened. He gave me a dark, unreadable look—a silent promise that we would discuss my lies later—before turning on his heel and leaving to handle family business.

Moments later, the solarium doors opened again. Three women walked in. I recognized them from the wedding: Sophia, with her gentle smile; Gloria, whose eyes immediately scanned my dress with blatant envy; and Angelina, Damien’s youngest sister, the spoiled Mafia Princess.

After a brief, polite exchange with Sophia, Angelina leaned toward Gloria. She didn't bother to lower her voice. "She is just a social climber with a pretty face. Her father was practically bankrupt before he sold her to us."

I didn't flinch. I simply smiled, turning my lazy feline gaze to the youngest Russo. "Angelina, what a lovely Chanel dress. Is it this season's new arrival?"

Angelina lifted her chin, a smug smirk playing on her lips. "Of course it is."

I let out a soft, pitying sigh and turned to my maid. "Clara, look. I told you this piece wouldn't suit me. It is far too... simple. Much better suited for young girls who are still trying to learn how to dress themselves."

Angelina’s smugness vanished, her face flushing a violent, blotchy crimson. Sophia quickly looked down at her lap, biting her lip to suppress a smile, while Gloria’s eyes gleamed with malicious amusement at the princess's public humiliation.

Just then, Maria approached the table, setting down a tiered silver tray filled with delicate French macarons. Angelina’s eyes locked onto the pastries, her chest heaving as she desperately searched for a way to strike back.