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.

Isabella POV

Angelina’s eyes locked onto the pastries, her chest heaving as she desperately searched for a way to strike back. She picked up a delicate pink macaron, her lips curling into a condescending smile.

"Oh, Isabella, you might not have the palate for these," Angelina said, her voice dripping with exaggerated pity. "I heard in Sicily, your kind prefers... what is it? *Cannoli*? So heavy and unrefined."

I didn't bristle. Instead, I reached out, selected a pale green pistachio macaron, and took a slow, elegant bite. I turned my gaze to the woman sitting beside her.

"Gloria, look," I murmured, a lazy smile playing on my lips. "What a thoughtful sister we have. Though she must have forgotten that my late mother favored Ladurée in Paris. True aristocracy doesn't flaunt its taste, Angelina; it simply knows how to appreciate all beautiful things. It is a matter of breeding. You will learn it eventually."

Angelina’s face flushed a violent crimson, her mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish.

Gloria immediately jumped in, eager to elevate her own status while defending the Princess. "Isabella, darling," she began, her tone sickeningly sweet. "Angelina is just a child. As her older sister-in-law and our future Matriarch, you should be more magnanimous."

I let my eyes drift over her, stripping away her false warmth with a look of utter blankness. I turned to the Matriarch. "Forgive my intrusion, Donna Eleonora, but who is this?"

Gloria’s smile shattered.

Eleonora stiffened, her jaw tight. "This is Gloria. Marco’s wife."

I turned back to Gloria, letting the full weight of my new title settle into my posture. "Gloria. Remember, in the Russo family, respect is paramount. Next time, introduce yourself first. Otherwise, one might mistake you for a distant relative seeking asylum at the estate."

Humiliated, Gloria’s eyes flashed with pure venom. She decided to go for the throat. "Speaking of respect," she sneered, her voice rising shrilly, "I heard someone slept until noon today, forcing our Don to lie to his own mother about being 'unwell'! You are undermining the Don's authority!"

The solarium went dead silent.

I let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "Goodness, Gloria. Are you so fascinated by my husband's private life? Were you hiding under our bed last night?"

As she gasped, scandalized, I dropped the smile. My voice turned to ice. "Or are you publicly accusing the Don of the Russo family of being a coward who must lie to his mother? If such treasonous words reached our enemies, do you know the consequences? You are threatening the security of this entire family."

I shifted my gaze to the Matriarch, cornering her. "Eleonora, the tea I had sent to you this afternoon... you found it to your liking, didn't you?"

Eleonora stared at me, trapped. To agree with Gloria was to call her son a weak liar. She remained rigidly silent. Gloria’s triumphant smirk vanished, replaced by sheer panic as she looked to Eleonora for help that wasn't coming.

Eleonora had reached her limit. She shot a warning glare at Angelina and Gloria, but her deepest resentment was reserved for me.

"Enough," Eleonora commanded. She looked at me, her dark eyes hard. "Isabella, as the woman of this house, you must learn tolerance. You will bear with your family."

The blatant favoritism ignited a cold fire in my veins. I stood up, the heavy silk of my gown rustling loudly in the quiet room.

"My rules are simple," I said, my voice ringing with absolute clarity. "*Vendetta* is a two-way street." I let my gaze sweep the room, pausing briefly on Sophia, offering her a subtle nod of acknowledgment. "Sophia treats me with courtesy, and we have peace. But these two have breathed nothing but hostility since I walked through those doors. I will not swallow insults."

I stepped closer to the table, looking down at the Matriarch. "Let us be perfectly clear. This marriage was requested by the Russo family. It was sanctioned by *The Commissione*, and blessed by Antonio Falcone of New York himself. If you have grievances with my presence, take them to Damien, or to the men who forged this alliance. Do not test me. Because I, Isabella Russo, am the Mafia Queen of this family, and that is an indisputable fact."

I set my bone china teacup down on its saucer. The sharp, ringing *clink* echoed like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the glass room.