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.

Isabella POV

The sharp *clink* of my teacup still echoed in my ears as I swept out of the suffocating solarium. The cool breeze of the manicured gardens hit my flushed face, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins ran hot. It tasted familiar. It tasted like survival.

Walking down the white gravel path, I was suddenly twelve years old again, standing in the glittering ballroom of The Drake Hotel. A year after my mother died, my father’s mistress had begun erasing her memory, selling her jewelry to fund her own vanity. Crying to my father was useless. So, I wore a faded, too-small dress to the Mayor's Gala, "accidentally" spilled juice on Chicago's top gossip columnist, and asked with tearful innocence: "Madam, if a girl misses her dead mother, but her father's new friend needs a diamond necklace, should she sell her mother's last ring?"

The public humiliation brought my Uncle Frank Marino and his enforcers to our door before the night was over. The mistress was banished, and my inheritance was locked in a trust. I learned then that in our world, tears are worthless. Only a calculated *Vendetta*(revenge) ensures respect.

"Isabella, wait."

Sophia’s soft voice broke my reverie. She hurried down the path, glancing nervously over her shoulder toward the glass room.

"You need to understand why they hate you," she said, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper. In a few quick sentences, she unraveled Eleonora’s broken chessboard. Katarina DeLuca. Eleonora’s niece, Angelina’s best friend, and Gloria’s distant cousin. She was supposed to be Damien’s bride, the puppet *Mafia Queen* meant to solidify the DeLuca bloodline's power within the Russo family.

"You didn't just take a husband," Sophia murmured. "You destroyed a political empire."

I met her gaze, recognizing the immense risk she took by telling me this. "Thank you, Sophia." The unspoken alliance was sealed.

By evening, the mist rolling off Lake Michigan was thick and biting. I found Damien sitting in a secluded stone gazebo near the cliff's edge. A glass of amber whiskey sat untouched on the stone table before him. He was waiting for me.

I approached, the damp air clinging to my silk dress. "My feet are killing me. I am taking the cliff stairs back to our wing," I announced, gesturing to the moss-slicked stone steps carved into the precipice.

Damien frowned, his dark eyes narrowing. "The stones are wet. It is dangerous."

I stepped closer, extending my hand toward him with a lazy, challenging smile. "Then hold my hand, husband. I wouldn't want to fall and give your mother exactly what she wants."

His gaze flicked to my outstretched fingers, then to the shadows where his *Soldiers*(guards) stood watch. His jaw clenched, the muscles feathering under his skin. "Don't be ridiculous, Isabella. My men are watching."

I didn't argue. I simply let my hand drop, gave a careless shrug, and turned toward the longer, safer path. "As you wish, *Don Russo*."

I made it exactly three steps.

A heavy, scorching grip clamped around my wrist, halting me instantly. The hand slid down, his rough, calloused palm swallowing mine, his fingers interlocking with my own like a steel vice. He didn't look at me. His obsidian eyes remained fixed straight ahead on the treacherous path.

"This is the last time," he commanded, his baritone tight with a strange, unnatural strain.

I didn't say a word as he led me toward the mossy steps.