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.

Eleonora POV

The heavy scent of lilies in my suite usually brought me peace, but tonight, it felt suffocating. I paced across the antique Persian rug, my hands trembling with a rage I hadn't felt in decades.

"She dared to invoke *The Commissione*(the national mafia committee)," I hissed, turning to Maria, who stood quietly by the mahogany dresser. "To my face! In my own home! That Rossi girl has no honor. She is not a *Mafia Queen*, Maria. She is a calculating, ambitious merchant."

"She is young, Donna Eleonora," Maria murmured soothingly, her head bowed. "And she brings legitimate wealth. For the sake of the Russo family's *Heir*, you must have patience."

"Patience?" I snapped, stopping in front of the silver-framed portrait of my late husband. "Her so-called delicate constitution is a farce. She isn't sleeping until noon out of exhaustion. She is calculating! She is testing the boundaries of my son's authority."

But Maria was right. As long as Damien shielded her, my hands were tied. I took a deep breath, smoothing the heavy fabric of my black skirt. I would find a way to remind this arrogant girl who truly ruled the women of this family.

*

Gloria POV

I stared at my reflection in the ornate vanity mirror, hating the flush of humiliation that still stained my cheeks. No matter how much I spent on Parisian silk, I couldn't replicate Isabella's effortless, infuriating grace.

The door swung open. My husband, Marco, strolled in, humming a jazz tune and waving a leather folder.

"Look at this pedigree, *amore*(love)," he grinned, completely oblivious to my foul mood. "A purebred racing hound."

"Is that all you care about?" I shrieked, slamming my silver hairbrush onto the vanity. "Your brother's new wife humiliated me today, and you are buying dogs! Even your bastard brother Vincent commands more respect than you!"

Marco didn't even flinch. He leaned against the doorframe, a mocking smirk on his handsome face. "Don't waste your energy, Gloria. You could empty the entire Van Cleef & Arpels vault, and you still wouldn't be her."

Tears of pure spite pricked my eyes. "You are a useless parasite."

"And you are my wife," he replied cheerfully. "Relax. Once Damien and his pretty bride produce an heir, our positions are secure. We can just enjoy the money."

He walked out, leaving me suffocating in the gilded cage of our sham marriage.

*

Isabella POV

Damien didn't release his scorching grip on my hand until we crossed the threshold of our private wing. The tension from the cliffside followed us into the bedroom, thick and suffocating.

I let my silk shawl slip off my shoulders and lay face-down on the massive four-poster bed. "Clara," I called out softly. "The ointment."

My maid hurried over with a small white porcelain jar. As she pulled down the collar of my dress, the dark, violent bruises Damien had left on my shoulders and back were exposed to the dim light.

Damien stiffened. "Leave us," he commanded.

Clara and Sofia practically fled the room. The heavy oak door clicked shut.

The mattress dipped as Damien sat beside me. "I apologize," he murmured, his baritone rough. "Next time... I will be gentler."

To my surprise, he took the jar. The cool ointment hit my feverish skin, but as he rubbed it in, the rough, abrasive texture of his palm made me wince.

"Ouch," I hissed, shifting away.

Before he could pull back, I caught his wrist. I turned his large hand over, my thumb tracing the thick, unnatural calluses and the jagged, faded scars crisscrossing his knuckles.

I looked up through my lashes, meeting his obsidian eyes. "Damien," I asked lazily, "aren't you a legitimate businessman? Why do your hands feel like they belong to an *Enforcer*(executioner)?"

The air in the room froze. The vulnerability in his eyes vanished, replaced by a lethal, icy void. He snatched his hand back, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn't answer.

Instead of shrinking back from his coldness, I pushed myself up on my elbows, letting the silk slip lower. The silence between us was no longer just uncomfortable; it was a dangerous, intoxicating puzzle waiting to be solved.