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.

Isabella POV

The silence in the room stretched, thick and suffocating. Damien didn't answer my question about his scarred hands. The lethal, icy void in his eyes warned me that I had brushed against a door he kept firmly locked.

Instead of shrinking back, I let out a soft breath and shifted the battlefield.

"Why did you lie to your mother?" I asked, my voice lazy as I rested my chin on my hands. "Saying you were 'unwell'?"

Damien’s jaw unclenched slightly, though his posture remained rigid. "In our world, weakness invites wolves. Sleeping until noon is a weakness. It makes you look like an easy target."

I rolled fully onto my back, meeting his obsidian gaze. "You control what I eat, where I go, and who I see. But you cannot control when I wake. That is mine." I offered a wicked little smile. "Besides, there is plenty of time for a long sleep after we are dead. Why rush it?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it, utterly derailed by my morbid logic.

To regain the upper hand, he cleared his throat, his baritone dropping into a demanding register. "Yesterday, in my mother's solarium. Your stumble... was it intentional?"

I traced the edge of the silk sheet, entirely unrepentant. "Of course. But relax, *Don Russo*. Even if you hadn't caught me, I would have only spilled the tea on myself. I wouldn't have ruined your mother's precious Persian rug."

The temperature in the room plummeted. Damien leaned over me, his large hands planting on either side of my waist. "A cup of boiling tea? Spilled on yourself? Do not ever do something so foolish again."

I blinked, genuinely startled. The information gap between us was staggering. He wasn't defending his mother's pride or her antique carpets; he was clumsily, aggressively protecting my skin.

A strange flutter erupted in my chest, but I masked it with a careless laugh. "There won't be a next time. A *Mafia Queen* only needs to bow to her mother-in-law once... unless, of course, you die, I become a widow, and I am forced to marry the next *Don*."

The word *widow* hit the air like a gunshot.

Damien’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist with bruising force. His eyes turned into a Siberian winter, stripping away any trace of the man who had just worried about my safety. "Never let me hear that word again," he hissed through his teeth.

Panic flared hot and fast in my veins. I thought he was threatening me. I shoved myself up, ignoring the ache in my wrist, and glared right back at him. "What? Have you already figured out how to arrange my 'accidental' death to make room for the girl you actually wanted? Because if anything happens to me, my uncle Frank Marino will initiate a *Vendetta*(revenge) that will bleed your streets dry."

Damien froze. The lethal fury in his eyes fractured into pure shock, then melted into a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. He released my wrist, his hand dropping to the mattress.

"Our marriage is until death parts us, Isabella," he said, his voice rough and absolute. "I have never considered any other possibility." He dragged a hand through his perfectly slicked hair, ruining the style. "My mother wanted me to marry her niece, Katarina DeLuca. That was her wish. Not mine."

The missing puzzle piece finally clicked into place. "So, that is why your mother and sister have targeted me since the moment I walked through the doors. Because I stole Katarina's throne."

"That would never happen," Damien interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. He looked at me, the absolute authority of the *Don* radiating from his broad shoulders. "Angelina disrespecting you is disrespecting me. As the *Mafia Queen* of this house, you have my authorization to 'teach' her what the rules are."

I stared at him, stunned by the unprecedented transfer of power.

His gaze darkened with political calculation. "My brother Marco already married a DeLuca woman. If I had married Katarina, outsiders would assume the Russo family was preparing to change its name to DeLuca."

The revelation hung between us, forging a fragile, dangerous alliance. He wasn't just a tyrant; he was a king balancing a treacherous court.

I reached out, my fingers lightly tracing the tense line of his jaw. The icy void in his eyes was gone, replaced by that raw, consuming hunger I had seen on our wedding night. As he pulled me flush against his chest, his mouth crashing down on mine, I tangled my hands in his ruined hair.

"You are such a *Gattomorto*(hypocrite)," I whispered against his lips, a breathless, teasing endearment for the ruthless man who hid his protective streak behind a mask of ice.

His response was a low, possessive growl as he dragged my silk robe off my shoulders, letting the shadows of the room swallow us whole.