Isabella POV

The adrenaline of our victory at the Plaza faded the moment we crossed the threshold of the 72nd Street townhouse. The heavy oak doors sealed shut behind us, instantly transforming the space back into a silent, dust-sheeted mausoleum.

I looked down at Damiano. The champagne stain on his tuxedo jacket was a stark reminder of the moment he had thrown his body in the line of fire for me. A fragile, foolish hope bloomed in my chest. We weren't just a transaction anymore; we were allies.

"Let me help you with that jacket," I said softly, stepping closer and reaching for his lapel. "Club soda might get the stain out before it sets."

Damiano flinched as if I had offered him poison. His hand snapped up, catching my wrist in a grip that was entirely too fast and too bruising for a crippled man.

"Do not touch me," he commanded. The freezing, absolute authority of a Don echoed in the empty foyer, leaving no room for argument.

"I just wanted to help," I whispered, the warmth draining from my blood.

"We played our parts for the public, Isabella. Do not confuse a performance with reality." He released my wrist, his storm-gray eyes devoid of the protective fire I had seen at the gala. He spun his wheelchair around with brutal efficiency, putting a humiliating distance between us.

He rolled into his library without another word. A second later, the heavy brass lock clicked shut. The sound was a physical blow, shattering my illusions and leaving me entirely alone in the suffocating silence of the hallway.

Hours later, the storm that had been threatening the city finally broke.

Thunder rattled the old windowpanes, vibrating through the floorboards. I sat up in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. Another crack of thunder tore through the sky, and suddenly, I was back in the crushed metal of my parents' car, smelling rain and copper blood. My PTSD clawed at my throat, making it impossible to breathe.

Then, the townhouse plunged into pitch blackness. The power was gone.

Panic seized me. I needed to know I wasn't the only living soul in this tomb. Grabbing my phone, I turned on the flashlight and hurried downstairs.

As I approached the library, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. The red emergency lights of his massive server racks blinked ominously in the dark.

My flashlight beam swept the Persian rug and stopped. Damiano was sprawled on the floor, his wheelchair pushed back a few feet.

"Damiano!" I gasped, rushing to my knees beside him.

"I'm fine," he gritted out, his jaw tight. "The servers went offline. I tried to use the grabber tool to reach the backup power switch on the top shelf, and I slipped."

Guilt and terror washed over me. I dropped my phone, letting it illuminate the floor, and slid my arms under his armpits to help him up. "On three. One, two, three—"

I pulled with all my might, expecting the dead, atrophied weight of a paralyzed man. Instead, my hands met a wall of solid, coiled steel. His back was incredibly broad, the muscles shifting and flexing with terrifying power under his damp shirt. His biceps were like carved marble against my forearms. It made no sense.

A jagged flash of lightning illuminated the room. I looked down into his face, expecting to see the grimace of a helpless invalid. What I saw stopped the breath in my lungs. His pupils were blown wide, his expression intense, dark, and utterly predatory. There was no pain in his eyes—only a fierce, caged panic.

"Please, don't play hero," I whispered, tears of residual fear blurring my vision. "You could have been seriously hurt. I am your legs now, Damiano. Let me help you."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. He shoved my hands away with a sudden, violent jerk, his voice a harsh rasp that sounded like it was torn from his throat. "I don't need a nurse, Isabella."

I swallowed the lump of hurt in my throat, refusing to back down. "You need a wife."

Before he could respond, the overhead lights snapped back on with a blinding glare. The sudden brightness shattered the heavy, charged intimacy of the dark. Damiano looked away, his chest heaving once before his expression smoothed into an impenetrable mask of ice.

"Get out," he ordered, not looking at me.

I slowly stood up, the rejection burning a hole in my chest. I turned and walked out of the library, my hands still tingling with the phantom heat of his skin. As I climbed the stairs, my mind spun with the impossible, rock-hard strength I had just felt beneath his shirt, a dangerous seed of doubt taking root in the dark.

Isabella POV

The morning light filtering into the massive kitchen of the 72nd Street townhouse was as cold and unforgiving as the man I had married. I stood by the stainless-steel island, staring blindly into my black coffee. My palms still tingled with the impossible memory of Damiano's coiled strength from last night, a dangerous puzzle I couldn't solve.

Footsteps broke the silence. Hector Vargas walked in. He wasn't just a butler; he was a Soldier, moving with the lethal, measured grace of a predator. Today, however, his right wrist was heavily wrapped in a thick ACE bandage.

"Good morning, Signora," he said, his tone carefully blank. "An old injury flared up. I am afraid I cannot assist the Don with his therapeutic bath today."

Before I could respond, the quiet hum of an electric wheelchair announced Damiano. He rolled into the sterile room, his storm-gray eyes instantly locking onto Hector's wrist.

"What is this, Hector?" His voice was a freezing, absolute command that demanded the truth.

"My wrist, Boss," Hector replied, bowing his head, though I caught a defiant glint in his eye. "I cannot safely bear your weight. But the doctor's orders regarding your hydrotherapy are strict."

I saw the muscle feathering in Damiano's tight jaw. I thought I understood. It was the agonizing pride of a man forced to expose his weakness, stripped of his dignity. I wanted to bridge the chasm between us, to prove I wasn't just a pawn.

"I can help," I offered softly.

Damiano's head snapped toward me. "Absolutely not."

But Hector smoothly stepped back, sealing the trap. "It is a wife's duty, Boss."

Damiano shot Hector a look of pure, unadulterated murder—a silent promise of violence. But he was cornered by his own medical charade.

Ten minutes later, the master bathroom felt like an execution chamber. It was a claustrophobic cavern of black obsidian marble, thick with suffocating steam. Damiano sat in the massive freestanding tub, the water lapping at his waist. He wore black compression pants, a stark contrast to his bare, heavily scarred torso.

I knelt beside the tub, taking the sponge. The air between us was so tense it was hard to breathe. I began to wash his broad shoulders. Every time the sponge grazed his skin, his breath hitched, his muscles locking down as if bracing for a bullet.

"It's okay," I whispered, trying to soothe what I thought was his wounded pride.

I moved my hands down over his ridged abdomen, reaching for the water line where the compression fabric clung to his thighs.

The second my fingers brushed the expanse of his thigh, Damiano erupted.

Before I could even register the unnatural, rock-hard heat beneath the wet fabric, his hand shot out like a viper. He clamped his fingers around my wrist with bone-crushing force. With his free hand, he violently struck the water, sending a massive wave crashing over the marble floor to mask whatever movement his body had just made.

"Do not touch me!" he roared.

It wasn't a command; it was the feral, panicked snarl of a cornered beast. His eyes were wild, dilated, and entirely terrifying.

"Get out! Get the fuck out of my sight, Isabella!"

The sheer violence of his revulsion hit me like a physical blow to the chest. He wasn't just proud. He was utterly, physically disgusted by me. The realization shattered whatever fragile hope I had been clinging to.

Tears of profound humiliation burned my eyes. I ripped my bruised wrist from his grip and stumbled backward, slipping on the wet marble. I didn't wait for him to yell again. I turned and fled the suffocating heat of the bathroom, the sound of my own muffled sobs echoing in the empty hallway.

Isabella POV

The harsh smell of bleach burned my nostrils, but it wasn't strong enough to mask the memory of Damiano's visceral disgust. I knelt on the cold tiles of the massive, lifeless kitchen, scrubbing the grout until my knuckles ached.

*Get the fuck out of my sight.*

His feral roar from yesterday echoed in my ears with every swipe of the sponge. The 72nd Street townhouse felt like a mausoleum, and I was just another ghost haunting its halls. I had tried to bridge the gap between us, only to be violently reminded of my place. He didn't just hate our arranged marriage; he was physically repulsed by me.

I scrubbed harder, desperate to erase the humiliation. But beneath the sting of rejection, a quiet, desperate realization took root: I had twelve dollars to my name. I couldn't survive as a despised canary in a gilded cage. I needed a purpose. I needed out.

*

Damiano POV

The heavy mahogany door of my study separated me from the wife I had broken. I stared at the encrypted laptop on my desk, the taste of self-loathing bitter on my tongue. I had seen the tears in Isabella's eyes, the profound humiliation. But I couldn't explain my panic without exposing the truth of my legs, and with it, the entirety of my *Vendetta*.

"Earth to the Ghost," Nico Romano's voice crackled through the encrypted line, pulling me from the dark spiral. "You're distracted. Marital bliss with the Doyle outcast wearing you down? I told you not to marry her."

"Watch your mouth, Nico," I warned, my voice dropping to a lethal chill. "She is my wife."

Nico cleared his throat, instantly dropping the mockery. "Right. Business. Lorenzo is sniffing around the offshore accounts. Your father is tracking the funds. We need to move the L'Unico money faster to keep the operation hidden."

"Do it. Leave no trace."

"Also, our head designer for the spring collection just walked out," Nico added, frustration bleeding into his tone. "It's a disaster for the brand."

I rubbed my jaw, my mind calculating the angles. L'Unico was my legitimate front, the financial engine of my impending war. It couldn't falter. "Find a replacement immediately. And Nico? Keep an eye out for anything involving adaptive wear. It's an untapped market we need to corner."

*

Isabella POV

By dinner time, the silence of the house was suffocating. I couldn't hide in the kitchen forever. Gathering whatever fractured courage I had left, I prepared a simple tray of roasted chicken and walked to his study.

I knocked once and pushed the heavy brass handle. The room smelled of old leather, whiskey, and isolation. Damiano sat behind his massive desk, the shadows clinging to his broad shoulders. He looked up, his storm-gray eyes instantly guarded.

"I brought dinner," I said softly, setting the tray down. I took a steadying breath, refusing to look away. "And I want to apologize for yesterday. I... I understand that your condition makes you feel vulnerable. I overstepped."

A muscle feathered in his tight jaw. He looked at me, really looked at me, and the impenetrable ice in his gaze seemed to fracture just a fraction.

"I also came to tell you that I need a job," I continued, lifting my chin. "I refuse to be a burden in this house. I have a portfolio, and I'm applying for a junior designer position at L'Unico."

Damiano went perfectly still. For a second, the air in the room stopped circulating.

"L'Unico," he repeated, his voice entirely unreadable. "Show me your portfolio."

I hesitated, then hurried to my room to fetch my sketchbook. When I handed it to him, my heart hammered against my ribs. He flipped through the pages of evening gowns and tailored coats in silence. His expression remained a cold mask until he reached the final page.

He froze.

It was a charcoal sketch of a men's bespoke suit. But the cut was different—the jacket was cropped slightly higher at the front to prevent fabric from bunching at the waist, the trousers reinforced at the friction points, the shoulders broadened to accommodate the posture of a man in a wheelchair. It was powerful, elegant, and undeniably designed for him.

Damiano's knuckles turned white as he gripped the leather-bound book. He stared at the sketch for a long, agonizing minute. When he finally looked up, the coldness was entirely gone, replaced by a raw, burning intensity that stole the breath from my lungs. After he had humiliated me, after he had banished me, I had spent my night designing armor for his pride.

"You drew this," he said, his voice a hoarse, dangerous rasp.

"Yes," I whispered.

He closed the book slowly, his eyes locking onto mine with a weight I had never felt before. "Submit it, Isabella."