Isabella Harrison POV

The morning sun did little to warm the gilded cage of my bridal suite. Tomorrow was my first official visit back to the Harrison estate, a mandatory display of marital harmony that required meticulous preparation.

Mr. Davies, the head butler of the Gallo estate, stood before me. His posture was rigid, his face an unreadable mask as he presented the leather-bound manifest of gifts intended for my family. He was a man who knew the secrets of this house, which meant he was exactly the kind of man I needed in my pocket.

I gave Clara a subtle nod. She stepped forward, pressing a thick, unmarked envelope into the butler's white-gloved hands. Five thousand dollars—in crisp, untraceable bills.

Davies's eyes flicked down, his fingers expertly assessing the weight. A flash of raw greed, quickly masked by profound respect, altered his entire demeanor.

"A token of my appreciation for your tireless work in this vast household, Mr. Davies," I murmured, taking a sip of my tea.

He bowed low, slipping the envelope into his tailored coat. "You are too generous, Mrs. Gallo." He turned to leave, but paused at the heavy oak door. He glanced over his shoulder, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mrs. Gallo, the gifts for your family were personally overseen by Mrs. Francesca Gallo. She has... a very particular taste. You might wish to inspect them yourself, to ensure they meet the Harrison family's high standards."

I met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between us. "Thank you, Mr. Davies. I will do just that."

By three o'clock, the trap was set. The scent of Earl Grey tea and fresh scones filled the suite. Francesca swept into the room, her chin held high, eyes darting around for signs of weakness. I disarmed her immediately with a velvet box.

"A small token of my gratitude for welcoming me into the family, Aunt Francesca," I said softly.

She opened it, her eyes catching the gleam of the Tiffany pearl bracelet. Her greed won out over her suspicion, and she slipped it onto her wrist with a smug, triumphant smile. She thought I was bowing to her authority.

"Since you were so kind as to arrange the gifts for my family's visit tomorrow, I hoped we could review them together before they are loaded into the cars," I said, gesturing to the open trunks in the corner.

Clara and Sofia moved in perfect synchronization. Clara lifted a cedar box, her face twisting in exaggerated horror. "Madam... these Cuban cigars. They are covered in white mold."

Sofia uncorked a crystal decanter, her expression deadpan. "And this rare whiskey... it smells of cheap, dyed moonshine."

Clara then pulled out a sable cloak, her fingers slipping right through a cluster of moth holes. The luxurious items were nothing but garbage, a blatant insult meant to humiliate me in front of my grandmother.

Francesca's smugness evaporated, replaced by a sickly pallor.

I set my teacup down, letting my voice tremble with perfectly manufactured distress. "Oh, Aunt Francesca, if my family saw this, they would think the Gallo family holds us in contempt. This would bring such dishonor to the Don's name."

The mention of the Don was a loaded gun pointed straight at her head. Francesca stood up so fast her chair scraped harshly against the floorboards. "Those incompetent fools in the cellar!" she hissed, her voice shrill, desperately trying to shift the blame. "I will have them whipped for this oversight!"

I stood up, closing the distance between us. I reached out, gently touching her arm, and delivered the killing blow with a soft, understanding smile.

"I understand the family accounts are... strained," I whispered, my eyes locking onto hers. "Perhaps someone simply made a poor decision trying to be frugal. A noble, if misguided, intention."

Francesca froze. The blood drained entirely from her face, leaving her looking hollow and terrified. In that one sentence, I had stripped her bare. She knew that I knew about the embezzling, the rot, the empty coffers she was trying to fill by skimming from the gift budget.

She yanked her arm away, barking at the maids to have the trunks replaced with proper goods immediately, before fleeing the room like a beaten dog.

I watched the door click shut, the silence returning to my suite. The Gallo estate was a battlefield, and I had just secured my footing. Tomorrow, the black Cadillac would take me back to the Harrison gates, where I would have to face the ghosts of my past.

Isabella Harrison POV

The black armored Cadillac rolled to a smooth stop before the towering wrought-iron gates of the Harrison estate. The heavy metal 'H' crest loomed above, a reminder of the world I had briefly escaped. I braced myself, fully expecting to face the firing squad alone. Kyle had made it abundantly clear that playing the dutiful husband was beneath him.

Before the valet could even reach for the handle, my car door was yanked open. Karly stood there, a venomous, triumphant smile twisting her pretty face.

"Oh, sister, just you?" she projected, her voice dripping with faux sympathy, loud enough for the guards to hear. "I thought the Gallos would show at least the basic respect of an escort."

I stepped out, smoothing the skirt of my dress. "Kyle had important business to attend to."

Karly's smile widened into a sneer. "Business? I heard his real 'business' is in an apartment on the South Side, isn't it?"

I didn't flinch. Instead, I took a step closer, my voice low but sharp enough to cut through the crisp autumn air. "Karly, are you trying to let all of Chicago know that a Harrison daughter spreads rumors that could incite a family war? If those words reach Don Gallo's ears, do you want our entire family to pay the price for your tongue?"

The smugness vanished from Karly's eyes, replaced by a flicker of genuine panic.

"Shut your reckless mouth!"

Grandmother Elia materialized from the shadows of the portico, her face a mask of absolute frost. She seized my arm, pulling me protectively behind her, and fixed Karly with a lethal glare. "On my territory, no one starts a war."

As she led me up the stone steps, Elia didn't spare Karly a backward glance, her voice dripping with disdain. "You are just like your mother—you never learn your place. Do you think that poor Irish boy, Barrett Bradshaw, can bring you anything of value? Never forget your bloodline, and never forget who allows you to stand here."

Karly paled, tears of humiliation welling in her eyes, but she didn't dare speak another word.

The formal dining room was suffocating. We had barely taken our seats beneath the stern portraits of our ancestors when the unmistakable, throaty roar of a Duesenberg engine shattered the midday quiet. Footsteps echoed in the marble hall. The heavy oak doors swung open, and Kyle Gallo strolled in.

He wore an impeccably tailored suit and a smirk that promised violence.

Karly shot up from her chair, her face pale with shock. "What are you doing here?!" she blurted out.

Kyle's smirk vanished. His eyes, cold and dead, locked onto her. "Thank God the Gallo family married the sister with actual manners," he sneered. He stepped further into the room, the air growing heavy with his presence. "I am here to accompany my wife on her visit to her family. It is my duty. Or do you believe I shouldn't be here? Are you questioning the alliance between our families?"

Karly sank back into her chair, trembling and speechless. Elia quickly smoothed over the tension, gesturing for Kyle to take the empty seat beside me.

For the rest of the meal, Kyle waged a war of suffocating affection. He served my plate. He used his linen napkin to gently dab the corner of my mouth. When a draft swept through the room, he didn't hesitate to strip off his expensive suit jacket and drape it over my shoulders. His arm rested on the back of my chair, his fingers occasionally brushing my spine—a blatant, territorial claim.

Elia watched with deep satisfaction, seeing only a powerful husband honoring her granddaughter. Karly gripped her butter knife so tightly her knuckles turned white, consumed by a jealous rage.

But beneath the heavy wool of Kyle's jacket, my skin crawled. Every tender touch was a calculated lie, leaving me hyper-aware of the dangerous, unpredictable stranger sitting beside me.