Isabella POV
The decision to strike first burned in my veins all morning. By two o'clock in the afternoon, I was stepping out of the private elevator at the top floor of the Moretti Holdings Tower. I wore a tailored, blood-red sheath dress—a preemptive nod to Dante's command, and a warning to anyone who thought I was merely a decorative bride.
I didn't bother knocking. I pushed open the heavy oak doors to the Lion's sky-high den, interrupting a meeting that had been underway for exactly five minutes.
The sprawling office was a fortress of dark mahogany and bulletproof glass overlooking the steel jungle of Manhattan. The air was thick with the scent of expensive Cuban cigars and single-malt scotch. Around the massive conference table sat several hardened Capos, their conversations dying instantly as I walked in.
Dante sat at his desk near the window. He didn't look angry at the intrusion. Instead, his slate-gray eyes tracked my approach with a dark, calculating heat.
I walked straight to his desk and placed a legal document flat on the polished wood.
"I need your signature," I said, my voice steady, carrying easily across the silent room.
Atticus 'The Shark' Romano, the family Consigliere, stepped forward, his sharp eyes scanning the paper he had prepared at my request earlier that morning. "Isabella," Atticus warned, his tone low. "This is a full proxy authorization. It gives you absolute control over Marco's trust fund. If you freeze his assets, Adriana will declare war. She will tear the estate apart."
"Let her try," I replied coldly, not breaking eye contact with Dante. "Marco's lavish spending in Paris is a continuous insult to the Moretti name. You need him disciplined, Dante, but family politics tie your hands. Let me be the villain. Give me the leash."
Dante leaned back in his leather chair. He was testing me, searching for any hesitation, any lingering affection for the boy who had left me at the altar. He found nothing but ice. A slow, dangerous smirk touched his lips—a predator recognizing its mate.
Without a word, Dante picked up his heavy Montblanc pen. The scratch of the nib against the paper echoed in the quiet room as he signed away his heir's financial lifeline, handing the power directly to me.
Before the ink could even dry, the black phone on Dante's desk began to buzz.
Dante glanced at the caller ID, his smirk deepening. He pressed the speaker button.
"Dad!" Marco's panicked, breathless voice filled the room, exposing his weakness to every Capo present. "Dad, you have to help me! The Ritz just declined my black card. The manager is threatening to throw my things on the street, and my Paris apartment lease was just revoked! It has to be a bank error!"
Dante didn't say a word. He simply gestured toward the phone, his eyes locked on mine, offering me the blade.
I leaned over the mahogany desk. "It's not a bank error, Marco."
Dead silence fell over the line. "Isabella?" Marco gasped, his voice trembling with a pathetic mix of shock and entitlement. "What the hell are you doing in my father's office? Put him on!"
"Your father is busy running an empire," I said, my tone devoid of any mercy. "As for your cards, your allowance, and your Parisian playground—I canceled them. All of them."
"You can't do that! You're just a—"
"I am the Trustee Proxy of your estate now," I cut him off smoothly. "If you want to eat tonight, I suggest you find a job washing dishes at a bistro."
"Dad! Are you listening to this bitch?!" Marco screamed.
Dante remained entirely silent, his gaze burning into me with a dark, thrilling satisfaction.
"Watch your mouth," I commanded, letting the sheer authority of my new position bleed into my words. "You are no longer permitted to address me by my first name. You will call me Mrs. Moretti. Or, perhaps, *Mother* is more fitting. Learn some respect, Marco, or I promise you won't even be able to find work hauling crates on the docks."
I reached out and pressed the button, cutting off his frantic stuttering.
The click of the disconnected line felt heavier than a gunshot. The Capos stared at me in stunned silence. I had just publicly castrated the Don's heir, and the Don had let me do it.
Dante stood up, the sheer size of him dominating the room. "Meeting adjourned," he ordered softly. The men scrambled to leave, Atticus giving me one last, assessing look before shutting the doors behind them.
We were alone. The air between us crackled with a violent, intoxicating energy. This felt more real than any vow we had spoken at the altar. We were no longer just a contract; we were a strategic alliance forged in blood and ink.
But as I touched the cold metal of the proxy document, I knew the real test was yet to come. Tomorrow, I would have to face Adriana at the family dining table, and the vultures would be waiting.
