Isabella POV
Livia's words about the pine trees hung in the air, a cruel echo of a destruction I had already lived through. My gaze drifted from the draped canvas to the frost-covered glass of the terrace doors.
Just months after our wedding, that terrace had been my sanctuary. I had spent hours on my knees in the dirt, planting classical Sicilian roses—a desperate homage to my parents' love and the home I missed. But Livia had complained. *The heavy scent gives me migraines, Julian. And the thorns... they make me anxious.*
The very next morning, Julian had sent two of his *Soldiers* into my private quarters. I had stood there, trembling, watching them uproot every single bush and shove them into garbage bags. I had begged him to leave just one. Julian had merely adjusted his cuffs, his blue eyes devoid of warmth.
*"It's just some flowers, Isabella. Livia's comfort is more important."*
Now, Livia set her empty mug on my nightstand, the sharp clink snapping me back to the present. The sweet, innocent mask melted away, revealing the vicious nineteen-year-old underneath. She stepped closer, her eyes dropping to my shivering form.
"He left his wife to freeze to death for me, Isabella. What does that tell you?" she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss. She casually pushed back her cashmere sleeve, revealing a heavy, gleaming gold bracelet I knew Julian had commissioned privately. "A smart girl would know when to disappear. You should beg Sofia to annul this marriage. Just get out of my way."
I looked at the gold biting into her pale wrist, then up to her desperate, triumphant eyes. She needed me to scream, to fight, to validate her victory.
"Lucia," I called out, my voice raspy but entirely steady. "Please open the window a crack. The air in here has become suffocating."
Livia's face flushed an ugly, mottled red. My absolute indifference was a slap she hadn't anticipated. She spun on her heel and stormed out, slamming the heavy oak door behind her.
The fever spiked as night fell. The fire burned down to glowing embers, and the heavy scent of eucalyptus and mint oil Lucia had rubbed on my chest did little to ease the tightness in my lungs. I was drifting into a restless sleep when the door clicked open again.
Julian.
He didn't knock. He walked in, still wearing his immaculate charcoal suit, bringing the chill of the hallway with him. He didn't glance at the basin of cold water or the medicine bottles crowding my nightstand. He stopped at the foot of my bed, looking down at me with the cold, calculating authority of a *Caporegime*.
"Livia was here," he stated, his voice a flat, unforgiving line. "You made her cry."
I stared up at my husband. He hadn't come to check if the blizzard had killed me. He hadn't come to see if the fever had broken. He had come to act as the enforcer for his mistress's bruised ego.
"Did I?" I whispered, the words scraping against my raw throat.
"Yes," he snapped, his jaw tightening. "I won't tolerate you taking your bitterness out on her. She is fragile, Isabella. You will treat her with the respect my protection demands."
He waited for my apology, for my tears, for the desperate pleas of a neglected wife. But the well was completely dry. I didn't feel the urge to explain Livia's ultimatum or defend my own dignity. It was utterly pointless.
I simply closed my eyes, turning my face away from him, sinking deeper into the pillows.
The silence stretched, thick and unnatural. I heard him shift his weight, a subtle hesitation in his usually confident stance. He wasn't used to me ignoring him. He lingered for a long moment before he finally turned and walked out.
As the door clicked shut, the last chain binding me to the Falcone family dissolved into dust. I didn't just want to survive anymore. I was going to escape.
