Isabella POV
His hand paused on the crystal stopper. The soft clinking of glass ceased, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in its wake.
Damien turned, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and walked back to me. He stood at the edge of the bed, a towering shadow of authority, looking down at me as if I were a subordinate awaiting orders.
"Let us be clear about your duties as my wife—"
"First," I interrupted, my voice steady despite the frantic beating of my heart, "you will call me Isabella. Not 'wife,' not 'madam.' Second, you will sit down and look me in the eye while we speak. Otherwise, I will ignore every word you say."
A dangerous, lethal stillness settled over him. His obsidian eyes narrowed into slits. No one gave the Don of Chicago orders. But after a tense standoff, he moved to the velvet armchair opposite the bed and sat, his posture rigid, his gaze locked onto mine.
"This marriage is a transaction," Damien stated, his baritone devoid of warmth. "You will be provided with every luxury and the absolute protection of the Russo family. In return, you will remain entirely out of my business. Do not harbor any foolish romantic illusions. *Capisce*(Understand)?"
I smoothed the silk of my gown, entirely unbothered by his icy declaration. "Perfectly. A pure transaction. Which means you will also strictly honor the three conditions my father secured in our prenuptial agreement."
A muscle feathered in his jaw. The reminder of the contract—a binding deal he had signed to secure the shipping routes—seemed to irritate him, but he gave a curt nod. A Don's word was his bond.
He set his glass down and stood, unbuttoning his tailored vest. The negotiation was over; it was time to consummate the alliance. As he reached out to pull me against him, I turned my face away.
"I can't stand the smell of whiskey and cigars," I murmured, stepping out of his reach. "Bathe first."
For a second, I thought he might drag me to the bed anyway. Instead, he let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated in my chest, and walked into the adjoining marble bathroom.
When Damien emerged fifteen minutes later, his dark hair damp and a towel slung low on his hips, he stopped dead in his tracks. I hadn't undressed in a panic. Instead, I was propped against the silk pillows, casually flipping through a book of explicit Viennese Secession erotic art I had packed in my trunk.
His gaze dropped to the scandalous illustrations, then up to my face. The temperature in the room spiked instantly.
"Ready?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden, raw hunger.
I slowly closed the book and met his burning stare with a lazy smile. "I thought a man of your... experience... would know how to proceed."
The last thread of his legendary control snapped. In two strides, he was on the bed. He tore the book from my hands, tossing it to the floor, and pinned my wrists above my head. His mouth crashed down on mine, tasting of mint and danger. It wasn't a gentle claiming; it was a primal, possessive conquest. Yet, as my nails dug into his broad shoulders, I knew I hadn't just surrendered—I had orchestrated the exact moment he lost his mind.
The next morning, the sharp click of a pocket watch woke me.
I cracked an eye open. The clock on the nightstand read 6:00 AM. Damien was already fully dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, his hair perfectly slicked back, looking as untouchable as he had yesterday. He stood at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes studying my tangled form with an unreadable expression.
"Get up, Isabella," he commanded, his tone flat and leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "We are to meet my mother at half-past seven."
My body ached from the brutal intensity of the night before. Without a word, I simply turned my back to him, pulled the heavy velvet comforter over my head, and closed my eyes.
