Isabella POV
The sharp *clink* of my teacup still echoed in my ears as I swept out of the suffocating solarium. The cool breeze of the manicured gardens hit my flushed face, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins ran hot. It tasted familiar. It tasted like survival.
Walking down the white gravel path, I was suddenly twelve years old again, standing in the glittering ballroom of The Drake Hotel. A year after my mother died, my father’s mistress had begun erasing her memory, selling her jewelry to fund her own vanity. Crying to my father was useless. So, I wore a faded, too-small dress to the Mayor's Gala, "accidentally" spilled juice on Chicago's top gossip columnist, and asked with tearful innocence: "Madam, if a girl misses her dead mother, but her father's new friend needs a diamond necklace, should she sell her mother's last ring?"
The public humiliation brought my Uncle Frank Marino and his enforcers to our door before the night was over. The mistress was banished, and my inheritance was locked in a trust. I learned then that in our world, tears are worthless. Only a calculated *Vendetta*(revenge) ensures respect.
"Isabella, wait."
Sophia’s soft voice broke my reverie. She hurried down the path, glancing nervously over her shoulder toward the glass room.
"You need to understand why they hate you," she said, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper. In a few quick sentences, she unraveled Eleonora’s broken chessboard. Katarina DeLuca. Eleonora’s niece, Angelina’s best friend, and Gloria’s distant cousin. She was supposed to be Damien’s bride, the puppet *Mafia Queen* meant to solidify the DeLuca bloodline's power within the Russo family.
"You didn't just take a husband," Sophia murmured. "You destroyed a political empire."
I met her gaze, recognizing the immense risk she took by telling me this. "Thank you, Sophia." The unspoken alliance was sealed.
By evening, the mist rolling off Lake Michigan was thick and biting. I found Damien sitting in a secluded stone gazebo near the cliff's edge. A glass of amber whiskey sat untouched on the stone table before him. He was waiting for me.
I approached, the damp air clinging to my silk dress. "My feet are killing me. I am taking the cliff stairs back to our wing," I announced, gesturing to the moss-slicked stone steps carved into the precipice.
Damien frowned, his dark eyes narrowing. "The stones are wet. It is dangerous."
I stepped closer, extending my hand toward him with a lazy, challenging smile. "Then hold my hand, husband. I wouldn't want to fall and give your mother exactly what she wants."
His gaze flicked to my outstretched fingers, then to the shadows where his *Soldiers*(guards) stood watch. His jaw clenched, the muscles feathering under his skin. "Don't be ridiculous, Isabella. My men are watching."
I didn't argue. I simply let my hand drop, gave a careless shrug, and turned toward the longer, safer path. "As you wish, *Don Russo*."
I made it exactly three steps.
A heavy, scorching grip clamped around my wrist, halting me instantly. The hand slid down, his rough, calloused palm swallowing mine, his fingers interlocking with my own like a steel vice. He didn't look at me. His obsidian eyes remained fixed straight ahead on the treacherous path.
"This is the last time," he commanded, his baritone tight with a strange, unnatural strain.
I didn't say a word as he led me toward the mossy steps.
