Isabella POV
The silence in the room stretched, thick and suffocating. Damien didn't answer my question about his scarred hands. The lethal, icy void in his eyes warned me that I had brushed against a door he kept firmly locked.
Instead of shrinking back, I let out a soft breath and shifted the battlefield.
"Why did you lie to your mother?" I asked, my voice lazy as I rested my chin on my hands. "Saying you were 'unwell'?"
Damien’s jaw unclenched slightly, though his posture remained rigid. "In our world, weakness invites wolves. Sleeping until noon is a weakness. It makes you look like an easy target."
I rolled fully onto my back, meeting his obsidian gaze. "You control what I eat, where I go, and who I see. But you cannot control when I wake. That is mine." I offered a wicked little smile. "Besides, there is plenty of time for a long sleep after we are dead. Why rush it?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it, utterly derailed by my morbid logic.
To regain the upper hand, he cleared his throat, his baritone dropping into a demanding register. "Yesterday, in my mother's solarium. Your stumble... was it intentional?"
I traced the edge of the silk sheet, entirely unrepentant. "Of course. But relax, *Don Russo*. Even if you hadn't caught me, I would have only spilled the tea on myself. I wouldn't have ruined your mother's precious Persian rug."
The temperature in the room plummeted. Damien leaned over me, his large hands planting on either side of my waist. "A cup of boiling tea? Spilled on yourself? Do not ever do something so foolish again."
I blinked, genuinely startled. The information gap between us was staggering. He wasn't defending his mother's pride or her antique carpets; he was clumsily, aggressively protecting my skin.
A strange flutter erupted in my chest, but I masked it with a careless laugh. "There won't be a next time. A *Mafia Queen* only needs to bow to her mother-in-law once... unless, of course, you die, I become a widow, and I am forced to marry the next *Don*."
The word *widow* hit the air like a gunshot.
Damien’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist with bruising force. His eyes turned into a Siberian winter, stripping away any trace of the man who had just worried about my safety. "Never let me hear that word again," he hissed through his teeth.
Panic flared hot and fast in my veins. I thought he was threatening me. I shoved myself up, ignoring the ache in my wrist, and glared right back at him. "What? Have you already figured out how to arrange my 'accidental' death to make room for the girl you actually wanted? Because if anything happens to me, my uncle Frank Marino will initiate a *Vendetta*(revenge) that will bleed your streets dry."
Damien froze. The lethal fury in his eyes fractured into pure shock, then melted into a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. He released my wrist, his hand dropping to the mattress.
"Our marriage is until death parts us, Isabella," he said, his voice rough and absolute. "I have never considered any other possibility." He dragged a hand through his perfectly slicked hair, ruining the style. "My mother wanted me to marry her niece, Katarina DeLuca. That was her wish. Not mine."
The missing puzzle piece finally clicked into place. "So, that is why your mother and sister have targeted me since the moment I walked through the doors. Because I stole Katarina's throne."
"That would never happen," Damien interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. He looked at me, the absolute authority of the *Don* radiating from his broad shoulders. "Angelina disrespecting you is disrespecting me. As the *Mafia Queen* of this house, you have my authorization to 'teach' her what the rules are."
I stared at him, stunned by the unprecedented transfer of power.
His gaze darkened with political calculation. "My brother Marco already married a DeLuca woman. If I had married Katarina, outsiders would assume the Russo family was preparing to change its name to DeLuca."
The revelation hung between us, forging a fragile, dangerous alliance. He wasn't just a tyrant; he was a king balancing a treacherous court.
I reached out, my fingers lightly tracing the tense line of his jaw. The icy void in his eyes was gone, replaced by that raw, consuming hunger I had seen on our wedding night. As he pulled me flush against his chest, his mouth crashing down on mine, I tangled my hands in his ruined hair.
"You are such a *Gattomorto*(hypocrite)," I whispered against his lips, a breathless, teasing endearment for the ruthless man who hid his protective streak behind a mask of ice.
His response was a low, possessive growl as he dragged my silk robe off my shoulders, letting the shadows of the room swallow us whole.
