Isabella POV
The heavy thud of Dante's boots behind me was the only accompaniment to the rustle of my silk gown. The corridor of the Heir's Wing was a suffocating display of Moretti wealth. Thick Persian rugs swallowed my footsteps, and the oil portraits of past Dons stared down at me from the shadows, their painted eyes judging the unwanted bride.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I reached the heavy, carved oak door of Julian's suite and stopped.
Instead of using my knuckles, I raised the brass letter opener. I brought the heavy hilt down against the wood. Bang. Bang. Bang.
The rhythmic, metallic thuds echoed like gunshots in the dead quiet of the estate. It wasn't a plea for my husband to open the door; it was a death knell for their secrets. Within seconds, the shadows shifted. Soldiers stationed at the stairwell hurried over, their hands hovering near their holsters. Doors down the hall clicked open. The beast of the Moretti family was awake.
Ten minutes later, the private scandal had been dragged into the blinding light of the main study.
The room smelled of old money, leather, and impending violence. I stood in the center of the room, the picture of a wronged bride, while the power players of the family hastily assembled.
Don Antonio Moretti sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his face carved from granite. Beside him, his wife, Elvina, the Mafia Queen, was desperately trying to stitch the torn fabric of our alliance back together.
"Isabella, cara (dear), please sit," Elvina urged, her voice tight with forced warmth. "This is a terrible misunderstanding. Julian would never insult the Valdez family like this. He will give you a perfect explanation."
She gestured sharply to a Soldier by the door. "Go fetch my son. Tell him his mother demands his presence."
The room waited in a suffocating silence. Dante leaned against the towering bookshelves, his arms crossed. He was watching me, the drunken haze completely gone from his eyes, replaced by a dark, calculating intrigue.
The Soldier returned far too quickly. He looked pale, his eyes darting nervously toward the Don before settling on Elvina.
"Speak," Don Antonio commanded, his voice a low rumble.
"Signora," the Soldier swallowed hard. "Mr. Julian ordered that no one is to disturb him. The door is locked from the inside."
Elvina's face drained of color. Her promise of a "misunderstanding" shattered into a million humiliating pieces on the hardwood floor. I kept my face perfectly blank, suppressing the cold smile fighting to touch my lips. By the bookshelves, Dante's posture stiffened. He understood now. This wasn't just a man thinking with his dick; this was the Underboss deliberately spitting on his family's honor.
Don Antonio slowly stood up. The temperature in the study seemed to plummet to freezing. He didn't shout. A Don whose word was absolute law didn't need to raise his voice. He picked up his crystal whiskey glass and set it down with a sharp, definitive clink.
He turned his dead eyes to Marco Moretti, Dante's father and a feared Capo.
"Marco," the Don said, his tone devoid of any paternal warmth. "Break down the door. Bring my son to me. Now."
The wait was agonizing for them, but for me, it was the sweet anticipation of a trap snapping shut. We heard the distant, violent splintering of wood echoing from the Heir's Wing.
When Marco finally returned, he shoved them into the study.
Sofia stumbled forward. Her pale pink dress was wrinkled, her hair artfully messy, and her doe-like eyes were brimming with fresh tears. She looked exactly like the fragile, innocent victim she always pretended to be.
And then there was Julian. The Underboss. The man who had ordered my death in another lifetime.
His jaw was clenched, his expression entirely devoid of guilt. He didn't even spare me a single glance. Instead, his arm wrapped tightly around Sofia's waist, anchoring the bastard to his side in a blatant, possessive grip. He lifted his chin, staring directly into the furious eyes of his father, the Don, choosing his mistress over his bride, his duty, and his life.
