Isabella POV
Erica Moretti's fingers dug into my arm with the tenacity of a claw, her nails sharp enough to draw blood through the silk of my dress. The music from the ballroom swelled around us, a stark contrast to the venom dripping from her lips.
"You address me as Mrs. Moretti," she hissed, her face a mask of cosmetic tightness and genuine disdain. "You are not family yet, and at this rate, you never will be."
I pulled my arm free with a sharp jerk, smoothing the fabric where her touch had lingered. "I was merely freshening up, Mrs. Moretti. Unless there is a curfew for the bride I wasn't made aware of?"
Her eyes narrowed into slits. "Vincenzo is at the head table. Your place is beside him, silent and decorative. Not roaming around like a puttana (whore) looking for customers. You represent the Moretti name tonight, girl. Try not to stain it with your common incompetence."
She turned on her heel, expecting me to trail behind her like a chastised puppy. I watched her go, a cold fire igniting in my chest. They all thought I was nothing. A pawn. A peasant.
I followed her back into the cavernous Grand Ballroom, keeping my head high. Vincenzo was seated at the center of the head table, a dark king holding court. His gaze snapped to me the moment I entered, heavy and unreadable, tracking my every step until I sank into the chair beside him. He didn't speak, but the air between us crackled with the unresolved tension of our argument in the car.
Before I could even reach for my water glass, the room fell silent.
Alida Savage was walking toward the stage. She moved with the fluid grace of a viper, her emerald dress shimmering under the chandeliers. She sat at the grand Steinway piano, paused for dramatic effect, and then began to play.
It was a Chopin Nocturne. Predictable. Safe. She played it well enough, her technique polished by expensive lessons, but it lacked soul. It was sterile perfection. When she finished, the room erupted in polite applause.
Alida stood, basking in the adoration, her eyes locking onto mine across the room. She picked up a microphone, her smile widening into something predatory.
"Thank you," she purred, her voice amplified through the speakers. "Music has always been the heartbeat of our culture here in Chicago. But we have a guest tonight from New York. Isabella, dear?"
Every head turned toward me. The weight of hundreds of stares pressed against my skin.
"As our future hostess," Alida continued, her tone dripping with faux sweetness, "surely you have a talent to share? Or perhaps..." She glanced at Erica, who was smirking into her wine glass.
"Don't embarrass her, Alida," Erica said, loud enough for the nearby tables to hear. "The Falcones are known for their trigger fingers, not their appreciation of the arts. I doubt the girl knows the difference between a piano key and a trigger."
Laughter rippled through the room. Low, mocking, cruel.
Beside me, Vincenzo shifted. I could feel the heat radiating from him, his displeasure at the scene palpable, though whether it was directed at them or me, I couldn't tell. He started to stand, perhaps to end the farce, but I placed a hand on his forearm.
His muscles bunched beneath the fabric of his suit. He looked down at me, his dark eyes searching mine.
"Sit," I whispered.
I stood up. The laughter died down, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. I walked to the stage, my heels clicking rhythmically against the marble floor. I didn't look at Alida as I passed her; I looked through her.
I sat at the bench, the black keys gleaming under the spotlight. I didn't choose a lullaby. I didn't choose something soft to plead for their affection.
I placed my hands on the keys and unleashed Liszt's La Campanella.
The first high D-sharp rang out like a warning shot. My fingers flew, demanding and precise, tackling the notorious jumps with a ferocity that bordered on violence. This piece was a technical nightmare, a test of endurance and power. It was a storm.
I poured everything into the music—the rage at being sold, the humiliation of Erica's words, the suffocating heat of Vincenzo's possessiveness. The melody grew faster, louder, a chaotic symphony of rebellion. I wasn't playing for them. I was playing to remind myself that I was still in there, beneath the layers of silk and duty.
When I struck the final, thunderous chord, the vibration traveled up my arms and settled in my chest.
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.
Then, the applause broke like a dam. It wasn't polite this time; it was raucous, shocked. I stood and gave a small, sharp bow. Alida's face was drained of color, her mouth slightly agape. She had tried to hand me a shovel to dig my own grave, and I had used it to bury her.
I walked back to the table, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. As I approached, I met Vincenzo's gaze. He hadn't clapped. He was leaning back in his chair, his wine glass forgotten in his hand, watching me with an intensity that made my breath hitch. There was no mockery in his eyes now. There was hunger. And something else—calculation.
But before I could sit, a shadow fell over the table.
"A magnificent performance," a smooth, baritone voice said.
I froze. I knew that voice. It belonged to smoky backrooms in Brooklyn and the scent of my grandfather's cigars.
I turned slowly to see Marco Viti standing there. The Gentleman. One of the Falcone family's most lethal Caporegimes. He was dressed in a suit that cost more than most people's houses, his graying hair perfectly coiffed, his smile polite but not reaching his eyes.
"Vincenzo Moretti," Marco said, extending a hand. "I am Marco Viti. Caporegime for the Falcone family. Don Gilberto sends his regards."
Vincenzo stood, towering over the older man, shaking his hand with a grip that looked bone-crushing. "I didn't expect a Capo to fly out for a dinner party."
"We take our alliances seriously," Marco replied smoothly. Then, he turned his gaze to me.
Panic clawed at my throat. If he called me 'Principessa', if he showed even an ounce of the deference he usually did, my cover was blown. I would be exposed not as a distant relative, but as the Don's granddaughter.
Marco's eyes softened for a fraction of a second—a flicker of pride, perhaps, or warning. Then, his expression hardened into professional indifference.
"Miss Falcone," he said, offering me a curt, respectful nod. "Your playing does the family credit."
"Thank you, Mr. Viti," I managed to say, my voice steady despite the trembling in my knees.
He didn't linger. With a final nod to Erica, who looked flustered by his presence, he moved away into the crowd.
I sank into my chair, exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding. I had survived.
"You know him?" Vincenzo's voice was low, dangerous.
I turned to look at him. His eyes were narrowed, darting between me and Marco's retreating figure. He wasn't looking at me like a prize anymore. He was looking at me like a puzzle he was desperate to solve.
"He is a friend of my father," I lied, reaching for my wine.
Vincenzo didn't reply. He just watched me, his gaze stripping away my defenses layer by layer. The music had won the crowd, but Marco's appearance had woken the beast. The predator in him sensed blood in the water, and I had a terrible feeling he wouldn't stop until he found the wound.
