Isabella POV
The transition from the grimy streets of the Polish Village to the suffocating opulence of Countess De Luca’s mansion gave me whiplash. The grand foyer was a blinding display of crystal chandeliers, black-and-white marble, and the heavy scent of expensive perfume masking the underlying stench of mafia politics.
I smoothed my hands down the skirt of my silver silk gown. My stomach churned with a dull, cramping ache—the first harsh side effect of the pills I had swallowed dry in the car.
"Keep your head up," Sofia murmured beside me, her eyes scanning the crowd with the sharp instincts of a born Rossi.
Before I could even take a full breath, Liliana Vance materialized from the sea of tailored suits and glittering diamonds. She wore a predatory, saccharine smile, a crystal glass of dark red wine balanced in her hand. As she brushed past me, her wrist gave a sudden, calculated flick.
The deep crimson liquid splashed across the front of my silver gown, blooming instantly like a fresh gunshot wound.
"Hey!" Sofia snarled, stepping forward with her teeth bared, ready to tear the woman apart.
Liliana gasped, pressing a manicured hand to her chest in mock horror. "Oh, my goodness! I am so clumsy."
"Some people just lack the grace for high society," the woman beside Liliana sneered, eyeing my ruined dress. "No matter how expensive the silk, it can't cover up inherent clumsiness."
I placed a restraining hand on Sofia’s arm. I didn't have the energy for a catfight. I just wanted to survive this night.
Liliana stepped closer, her voice dripping with loud, theatrical pity, ensuring the surrounding guests could hear every word. "Oh, Isabella, I am so sorry. You look so pale. Is it hard adjusting to life outside the Moretti estate? I suppose old habits die hard... I heard Damien was here tonight. It must be so difficult for you to let go."
Her words were venomous little darts, painting me as the desperate, discarded wife stalking her estranged husband.
"Excuse me," I said coldly, turning on my heel to find the powder room.
But my escape route was instantly blocked. Giovanni Rossi stood in my path, a wicked, amused glint in his eyes, with my brother Julian right beside him.
"Bella!" Gio announced loudly, his voice carrying over the string quartet. "Leaving so soon? Damien is waiting in the main ballroom. As Mrs. Moretti, you can't leave the Don unattended."
"He's right, Bella," Julian added, his jaw set in protective, misguided stubbornness. He had seen the wine, seen the humiliation, and his pride demanded retaliation. "Come on. Don't let these people look down on you. Take your place."
I was trapped. Refusing my brother and Gio in front of half the Chicago Outfit would be a public insult to the Moretti name—a death sentence in our world. With a heavy, sinking heart, I let them escort me toward the eye of the storm.
The main ballroom was a gilded cage of Renaissance paintings and white-clothed tables. At the very center, elevated like a judge's bench, was Damien's VIP table.
He sat surrounded by his Caporegimes, his ambitious brother Marco lounging to his left. Damien looked like a dark king holding court. The moment I stepped into the room, his gaze cut through the crowd and locked onto me.
The temperature in my veins plummeted.
There was no fiery rage in his dark eyes. There was only pure, glacial contempt. He looked at me as if I were something vile, something coated in lies and manipulation. I thought he was furious about my defiance in the solarium, about me leaving his house. I didn't know he was looking at my stomach, convinced I was carrying his heir as a calculated weapon to chain him to me. The sheer hatred radiating from him made my breath catch.
We reached the table. Gio smirked, gesturing grandly to the empty chair directly to Damien’s right—the seat of the Mafia Queen. Liliana had followed us and was hovering just a few feet away, her eyes burning with jealousy and anticipation.
Everyone watched me. Waiting for me to claim my throne. Waiting for me to beg for my husband's scraps.
I looked at the empty chair. Then, I turned my gaze to Liliana.
"You look like you've been standing a long time, Liliana," I said, my voice ringing out clear and ice-cold over the sudden hush of the table. "Take the seat."
Without sparing Damien a single glance, I walked past his throne, past his Capos, and took a seat at the absolute furthest end of the long table, right next to Julian.
The entire ballroom seemed to plunge into a dead, suffocating silence. Gio’s smirk vanished. Liliana froze, caught between triumph and utter bewilderment.
At the center of the table, Damien didn't move, but his knuckles turned bone-white around his crystal glass.
