Isabella POV
The sun rose, but it brought no warmth to the Moretti Estate. I hadn't slept a single second. The images from Vincenzo's tablet were burned into the back of my eyelids. I needed caffeine—a sharp, bitter shock to my system to keep my mind clear for the war I had silently declared.
I walked down to the massive kitchen. The stainless steel appliances and white marble countertops made it look more like a high-end operating room than a home. Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, was already there, wiping down an immaculate surface.
"I need a black coffee, Mrs. Gable," I said, my voice raspy.
She paused, a flicker of pity crossing her usually stoic features. She reached for a delicate porcelain cup instead of a mug. "Mr. Moretti left strict instructions before he departed this morning, ma'am. You are only to have chamomile tea this week. To calm your nerves."
It was a *Don's Command*. In this house, Vincenzo's word dictated the very air we breathed.
I took the warm cup from her hands. The floral scent made my stomach churn. I looked Mrs. Gable dead in the eye, walked over to the marble sink, and tipped the cup over. The pale liquid splashed against the drain, the sound deafening in the dead silence of the kitchen.
Mrs. Gable gasped, her eyes widening in sheer horror at my blatant defiance. I set the empty cup on the counter and walked out without a word. The illusion of my submission was officially dead.
Back in my sitting room in the East Wing, the adrenaline began to mix with a sickening dread. I needed absolute, undeniable proof to kill the last pathetic, hopeful part of my heart. My eyes landed on the heavy, encrypted satellite phone sitting on the mahogany desk—the "Red Line." It was strictly for family emergencies, a direct link to the Don.
My hands shook as I picked up the receiver and pressed the single red button.
It rang twice. Then, a woman answered.
"Hello?" The voice was breathy, familiar, and entirely too comfortable. Giuliana Gallo. "Vince is in the shower. Who is this?"
My throat closed up. Before I could force a sound out, a high-pitched, cheerful voice echoed in the background.
"Daddy, can I have more syrup?"
Penelope. His *Principessa*.
I placed the receiver back on the cradle with trembling precision. The visual shock of the photos was one thing, but hearing them—hearing the domestic bliss of his secret family while I was trapped in this gilded cage—was a fatal blow. I wasn't just a pawn; I was a joke.
A sharp knock on my door shattered the silence.
"Isabella. Downstairs. Now."
It was Silvana Vance, Vincenzo's *Enforcer*. I found her waiting in the grand foyer, her sharp bob perfectly styled, her expensive suit looking like armor. She held out a leather-bound folder and a pen.
"Sign this," Silvana demanded, her tone dripping with disdain. "It's a security protocol. You are confined to the estate grounds until the Don returns."
House arrest. He knew I was unraveling.
"I'm not signing anything," I said, keeping my chin high.
Silvana stepped closer, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. "Don't forget your place. You are a *Collateral Bride*. An asset acquired to pay off your pathetic family's debts. You will never get the respect of a *Mafia Queen*, so stop acting like one." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Sign the paper, Isabella. Or I make one phone call, and the sanitarium pulls the plug on your mother's ventilator."
The mention of Hazle—my mother, my only weakness—ignited a blinding, white-hot rage inside me.
Before I could process the movement, my hand cracked across Silvana's face. The slap echoed through the cavernous foyer like a gunshot.
Silvana stumbled back, her hand flying to her rapidly reddening cheek, her eyes wide with murderous shock.
"Get out of my house," I ordered, my voice trembling but laced with a newfound, dangerous authority.
She glared at me, a promise of violence in her eyes, before turning on her heel and storming out the heavy oak doors.
My chest heaved as I ran back up the stairs to my sitting room. I had just assaulted the Don's proxy. The retaliation would be swift. I rushed to the oil painting of the Sicilian coast, pulling it aside to reveal the hidden wall safe. I needed my typewriter. I needed to start planning my escape immediately.
Just as my fingers touched the cold metal dial of the safe, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. It was an automated text message from my bank.
*ALERT: Your primary account has been frozen by the primary administrator.*
I stared at the glowing red text, the blood draining from my face as the true horror of Vincenzo's wrath settled over me.
