Isabella POV
The Barolo tasted like ash on my tongue. I held Vincenzo's gaze across the blood-red table runner, the knowledge of Joseph's betrayal burning a hole in my chest. But before I could process the terrifying depth of Giuliana's infiltration, the heavy dining room doors opened, signaling the end of the meal and the beginning of the real performance.
Dessert was bypassed entirely. A photographer from *Vanity Fair* was ushered into the drawing room.
Vincenzo stood, his tailored suit shifting flawlessly over his lethal frame. He grabbed my arm, pulling me from my chair with an undeniable force, and dragged me toward the plush Italian silk sofa. He sat down and yanked me onto his lap. His arm wrapped around my waist like an iron band, his fingers digging painfully into my ribs.
He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. The scent of his bergamot cologne was suffocating. "Smile, Isabella," he whispered, his voice a razor blade wrapped in velvet. "Look at me like you mean it."
I thought of the rhythmic *hiss-click* of my mother's ventilator. Swallowing my nausea, I rested my head against his chest and forced a radiant, adoring smile. The camera flash blinded me, freezing the lie into eternity. The exact second the photographer lowered his lens, Vincenzo released me. The abruptness of it nearly sent me stumbling to the floor. His eyes were already dead to me, the task completed.
Once the photographer was escorted out, Joseph and Lydia leaned forward, greed practically sweating from their pores.
Vincenzo snapped his fingers. Mr. Sterling, his *Advisor*, stepped from the shadows and handed him a leather folder. Vincenzo tossed it onto the coffee table with a dismissive flick of his wrist. Joseph tore it open, his hopeful smile dying instantly.
It wasn't a gift. It was a loan agreement from the Moretti family's shylock business. Fifteen percent interest, with the Parisi family's remaining house and car listed as collateral.
"Vince, we're family..." Joseph stammered, his face pale and slick with sweat.
Vincenzo picked up his whiskey glass, the ice clinking softly. "Business is business. Sign it, or get out of my house."
Trapped and terrified, Joseph signed the predatory contract with a shaking hand. As they were dismissed, Lydia shot me a look of pure, unadulterated venom, as if I had orchestrated their ruin. I felt nothing. The last frayed thread tying me to my blood family snapped, leaving me entirely alone.
Five minutes later, Vincenzo retreated to his study, shutting the heavy oak door.
The adrenaline from the dinner was still spiking in my veins. Driven by a desperate need for leverage, I crept down the dimly lit hallway, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug. I pressed my ear against the cold wood of his study door.
He was on the phone. His tone was low, almost tender—a voice he had never once used with me.
"...the port deal bait was taken," Vincenzo murmured. A pause. Then, the words that stopped my heart entirely. "Once the deal is done, my love, I will handle the Isabella situation... permanently. This house, the master suite... it will all be yours."
A death sentence.
The terror threatened to paralyze me, but the *Vendetta* taking root in my soul swallowed it whole. I didn't have time to run. I had to strike now.
I sprinted silently to my small, forgotten study in the East Wing. From a locked drawer, I pulled out a legal draft Harper's lawyer, James Davis, had secretly prepared for me. I grabbed a blank sheet of Moretti Shipping letterhead I had stolen weeks ago. My hands flew across the keys of my hidden typewriter, perfectly replicating the "Irrevocable Transfer of Assets" document. It transferred the deed of Giuliana's luxurious Upper East Side apartment into an anonymous trust controlled by Davis.
I slipped back down the hall like a ghost. Vincenzo's study door was slightly ajar. He was pacing near the window, his back to the desk, laughing softly into the receiver.
Holding my breath, I slid into the room. I slipped my forged document right into the middle of his daily stack of papers, then retreated to the shadows of the hallway, watching through the crack.
Vincenzo finally sat down at his massive mahogany desk, still murmuring to Giuliana. Annoyed by the paperwork keeping him from his *Comare*, he began flipping through the stack, signing mechanically. He reached my document. He didn't read the fine print. He just saw the familiar company letterhead, slashed his heavy Montblanc pen across the signature line, and tossed it into the "completed" tray.
