Isabella POV
The dust in the cramped East Wing room settled over my few remaining bags, suffocating and thick. I stood in the center of the sweltering space, my stomach giving a hollow, painful ache. I hadn't eaten a single thing since yesterday's disastrous dinner. Driven by the basic, humiliating need to survive, I left my new prison and navigated the labyrinth of servant corridors toward the main house.
I walked into the cavernous kitchen. The air was heavy with the rich, mouth-watering scent of garlic, roasted tomatoes, and butter. A private chef was meticulously plating a decadent lobster linguine.
I stepped forward, but Mrs. Higgins, the stern new housekeeper, immediately blocked my path. Her face was a mask of cold efficiency. She pointed to a small silver tray resting on the far end of the marble counter. On it sat a porcelain bowl of watery, translucent broth and two slices of stale, dry bread.
"Mr. Moretti left strict instructions," Mrs. Higgins said, her voice devoid of any pity. "This is your diet for the foreseeable future. To 'purify' your emotional state."
I stared at the bowl. It was the meal of a penitent, a prisoner. A direct extension of the *Don's Command*. Vincenzo wasn't just starving me; he was using the most fundamental human need to break my spirit, reminding me of my exact place in his empire.
Before I could process the sheer indignity of it, a soft, mocking laugh echoed from the doorway.
Giuliana strolled in. My breath caught in my throat. She was wearing the antique ivory silk robe that had belonged to Victoria Moretti—the very robe Vincenzo had draped over my shoulders on our wedding night. The ultimate symbol of the *Mafia Queen*.
"Take that off," I demanded, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.
Giuliana smirked, trailing her manicured fingers over the delicate silk lapel. "Vince said everything in the master suite is mine now." She stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with a venomous triumph. "What? Are you going to slap me, just like you did to poor Silvana Vance?"
My blood ran cold.
She tilted her head, mimicking Vincenzo's dark, measured drawl. "Vince warned me about your little bouts of female hysteria. He said you're losing your grip on reality."
The Plaza agreement. He had shared my deepest, most agonizing humiliation as pillow talk to amuse his mistress.
"I am the mother of his child," Giuliana sneered, stepping into my personal space. "I am the future of this house. And you? You are just a debt to be settled."
"Mommy, I'm hungry!"
A small blur of bright blonde curls darted into the kitchen. Penelope wasn't looking where she was going and crashed directly into my legs. Instinctively, I reached down to steady her so she wouldn't fall on the hard marble floor.
The moment my bare hands gripped her small shoulders, a violent jolt shot through my chest. It wasn't just surprise; it was a deep, physiological resonance. A strange, terrifying pull in my blood that made my heart palpitate wildly against my ribs. It felt like a missing puzzle piece snapping violently into place.
Penelope looked up at me, her hazel eyes—Vincenzo's exact eyes—wide and curious.
Giuliana shrieked. She lunged forward, snatching Penelope away with a brutal force, as if my skin were made of acid.
"Stay away from her, *tesoro*(treasure)!" Giuliana hissed, pulling the child behind her legs, her face pale with a sudden, irrational panic. "She brings the *malocchio*(evil eye)."
Without another word, Giuliana grabbed the plates of luxurious lobster pasta and swept out of the kitchen, dragging Penelope with her.
I was left alone in the suffocating silence. I looked down at my trembling hands, the phantom sensation of Penelope's skin still burning against my palms. Then, I looked at the tray of broth.
I picked up the porcelain bowl and, with a terrifying calmness, dumped the pale liquid straight into the garbage bin.
I walked back to my sweltering cell in the East Wing. Through the thin walls, I could hear the faint, muffled sounds of laughter from the main dining room. The perfect family enjoying their feast. The sound didn't break me; it crystallized the ice in my veins.
I reached under my mattress and pulled out my hidden burner phone. I opened a new message, typing in the number I had memorized from Joseph's screen under the dining table.
*Joseph, it's your sister. We need to talk. About Giuliana. And the port deal.*
I hit send, watching the screen go dark. The time for surviving was over.
