Chapter 4 4

Isabella POV

The morning sun did nothing to warm the chill that had settled into the marrow of the Moretti estate. I walked down the corridor of the East Wing, my heels clicking rhythmically against the marble, a sound like a ticking clock counting down to destruction.

As I passed the heavy double doors of Nonna Elena's private suite, the scent of stale camphor and suffocating lilies seeped into the hallway. Voices drifted out, raised and sharp. I paused, my hand hovering near the velvet wallpaper.

"You have your heir, Damien, *bene* (good)," Nonna Elena's voice was a dry, cracking whip. "But a Don without money is just a thug with a gun. It is the Rossi fortune that keeps us fed, that pays for my doctors. Before your pride starves us all, go and soothe your wife."

A cold, humorless smile touched my lips. So, the matriarch had finally done the math. She didn't care about my heartbreak; she cared about her silk sheets and imported medicine.

I didn't wait to hear Damien's reply. I didn't need to. I knew his pride would be bleeding, and a wounded animal was predictable. He would come to me with hollow apologies, trying to manipulate me back into submission.

But I was done being the dutiful banker for my own humiliation.

I entered my study, the air crisp and smelling of old paper and lemon polish. Sofia, my loyal maid, was already there, dusting the shelves. She looked up, her eyes wide with worry.

"Sofia," I said, my voice steady. "Bring me a box. A large one."

She hurried to obey. When she placed the crate on my desk, I began to fill it. First, the heavy, leather-bound master ledger of the household expenses. Then, the ring of iron keys that opened the wine cellar, the pantry, and the linen closets. Finally, I picked up the metal briefcase Damien had sent last night-the "blood money" meant to buy my silence. I dropped it into the box with a heavy thud.

"Take this to the West Wing suite," I ordered, my tone slicing through the silence.

Sofia gasped. "To... *Signorina* Diaz?"

"Yes. Tell the Don that from today, this house is under the management of Miss Diaz. That cash should be enough to keep her afloat for a week or two."

A shadow fell across the doorway. I didn't turn, but the sudden drop in temperature told me Damien was standing there. He had heard everything. The air crackled with his silent fury, but I refused to acknowledge him. I simply nodded to Sofia, who curtsied nervously and hurried past the looming figure of her Don.

I waited a beat, then followed at a distance, stopping in the shadows of the upper landing that overlooked the entrance to the West Wing.

Sofia stood before Cora Diaz, who looked like a frightened deer in a silk robe that was far too expensive for her. The mistress stared at the box as if it contained a bomb.

"I... I cannot take this," Cora stammered, her hands trembling. "Isabella should-"

"Take it!" Damien's roar shattered the hesitation. He stormed into the frame, his face a mask of thunderous rage. He wasn't looking at Cora; he was looking at the ghost of my authority, trying to crush it.

He pointed a finger at the box, invoking the absolute power of his position. "A *Don's Command*, Cora. You are the mother of my son. This is your duty now. If you have questions, ask Nonna. But you will run this house."

Cora flinched, tears welling in her eyes, but she nodded, terrified. "Yes, Damien."

I turned away, a bitter satisfaction settling in my chest. He wanted to give her my place? Fine. He could give her the burdens that came with it, too.

*

Dinner was a funeral for a marriage that had already been cremated.

The formal dining room was vast and oppressive, the crystal chandelier casting a cold, unforgiving light on the mahogany table. I sat at the far end, opposite Damien. Nonna Elena sat between us, with Cora and the boy, Leo, on her right.

The silence was thick, broken only by the scrape of silver against porcelain. Nonna Elena ignored me entirely, her attention fixated on the child.

"Eat, *piccolo* (little one)," she cooed, spooning more minestrone into Leo's bowl. "You must grow strong, like your father."

Leo, bored and restless, squirmed in his high chair. He was a chaotic element in this rigid room, a visual reminder of my failure to provide an heir.

"I don't want it!" Leo whined, waving his spoon like a weapon.

"Leo, please," Cora whispered, glancing fearfully at Damien.

I stared at my plate, my appetite nonexistent. I was a ghost in my own home, invisible until the check needed to be signed.

"Just one more bite," Nonna insisted, pushing the bowl closer to the boy.

Leo's small hand lashed out in a tantrum. He struck the edge of the bowl with surprising force.

It happened in slow motion. The heavy porcelain bowl tipped. A wave of steaming, thick red soup cascaded off the table and splashed directly onto my lap and my left hand, which was resting on the armrest.

"Ah!" The cry was torn from my throat as the scalding liquid soaked instantly into the silk of my sleeve, searing my skin.

The pain was immediate and blinding, a white-hot shock that made me gasp for air. I shoved my chair back, clutching my burning wrist, the smell of tomatoes and basil suddenly nauseating.

The room froze. For a heartbeat, no one moved. The only sound was the drip of soup onto the expensive Persian rug and the sudden, terrified wail of the boy who had caused it.

I looked up through the haze of pain, waiting to see who would move first, and for whom. The answer, I knew, would determine exactly how much of this world I was going to burn down.