Chapter 2 2

Isabella POV

The quiet, carpeted hallway of the Franco Estate felt less like a home and more like a beautifully curated museum of violence. Oil portraits of Damien's ancestors lined the walls, their cold, painted eyes seeming to judge every step I took. I didn't let my gaze drop. I kept my chin high as I approached the heavy oak doors of the formal parlor.

I didn't reach for the brass handle immediately. Instead, I paused, letting the suffocating silence of the corridor wrap around me.

Through the slight crack in the heavy doors, the muffled voices of my brothers bled into the hallway. They were arguing.

"Clara needs a match that solidifies our standing," Sean, my eldest brother, said. His voice was stiff, always calculating the political arithmetic of our lives. "A state senator's son, perhaps. Someone with a clean name but deep pockets."

"She needs to be far away from Chicago's filth," Liam countered, his tone laced with his usual self-righteousness. "A grand tour in Europe. We aren't selling her to the highest bidder, Sean."

I rolled my eyes. It was the same tired debate. They guarded Clara like a fragile porcelain doll, while I had always been the sacrificial lamb. I was about to push the door open and interrupt their hypocrisy when my brother, Connor, spoke.

"I don't care if he's a Rockefeller or a nobody," Connor said, his voice dropping into a harsh, bitter sneer that froze my hand inches from the door. "If he doesn't have a shred of decency, he's not good enough for her. We won't make that mistake again."

The words hit me like a physical blow.

*We won't make that mistake again.*

My breath hitched. In my past life, Connor had been the loudest advocate for Harrison Davies. He had practically pushed me down the aisle toward that ambitious monster, blinded by the promise of Washington power. Why the sudden shift? What "mistake" was he referring to? My forced marriage to Damien, or did he somehow know about the rot hiding behind Harrison's golden-boy facade?

I took a slow, silent breath, burying the shock beneath a mask of absolute indifference. I pushed the heavy oak doors open.

The hinges groaned, and the conversation inside died instantly.

The formal parlor was designed to display wealth and demand submission. Dark mahogany paneling absorbed the dim light filtering through the heavy velvet curtains. The air was thick with the scent of stale cigars, old books, and sharp lemon polish. It felt like a lavish mausoleum.

Sean, Liam, and Connor stood near the center of the room. They looked entirely out of place in the heart of the *Cosa Nostra*(Our Thing), shifting uncomfortably on the thick Persian rugs.

When their eyes landed on me, there was no pity. Only raw, unfiltered disgust. They blamed me for our mother's death in childbirth, a sin I could never wash away. They had come here on Catherine's orders to inspect the damage, expecting to find me weeping and broken in the devil's lair.

I didn't give them the satisfaction. I stood tall in my impeccably tailored dark silk dress, looking every bit the *Signora*(Lady) of this estate.

Connor stared at me for a long second. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. Without a single word of greeting, he picked up his crystal glass of whiskey from a side table, turned his back to me, and walked to the far end of the room. It was a deliberate, theatrical display of absolute alienation.

Sean and Liam remained silent, their hostility a palpable wall between us.

Once, their silent cruelty would have shattered me. I would have desperately tried to bridge the gap, begging for a scrap of familial love. But as I looked at them now, I felt absolutely nothing. The blood tying us together had dried up and turned to dust.

They were not my family. They were the first stepping stones on my path to ruin Catherine.

I walked past them, the silk of my dress whispering against the rug, and took a seat on an empty velvet armchair near the unlit fireplace. I crossed my legs, resting my hands in my lap, and let the heavy gold of Damien's wedding band catch the dim light.

I looked at the three men standing in my parlor, waiting for them to speak.