Chapter 6 6

Damon POV

The shadows of the colonnade near The Villa's kitchens provided the perfect vantage point. I stood perfectly still, the scent of roasting garlic and blooming ivy masking the faint smoke of my Cuban cigar. Beside me, Aldo watched the discreet exchange happening near the servant's entrance.

Isabella's maid, Gina, was slipping a thick envelope of cash to Leo, one of Grayson's valets.

"She's buying information, Boss," Aldo murmured, his eyes narrowed. "Specifically, Grayson's personal preferences. His favorite things."

A cold, violent rage coiled in my chest. After the dinner, after the way I had looked at her in the garden, she was still trying to win the affection of that worthless boy? My jaw tightened. She belonged to me, even if she didn't know it yet.

"*Che stupida*" (How stupid), I whispered, a dark, mocking smirk touching my lips. If she wanted to play the devoted bride, I would give her the tools to destroy him.

"Intercept the informant," I ordered Aldo, my voice devoid of mercy. "Feed the maid a fabricated list. Make sure it includes a deep, nostalgic love for traditional Sicilian marzipan."

Aldo blinked, knowing full well that even a trace of almond would send my nephew into a fatal anaphylactic shock. "Yes, Don Falcone."

*

Isabella POV

My suite at The Villa felt like a gilded cage, but today, it was my war room.

Gina slipped through the door, her eyes bright with triumph. "I got it, Miss. It cost a fortune, but the informant swore it's accurate."

She handed me a neatly typed sheet of paper. I scanned the list of Grayson's supposed "secret passions." Wagner operas? Modernist poetry? I highly doubted a brute like Grayson could comprehend T.S. Eliot. But the last item caught my eye: a nostalgic obsession with traditional Sicilian marzipan.

A slow smile spread across my face. My plan to become the suffocating, overly-affectionate fiancée required the perfect prop. I would drown him in sticky sweetness until he felt so repulsed that he publicly broke the engagement himself.

"Perfect," I murmured, folding the paper. "I'll bake them myself."

The next afternoon, the sun beat down on the stone steps of Butler Library at Columbia University. I smoothed the skirt of my conservative green dress, holding the ribbon-tied box of marzipan like a concealed weapon.

Grayson was holding court with his sycophantic friends, laughing loudly. I forced my features into a mask of pure, submissive adoration and approached him.

"Grayson," I said softly, pitching my voice to sound fragile and innocent. "I wanted to apologize for the tension lately. I made these just for you."

His friends snickered. Grayson's chest puffed out, his fragile ego instantly soothed by my public display of subservience. He snatched the box, popping a piece of the almond confection into his mouth with a smug grin. "Learn your place, Isabella, and we'll get along fine."

I lowered my eyes, hiding my revulsion, and quickly excused myself.

An hour later, I was sitting on a bench across the quad when Alice O'Donnell rushed up to me, breathless.

"Isabella! Did you hear?" Alice gasped, her eyes wide with morbid excitement. "Grayson collapsed! He started turning purple and couldn't breathe. They had to rush him to the Falcone private doctor. They say it was severe anaphylactic shock!"

My heart skipped a beat. *Anaphylactic shock?*

I had only meant to give him a stomachache, to annoy him with a cloying gesture. I had no idea he was deathly allergic to almonds. A dark, thrilling rush of vindication swept through my veins.

"Is that so?" I whispered, carefully masking my smile.

I had struck my first blow. As I gathered my books, my mind drifted to the upcoming shooting club session at Trinity College. I felt a newfound surge of confidence, completely unaware that the true architect of Grayson's near-death experience was already waiting to teach me a lesson in submission.