Chapter 3 3

Isabella POV

A heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder, effortlessly flipping me onto my back. The velvet comforter fell away, exposing me to the chill of the room. Damien's obsidian eyes were practically vibrating with suppressed rage.

"Do not turn your back on me when I am speaking to you," he warned, his voice a lethal whisper.

I blinked lazily up at him, entirely unfazed by the Don's wrath. "And do not forget the first condition of our prenuptial agreement, Don Russo."

He frowned, clearly having dismissed the legalities the moment he signed them. I didn't bother explaining. Instead, I called out toward the slightly ajar dressing room door. "Clara."

My maid peeked her head out, her face pale. "Yes, Miss?"

"Remind my husband of the first condition."

Clara swallowed hard, avoiding Damien's terrifying gaze. "My lady has the right to wake naturally, without being disturbed by anyone."

Damien's jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter. His fists curled at his sides, fighting a violent urge to reassert his dominance. But a Don's word was his bond. To break the contract on the very first day was to admit his word meant nothing. He released my shoulder, his chest heaving once before he turned on his heel.

"Tell my mother I am feeling unwell," he barked at the guard stationed outside the bedroom door. "We will meet her later."

He was lying to the Matriarch to save face for a contract. I smiled into my pillow, pulling the comforter back over my head.

Sunlight was streaming brightly through the heavy drapes when I finally stretched awake near noon. Damien was sitting in the velvet armchair opposite the bed, a book open in his lap, though his murderous glare proved he hadn't read a single word.

"You have severely delayed-" he began, his baritone dripping with reprimand.

I cut him off with a languid stretch, letting the silk sheets slip down to expose the dark, bruising marks he had left across my collarbone. "If you hadn't been so... tireless last night, Don Russo, perhaps I would have been able to wake earlier."

His breath hitched. The reprimand died instantly in his throat.

Before he could recover his icy composure, I slipped out of bed and sat at the vanity. I lined up three bullets of red lipstick on the silver tray and pushed them toward his reflection in the mirror. "Pick one. Which color do you think will please your mother more?"

He stared at the lipsticks, completely derailed by the sudden, intimate command. When he remained frozen, I picked the deepest, blood-red shade and applied it meticulously. I stood, walking over to his chair, and leaned down until my lips were a breath away from his. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the obsidian irises entirely.

"Do you smell the fragrance?" I whispered.

He went rigid, giving a stiff, barely perceptible shake of his head.

I let out a soft laugh, pulling back. "How boring."

By the time we were announced at Eleonora's private solarium, it was well past lunch. The glass room was suffocatingly warm, thick with the scent of blooming white orchids and gardenias.

Eleonora Russo sat on a white rattan chair, speaking in hushed tones with her loyal housekeeper, Maria. She didn't look up immediately. She took her time, taking a slow sip from her bone china teacup before finally raising her eyes. They were the same bottomless black as Damien's, but sharper, calculating.

"Ah, you finally arrived," Eleonora said, her tone perfectly polite but laced with unmistakable venom. "I thought I would have to wait until dinner to see my new daughter."

Damien stood rigid beside me, offering no excuse for his supposed illness.

Eleonora set her cup down with a sharp clink and turned to her housekeeper. "Maria, go fetch Sophia and Gloria. And see if Angelina has finished her equestrian lesson. I think it is time Isabella met the rest of her family."