Chapter 6 6

Isabella POV

The cold metal of the Centurion card was my anchor as dawn broke over the Moretti Estate. I hadn't slept. I left the freezing guest room, navigating the grand, black marble staircase. The painted eyes of past Moretti Dons watched me from the walls, their heavy gazes judging the new blood in their halls. But it was the hushed voices below that made me freeze in the shadows.

"...a car bomb years ago," a maid whispered near the foyer. "They say the Don is... incapable. Broken."

I held my breath. *Incapable.* Nonna Elena Moretti's demands for an heir were a guillotine hanging over my neck, a ticking clock I couldn't afford while planning my own vendetta against my blood family. But a broken Don? That wasn't a tragedy. It was a shield.

The formal dining room was cavernous, echoing with the silence of a tomb. Dante sat at the head of the thirty-seat polished mahogany table, a fortress behind his *Wall Street Journal* and black coffee. I took a seat far down the side, the physical distance a stark reminder of our arrangement. A young maid-Anya-trembled as she approached the sideboard to pour my orange juice.

I didn't wait for pleasantries. "The staff thinks you're broken, Dante."

Anya gasped, the crystal pitcher clattering violently against my glass. Orange liquid spilled onto the pristine white tablecloth like a warning.

Dante didn't flinch. He slowly lowered the financial paper. His slate-gray eyes locked onto mine, devoid of outrage, but flickering with a dark, predatory assessment.

"A car bomb, they say," I continued, keeping my voice deadpan, ignoring the terrified maid. "Incapable of performing. Incapable of producing an heir."

"And what does my wife think?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the long table.

"I think it's a strategic advantage," I replied, meeting his stare. "Nonna Elena expects a pregnancy by Christmas. If the elders believe this rumor, I become a safe, ornamental Queen. An honorary title. It keeps the vultures at bay, and buys us both time to handle our respective enemies."

Dante stared at me for a long, suffocating moment. Then, a dark amusement curled the corner of his mouth. "You are smarter than all my Capos combined, Isabella."

He stood up. The illusion of safety vanished as he closed the massive distance between us with the silent, lethal grace of a lion. He didn't stop until he was standing directly behind my chair, completely shattering the boundaries I thought we had established.

The scent of bergamot and gunpowder enveloped me. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

"Tonight, you wear red," he murmured, the sheer authority in his tone sending a shiver down my spine. "It's not a request, it's a command."

Before I could process the shift in power, his large hand clamped around my wrist. His thumb pressed brutally against my pulse point. The blistering heat radiating from his skin, the calluses on his fingers, and the sheer, unyielding strength in his grip-it shattered the lie instantly.

My heart hammered frantically against my ribs. There was nothing broken about this man. He was raw, terrifying power, and he was letting me feel exactly what I was dealing with.

"The Queen of the Moretti family does not accept pity," he whispered against my skin, his grip tightening just enough to make me gasp. "She inspires fear."

He released me abruptly and walked out of the dining room, leaving the air completely sucked from the space.

I sat frozen, my wrist still burning from his touch. The rumor was a lie, which meant my "safe" shield was an illusion. I was playing a dangerous game with a man who held all the lethal cards.

I looked up at the trembling maid. "Anya," I said, my voice shaking for only a fraction of a second before the ice returned. "Call my assistant, Caterina. Tell her I need the reddest dress in New York."

If I was going to wear his colors and wield his fear, I needed to prove I wasn't just a pawn on his board. I needed to strike first, and Marco's Parisian tab was the perfect place to draw blood.