Chapter 2 Poisoned Pleasantries

Her debut as Mrs. Alonso unfolded beneath golden chandeliers and the weight of unspoken threats-a dinner cloaked in civility but laced with danger.

Isabella stood before the mirror in her private dressing room, arms folded as her maid secured the final zipper of a crimson gown. The dress hugged her frame, with a daring slit and an off-the-shoulder cut that promised allure and hinted at defiance. It wasn't what she'd normally wear-but tonight, armor came in silk, not steel.

"It's... stunning," her maid breathed. "You look like royalty."

Isabella's smile was tight. "Even queens fall, sweetheart."

Downstairs, the dining hall shimmered with candlelight and elegance. The long table stretched like a battlefield, Alonso loyalists seated on one end, De Luca delegates on the other. A legacy of betrayal and bloodlines bridged by porcelain plates and polished silver.

Matteo stood near the head of the table, effortlessly commanding the room. When Isabella descended the stairs, the chatter halted.

All eyes found her.

She didn't falter.

Every step was deliberate-graceful, bold, unapologetically De Luca.

Matteo's gaze swept over her, intense and unreadable. He met her at the bottom of the stairs and extended his arm with casual dominance.

"You're late," he murmured.

"I was dressing for the role."

"And what role is that?"

"The distraction. Or maybe the lure."

A flicker of a smirk played on his lips. "Let's see who bites."

Together, they entered the lion's den-side by side, a symbol of uneasy alliance and curated elegance. As they settled at the center of the table, Isabella sensed the tension ripple through the room. Smiles were masks. Every glance was edged.

Across from her sat Rocco Donato-stone-faced and broad like a mountain that could kill. Beside him, Nico Bianco-lean, quiet, eyes sharp like blades. At the opposite end, Enzo De Luca. Her cousin. Hands clenched beneath the table.

Dinner began with polite conversation: updates on turf, quiet murmurs about supply lines, carefully coded threats delivered with charming smiles.

Then came the wine.

A servant uncorked a green bottle and poured with ritualistic precision.

Matteo lifted his glass. "To peace between our houses. May blood never stain our bond again."

Isabella's smile was razor-thin. "And if it does, let it not be mine."

Laughter followed-uneasy, short-lived. The room drank.

Courses came in waves-decadent, artistic, wasted on Isabella's untouched plate. She wasn't eating.

She was observing.

Each chuckle from Matteo was practiced. Every glance between Nico and Rocco pulsed with hidden meaning.

She leaned toward Matteo as dessert was served.

"What's really going on here?" she asked under her breath.

He didn't glance up. "You are. Play your part. Dazzle."

"That's not an answer."

"It's all you'll get."

This wasn't dinner-it was theater. She was the headline act.

Halfway through the tiramisu, Nico stood, raising his glass. "To Lady Isabella Alonso-who tamed the tempest."

Laughter rang out, more confident now, some tinged with mockery.

Isabella rose slowly, glass in hand. "Tamed it?" she echoed. "No. I chose to waltz with it."

That landed. Even Rocco cracked a grin.

Matteo turned to her, surprise flickering across his composed features.

Let him wonder if she was bluffing-or rewriting the rules.

When the guests had gone and the estate quieted once more, Isabella stepped onto the balcony attached to her suite. The wind tugged at her hair, and the Chicago skyline sparkled in the distance, indifferent to her gilded captivity.

Footsteps echoed behind her.

She didn't need to look to know.

Matteo joined her in silence, standing close but not touching. His nearness made the night feel electric.

"You handled yourself well," he said at last.

"I wasn't aiming to impress. Just to endure."

He nodded. "Still. You understood the game."

She turned to him, brows drawn. "You really think this is a game?"

"Everything is," he said. "Business. Marriage. Survival."

"Then we're losing."

"No," he replied. "We're adapting."

Silence stretched between them-taut, charged.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek.

It was soft. Too soft.

She seized his wrist, her eyes cold.

"Don't."

He didn't flinch. "Why?"

"Because those hands have spilled blood."

Still, he didn't pull away. "Then believe this-every move I make now affects us both. You and I... we're tethered."

"We're not united."

"Not yet," he conceded, stepping back. "But your strength? I didn't expect it. That earns respect."

"And does respect come with freedom?"

His expression sobered. "If you're wise, Isabella, you'll learn that respect is the only kind of freedom anyone gets in this life."

With that, he left her standing under the stars, the wind biting at her skin.

She hated that she was drawn to him.

Hated that she couldn't tell where the mask ended and the man began.

But most of all...

She hated that part of her wanted to uncover Matteo Alonso's secrets.

Even if it destroyed her in the process.