The music from the ballroom was a distant pulse, all violins and champagne laughter muffled by the heavy oak door. Isabella pressed her palm flat against the wood for a heartbeat, feeling the faint vibration of two hundred people who had no idea she was missing. Her father's voice, somewhere in that crowd, booming about Alessandro's future. Serena's silvery laugh, already rehearsing her role as the perfect Moretti bride.

Bella let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and turned.

He was there.

Dante Castellano lounged on the leather sofa like he owned the room—like he owned the whole estate, the whole city, the whole goddamn night. His jacket hung open, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a glass of whiskey balanced on his knee. The amber liquid caught the chandelier's light, throwing warm glints across his knuckles.

His eyes were cold steel, and they pinned her in place.

"Lock it," he said.

The words were quiet. Not a request. Bella's hand moved before her mind caught up, finding the brass bolt, sliding it home with a heavy click that sealed them off from everything she'd ever known. The music went distant, then dim, then almost imaginary.

She stood with her back to the door, heart slamming against her ribs, and watched him watch her.

"You took your time."

"I had to wait for the toast." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "Serena made a speech. She cried."

"Did she." Not a question. He took a slow sip of whiskey, his throat working, and Bella felt the pull of it low in her belly. "Come here, Isabella."

Her name in his mouth did something to her. Always had. The way he said it—not the shortened version everyone used, not the clipped "Bella" her father barked across dinner tables—but the full, deliberate roll of it, like he was tasting every syllable.

She crossed the room. The black silk of her dress whispered against her thighs, and she felt the weight of his gaze tracking every step. Past the massive mahogany desk where her father had signed death warrants disguised as contracts. Past the bookshelves stuffed with first editions no one had ever read. The study smelled of old leather and cigar smoke and something underneath—something clean and sharp and male.

Him.

He'd been here before. Of course he had. Negotiations, truces, the careful dance of men who'd kill each other over a misplaced word. But never with her. Never like this.

She stopped in front of him, close enough to see the scar on his jaw, a thin white line that caught the light. She'd asked him about it once, months ago, in the brief stolen minutes between a gala's end and her driver's arrival. He'd said only, "Prague," and she'd known not to ask again.

He set the whiskey glass down on the side table with a soft clink. Then he patted his lap.

Just that. A single gesture, his hand flat against his thigh, and Bella felt her knees go weak.

"You wanted this," he said. "You came here. You locked the door." His voice was low, almost gentle, but there was iron beneath it. "So come here, and take your place."

Her mouth went dry. She'd imagined this—God, she'd imagined it so many times. In her bed at night, her hand between her thighs, pretending it was his. In the back of the car after she'd caught his eye across a crowded room. In the shower, water streaming down her back while she pressed her forehead against the cold tile and bit her lip to keep from moaning his name.

But imagining and doing were different animals. Imagining didn't have his actual hands, his actual eyes, the actual weight of the choice she was making.

"I—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know what you expect from me."

"Yes, you do."

Her heart stuttered. She bit her lip, and she knew he saw it, knew he read the lie forming in her throat before she could speak it.

"I'm supposed to be out there." She gestured vaguely toward the door. "Playing the dutiful daughter. Smiling at my brother's new fiancée."

"But you're here."

"Because you asked me to be."

"Because you wanted to be." He leaned back, one arm draping across the sofa's back, watching her with that patient, predatory stillness. "There's a difference, Isabella. And I need to know you understand it before we go any further."

The air in the room felt thick, heavy with something she couldn't name. She could hear her own heartbeat, feel the pulse in her throat, in her wrists, between her thighs.

"What do you want from me?" Her voice cracked on the last word, and she hated it, hated how small she sounded, how exposed.

"Everything." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Your obedience. Your trust. Your body, whenever I want it. Your mind, whenever I ask for it." His eyes didn't leave hers. "And in return, you get to stop pretending."

Something in her chest cracked open.

"Pretending?"

"That you're not burning." He stood, and the movement was fluid, unhurried, the way a big cat moves—all coiled power and lazy grace. He was taller than her, broader, and when he stepped into her space, she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "That you don't lie awake at night thinking about what it would feel like to hand me every piece of yourself and trust me not to break them."

"That's—" She couldn't finish the sentence. He was too close, close enough that she could smell him—expensive cologne and whiskey and something warmer underneath. "That's not—"

His hand came up, and she flinched, but he only caught her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, and the touch was featherlight, almost reverent.

"You bite your lip when you're about to lie," he said. "I've watched you do it a hundred times across crowded rooms. You think I haven't noticed? You think I haven't catalogued every tell you have?"

Her breath caught.

"You don't have to lie to me, Isabella. Not about this. Not ever about this." He let go of her chin, and his hand dropped to her hip, fingers curling into the silk of her dress. "Tell me what you want. Say the words. And I'll give it to you."

She could feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric, searing into her skin. Her body was screaming at her to close the distance, to press herself against him, to finally, finally know what it felt like to be held by him.

"I want—" She stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "I want you to take control." The words came out in a rush, and then, quieter, almost inaudible: "I'm so tired of being in control."

Something shifted in his eyes. The steel warmed, just for a moment, and she caught a glimpse of something ravenous beneath the surface.

"Good girl."

The praise hit her like a physical blow, heat flooding through her chest, down her spine, settling hot and heavy between her thighs. Her knees actually buckled, and his hand tightened on her hip, steadying her.

"I've got you," he said, and the words felt like a vow. "Now sit."

He dropped back onto the sofa, and this time, she didn't hesitate. She climbed onto his lap, hitching her dress up as she straddled him, the silk pooling around her thighs. The position was intimate and awkward all at once—her knees bracketing his hips, the hard muscle of his thighs beneath her, the heat of him pressing against the thin lace of her panties.

His hands found her hips, thumbs tracing slow circles against her skin through the fabric.

"Look at you." His voice was rough, almost wondering. "Dressed like a princess, riding me like you were made for it."

She bit her lip, and he caught it, his thumb brushing across her mouth again.

"I told you about that."

"I'm not lying."

"No," he agreed. "You're not. You're nervous." His hand slid up her spine, and she shivered. "That's different. That's allowed."

"I'm not nervous."

"Liar." But he said it gently, almost fondly. "You're trembling."

She was. She hadn't noticed until he said it, but now she could feel it—the fine tremor running through her muscles, the way her breath kept catching in her throat.

"I've wanted this for so long," she admitted, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "I've wanted you for so long. I used to think I was going crazy. Watching you across rooms, feeling your eyes on me, wondering if you knew—if you could tell what you did to me."

"I knew." His hands tightened on her hips. "I've known since the night I caught you staring at me across the ballroom at the Conti wedding. You were wearing red. You looked like you wanted to devour me."

"I did."

"And now?"

She held his gaze, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. "Now I want you to devour me instead."

Something dark and hungry flickered across his face. His hands moved, sliding down her thighs, pushing her dress higher, baring more of her skin to the cool air.

"Is that what you want?" His voice dropped, rough as gravel. "You want me to take you apart, piece by piece, until you forget your own name?"

"Yes."

"You want to be my good girl? My obedient little thing?"

"Yes."

"Then take what you came for." His hands gripped her hips, and he lifted her, just slightly, just enough to make her gasp. "I'm right here, Isabella. Take it."

Her hands found his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt, and she rolled her hips against him. The friction was electric even through layers of fabric, and she heard herself whimper, a small, desperate sound that she couldn't have stopped if she'd tried.

"That's it," he murmured. "Feel how hard I am for you? Feel what you do to me?"

She could. His cock was thick and hot against her, straining against his trousers, and the knowledge of it—that she did this to him, that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him—made her grind down harder, chasing the pressure.

"Please," she breathed. "Please, Dante."

"Please what?"

"I need—" She couldn't finish. The words wouldn't come. She just rolled her hips again, desperate and wanting, and his hands tightened on her, stilling her.

"Say it."

"I need you inside me." The words came out raw, broken, almost a sob. "Please. I need to feel you."

His eyes darkened. "Undo your dress."

Her fingers fumbled with the clasp at the back of her neck, and the black silk slithered down her body, pooling around her waist. She wasn't wearing a bra—she'd chosen the dress specifically because she wouldn't need one—and his gaze dropped to her breasts, bare and flushed in the low light.

"Christ," he breathed. "You're beautiful."

His hands came up, thumbs brushing across her nipples, and she arched into his touch, a moan escaping her lips. He rolled the sensitive peaks between his fingers, and she felt the wet heat between her thighs intensify, soaking through her panties.

"I want to taste you," he said, and the words sent a shiver down her spine. "But not yet. First, I want to watch you take me."

He shifted beneath her, one hand moving to unzip his trousers, and she watched, transfixed, as he freed his cock. It was thick and long, the head flushed dark, and she felt her mouth water at the sight of it.

"Touch me," he ordered.

Her hand moved, wrapping around the base of his shaft, and he hissed through his teeth. The skin was hot and silky over the iron hardness beneath, and she stroked him slowly, learning the shape of him, the weight of him in her palm.

"That's it," he groaned. "Just like that."

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his, breathing him in. "I want to taste you," she whispered, echoing his words back at him. "I want to feel you in my mouth."

His hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to expose her throat. "Not yet," he said, his voice rough. "I want to be inside you when I come. I want to feel you clench around me."

Her hand tightened on his cock, and he groaned, his hips bucking against her grip.

"You're going to be the death of me," he muttered. "Now take off your panties."

She shifted back, hooking her fingers into the lace and sliding them down her thighs. The air hit her wet cunt, and she felt herself clench around nothing, desperate for him.

"Look at you." His voice was reverent. "Soaked. Ready for me." He guided her forward, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance. "Do you want this?"

"Yes." The word came out as a gasp. "Please, Dante. I need—"

"I know what you need." He held her there, the pressure maddening. "But I need to hear you say it."

"I need your cock inside me." She was begging now, past shame, past pride. "Please. I need to feel you fill me."

"Good girl."

And then he pulled her down, and she sank onto him in one long, impossibly slow slide.

The stretch was exquisite, a burning fullness that made her see stars. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, and he groaned, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

"Fuck." His voice was wrecked. "You feel—Christ, Isabella. You feel like heaven."

She couldn't speak. She could only sit there, impaled on him, feeling every inch of him inside her, the way he filled her completely, the way her body clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper.

"Move," he ordered. "Ride me."

She lifted her hips, then sank back down, and the friction sent a bolt of pleasure through her. She did it again, and again, finding a rhythm, her dress pooling around her waist as she moved on him.

"That's it," he groaned, his head falling back against the sofa. "Just like that. Take what you need."

She rode him slow and deep, savoring the drag of his cock against her inner walls, the way he stretched her, filled her. The chandelier's light flickered overhead, casting dancing shadows across the room, but she couldn't see anything beyond his face, his eyes, the way he watched her with naked hunger.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, his voice rough. "Taking me apart with your body."

She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest, and she captured his mouth in a kiss that was all heat and teeth. He growled against her lips, his hands sliding down to grip her ass, guiding her movements, setting a faster pace.

"Fuck," she gasped, breaking the kiss. "Dante—"

"I know." His voice was strained. "I can feel you clenching around me. You're close, aren't you?"

She nodded, unable to speak, her hips moving faster, chasing the pleasure building low in her belly.

"Look at me." His hand caught her chin, forcing her gaze to his. "I want to watch you come. I want to see your face when you fall apart."

"Dante—"

"Say my name." His voice was a command. "Say it when you come."

She was close, so close, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside her. She rode him harder, faster, her breath coming in desperate gasps, and she could feel herself teetering on the edge.

"Dante," she gasped. "Dante, I'm—"

"Come for me," he ordered. "Now."

And she did. Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave, her cunt clenching around his cock in rhythmic pulses, and she cried out his name, her body shuddering, her vision going white at the edges.

"That's it," he groaned, his hips bucking beneath her. "Fuck, yes. Squeeze me just like that."

She was still coming down when he came, his hands gripping her hips as he spilled inside her, his own groan torn from his throat. She felt the heat of his release filling her, felt the way his cock pulsed inside her, and she rode him through it, milking every last drop.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. They just sat there, tangled together, breathing hard, her forehead pressed against his, his hands still gripping her hips.

Then he exhaled, long and slow, and his hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek.

"You're mine now," he said, his voice low and rough. "Do you understand that, Isabella? From this moment on, you belong to me."

She should have felt afraid. She should have felt trapped.

Instead, she felt something she'd never felt before in her life.

Safe.

"Yes," she whispered. "I understand."

And somewhere beyond the heavy oak door, the music swelled, and Serena's silver laugh rang out, and her father raised a toast to his son's future. But Isabella Moretti was already gone—lost, willingly, in the steel-gray eyes of the man who held her.

She felt him shift beneath her, the hard muscle of his thighs flexing as he moved. His hands found her waist, and before she could ask what he was doing, he was lifting her—not gently, not hesitantly, but with the easy strength of a man who'd carried far heavier weights than her.

"What are you—"

"Shh." The sound was soft, almost tender, and it silenced her completely. He set her down on the leather sofa, her back pressing into the cool, worn hide, and she felt the heat of him disappear for a heartbeat before his hands found her knees.

He pushed them apart.

Not rough. Not asking. Just a statement of intent, his palms sliding up the inside of her thighs, spreading her wide beneath his gaze. Her dress was still pooled around her waist, her cunt bare and slick and utterly exposed to the chandelier's light, and she felt the air on her skin, felt herself clench around nothing, felt the wetness trickling down her inner thigh.

"Look at you." His voice was rough, almost reverent. "Still dripping with me."

Her face flushed. She could feel his come leaking out of her, sliding down her slit, smearing against the leather beneath her. She should have been embarrassed. She should have wanted to close her legs, to hide the evidence of what they'd done.

Instead, she spread them wider.

His eyes darkened. "That's my good girl."

The praise hit her like a shot of heat straight to her core, and she felt herself throb, felt another pulse of wetness escape her.

He knelt.

The movement was fluid, almost graceful—a man who'd spent his life in boardrooms and back alleys, who'd never knelt for anyone, sinking to his knees between her thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her to the edge of the sofa, and she felt his breath on her skin, warm and uneven.

"Dante—"

"I told you," he said, his voice low, "I want to taste you."

His mouth found her.

The first touch of his tongue was a revelation. He licked her slowly, from the bottom of her slit to the top, dragging through the mess of his own release and her arousal, and she cried out, her hands flying to his hair, gripping the short salt-and-pepper strands.

"Fuck," she gasped. "Dante—"

He did it again. Slower this time, more deliberate, his tongue flat and broad against her, savoring the taste of them together. She could feel his groan vibrate through her, feel the way his hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer to his mouth.

"You taste," he said, his voice wrecked, "like sin."

Her head fell back against the sofa. She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. All she could do was feel—the rough drag of his tongue, the heat of his mouth, the way he lapped at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

His tongue found her clit, and she bucked against his mouth.

"Please," she begged, not even knowing what she was asking for. "Please, Dante—"

He didn't answer. He just wrapped his lips around the swollen bud and sucked, and she saw stars.

"Oh, God." Her voice was a broken whimper. "Oh, fuck—"

He pulled back, just enough to speak, his breath hot against her slick skin. "Not God. My name."

"Dante." She sobbed it. "Dante, please—"

"Please what?" His tongue traced a slow circle around her clit, maddening, deliberate. "Tell me what you need."

"I need—" She couldn't finish. Her hips were moving on their own, grinding against his mouth, chasing the pressure. "I need to come. Please. I need—"

"You need to come on my tongue." He said it like a fact, not a question. "You need to soak my face with it. You need me to taste every drop of you."

"Yes." She was past shame, past anything but the raw, desperate need building in her belly. "Yes, yes, yes—"

"Then come." His mouth returned to her, his tongue flat against her clit, and he added two fingers, sliding into her slick, swollen cunt without preamble. "Come for me, Isabella. Let me feel you."

She came apart.

It wasn't like the first time—that had been a crash, a wave that swept her under. This was different. This built and built and built until she couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't do anything but feel the relentless pressure of his tongue on her clit and his fingers curling inside her, hitting that spot that made her see white.

"Dante!" His name tore from her throat, raw and broken, and she came hard, her cunt clenching around his fingers, her hips grinding against his mouth as he lapped at her through it, drinking every last shudder.

He didn't stop.

He kept licking her, softer now, gentler, drawing out the aftershocks until she was twitching, oversensitive, whimpering with every touch. Only then did he pull back, his chin slick with her, his eyes dark and satisfied.

"Look at you." His voice was rough, almost wondering. "Falling apart on my tongue."

She couldn't speak. Couldn't move. She just lay there, sprawled across the leather sofa, her chest heaving, her thighs trembling, her cunt still pulsing with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

He rose.

She watched him through half-lidded eyes as he stood, his trousers still open, his cock still hard and glistening with her. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and the gesture was almost casual, almost dismissive—but his eyes never left hers.

"That's what you do to me," he said, his voice low. "You make me want to kneel."

She felt her heart stutter in her chest.

"Dante—"

"No." He shook his head, a small, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't say anything. Just—" He reached down, his hand finding hers, pulling her up off the sofa. "Just let me look at you."

She stood on shaky legs, her dress still pooled around her waist, her skin flushed and damp. She felt exposed, raw, like he'd peeled back every layer she'd ever built and left her bare beneath his gaze.

And she didn't want to hide.

"You're mine," he said again, and this time it wasn't a question, wasn't a declaration—it was a vow, low and fierce and absolute. "You understand that now, don't you? Every part of you. Every secret. Every fear. Every time you bite your lip to keep from lying. It's all mine."

She nodded, unable to speak.

"Say it." His hand came up, cupping her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek. "Say the words."

"I'm yours." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I'm yours, Dante."

He kissed her.

It wasn't gentle. It was a claiming, his mouth crashing into hers, his tongue sliding past her lips, and she tasted herself on him—salt and musk and something darker, something that made her knees go weak. She kissed him back, desperate and hungry, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

When he finally broke away, they were both breathing hard.

"We need to get you back," he said, his voice rough. "Before they notice you're gone."

The words were a cold splash of reality. The party. Her father. Serena's silver laugh. She'd forgotten all of it—had let herself be swallowed whole by him, by this room, by the impossible, dangerous thing they were doing.

"I know." She stepped back, her hands moving to straighten her dress, to pull the silk back up over her breasts. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp at her back, and she felt his hands there, brushing hers aside, doing it for her.

"I'll fix your hair," he said, and she felt his fingers in the sleek knot at the nape of her neck, smoothing stray strands. "You're flushed. They'll think you had too much champagne."

"I didn't have any champagne."

"Then you'll have to fake it." He stepped back, his eyes sweeping over her, cataloguing every detail. "Can you do that?"

She met his gaze. "I've been faking it my whole life."

Something flickered in his eyes—something that might have been pain, or pride, or both. "Not with me," he said quietly. "Never with me."

She felt the words settle in her chest, warm and heavy.

"I know," she said. "That's why I'm here."

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he reached past her, his hand finding the brass bolt on the door, and she heard the click of it sliding back—the sound of the world rushing back in.

The music was louder now. Laughter. The clink of glasses. Her father's voice, booming somewhere beyond the door.

She took a breath. Steadied herself. Became Isabella Moretti, the perfect daughter, the dutiful sister.

She turned to him one last time. "Will I see you again?"

"When I decide." His voice was steel again, the softness gone. "You'll get a message. And you'll come."

"And if I don't?"

His eyes met hers. "You will."

He said it like it was already a fact, already decided, already written in the stars. And the terrifying thing was—she knew he was right.

She slipped out the door, closing it softly behind her, and walked back into the light of the party like she hadn't just given herself away to the enemy.

The corridor swallowed her the moment the door clicked shut.

She walked past the marble bust of her great-grandfather, past the locked door of her father's study, past the servants' stairwell where she'd slipped through a hundred times as a child. Her heels made a soft, measured click against the floor, and she counted each one like a rosary, like a penance.

She could still feel him on her skin. The ghost of his tongue. The ache between her thighs, a sweet, swollen reminder of everything she'd just done. She pressed her thighs together as she walked, and the pressure sent a fresh pulse of heat through her, and she felt his come still leaking out of her, sliding down her leg, soaking into the silk of her underwear.

She should have been horrified. She should have been terrified of the evidence she was carrying back into the light.

Instead, she smiled.

The ballroom hit her like a wave. Music, laughter, the clink of crystal, the low thrum of a hundred conversations layered over each other like sediment. She paused in the archway, letting her eyes adjust, letting the mask settle back into place.

Isabella Moretti. The perfect daughter. The dutiful sister. The girl who never caused a moment's trouble, who smiled when she was supposed to smile and looked away when she was supposed to look away.

"There you are."

Serena's voice was honey and broken glass. She appeared at Isabella's elbow, her white gown catching the light, her smile perfectly calibrated to convey concern and curiosity in equal measure. "I was starting to worry. You disappeared for so long."

"Just needed some air." The lie came out smooth, practiced. She'd been lying her whole life; this was just another one. "The champagne was getting to me."

Serena's blue eyes swept over her, cataloguing. Isabella felt the weight of that gaze like a physical thing, felt it catching on her flushed cheeks, her slightly mussed hair, the faint sheen of sweat at her collarbone that the chandelier light was kind enough to hide.

"You look flushed," Serena said, her voice light, almost teasing. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Just warm." Isabella fanned herself with her hand, the gesture perfectly casual. "The garden was cooler."

It was a risk, mentioning the garden. Serena would remember it. Would file it away. But the alternative—admitting she'd been in the study, alone, with a locked door—was worse. The garden was boring. Unremarkable. A place a girl went to clear her head.

"Well, you missed the toast." Serena's smile sharpened, just slightly. "Alessandro gave a beautiful speech. Very moving. He mentioned you, actually. Said his little sister was the only woman he'd ever trust with his life."

Isabella's heart stuttered. She kept her smile fixed, her eyes warm. "That's sweet of him."

"Isn't it?" Serena's gaze held hers for a moment too long. "He loves you very much, you know. Both your parents do. They'd do anything for you."

The words were a warning. Isabella heard it clearly, the way she'd learned to hear the second meaning in every sentence spoken in this house. They'd do anything for you. And they'd do anything to anyone who threatened you.

She let the smile grow a little softer, a little more vulnerable. "I know."

Serena nodded, seemingly satisfied, and turned to drift back toward the crowd, toward the engagement party that was supposedly about her and Alessandro but was really about alliances and power and the careful, endless dance of the families. Isabella watched her go, watched the way the white gown swayed with her hips, and felt a cold thread of fear wind through the heat still lingering in her blood.

She'd been careless. She'd been reckless. And Serena had noticed.

But even as the fear coiled in her chest, even as she felt the weight of her family's expectations pressing down on her shoulders like a shroud, she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Not the study. Not the sofa. Not the way Dante had knelt between her thighs like she was a goddess and he was a supplicant.

She touched her lips, still swollen from his kiss, and felt the ghost of his taste on her tongue.

"Bella."

Her father's voice. Gravel and command. She turned to find him approaching, a glass of whiskey in his thick, scarred hand, his deep-set eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her want to look away.

"Papa." She smiled, the perfect daughter, and went to meet him. "I was just looking for you. The toast was beautiful."

He grunted, a sound that could have been agreement or dismissal. His eyes swept over her, and she held herself still, letting him see what he expected to see—his daughter, his little girl, the one who'd never given him a moment's trouble.

"You look tired," he said finally. "Too much champagne?"

"Just a little." She laughed, light and easy. "I'm not used to celebrating."

"You'll have to get used to it." He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes drifting toward the crowd, toward Alessandro and Serena, toward the future he'd built for his family with blood and steel. "This is the start of something. A new chapter for the Morettis."

She followed his gaze. Saw her brother laughing, his arm around Serena's waist, the picture of a happy groom. Saw her mother, elegant and composed, watching the crowd with the watchful eyes of a woman who'd learned to see everything and say nothing.

"It's a good thing," she said softly. "For Alessandro."

"For all of us." Her father's voice was firm, absolute. "This is what we build. This is what we protect." He turned to look at her, and for a moment, his eyes softened, almost tender. "You'll understand one day. When you find someone worth building for."

She felt the words land like a blow. Someone worth building for. She thought of Dante. Of the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd knelt, the way he'd said her name like it was a prayer. She thought of her father's hands, thick and scarred, and what they'd do to a man who threatened his family.

She smiled. "I'm in no rush, Papa."

He nodded, satisfied, and turned away, back toward the crowd, back toward the world he commanded. Isabella watched him go, and felt the weight of the secret settle in her chest, heavy and bright, a stolen jewel she'd carry for the rest of her life.

She'd given herself to the enemy.

And she'd do it again.