Chapter One - Isabella
Under the marble archway, I stand perfectly still and let the morning press down on me. Light leaks in through the glass panes, soft and golden, but the air in the Bruno estate is always heavy, thick with the whispers of servants who treat my uncle’s name like a sacred threat.
Every corner holds a shadow.
Every doorway, a guard in a pressed suit pretending not to watch me.
Vittorio claims it’s all for my safety, but I know better. I know how control works. It’s in the way he sets my teacup exactly where he wants it, the way he checks the locks before he kisses my cheek good night. I can’t so much as slip into the garden without someone’s eyes crawling over my shoulders. Aunt Lucia calls it love, says Vittorio’s heart is too big for his own good.
I know the difference between protection and a gilded cage. There’s only so much air in this house, and most mornings I have to remind myself to keep breathing.
At breakfast, the same ritual. My uncle appears with slow, measured steps. His hair is iron gray, combed back, and his suit is so perfectly pressed it looks like armor.
He barely glances at the eggs on his plate; instead, he studies me, dark eyes flicking from my face to my hands and back again, as if searching for cracks. Sometimes I want to ask him what he’s looking for.
Most days, I just keep my gaze down and let him pretend I’m still someone he can save.
“Eat, Isabella,” he tells me, voice gentle and absolute. I force down a bite of toast, the edges dry and flavorless in my mouth.
“Plans for today?” he asks. The question isn’t really a question.
“I have some restoration work. Gallery business,” I say, folding my napkin in half, then in half again. “Clara’s coming by this afternoon to help.”
A pause. “Clara is a good friend,” Vittorio says, as if reminding himself that not all visitors are threats. Then, softer, “You’re careful, yes?”
I nod. “Always.”
That seems to satisfy him. He stands and presses a kiss to the crown of my head, his hand heavy against my hair. For a moment I almost believe he means it. Almost.
After he leaves, the silence thickens. I don’t finish my breakfast. Instead, I wander the halls past the gallery of family portraits, past Enzo’s old bedroom with the door locked and dust gathering along the threshold.
I let my fingers graze the wallpaper, tracing the edges of old patterns, remembering when this house was full of laughter.
When Enzo would drag me into the kitchen at midnight, barefoot, to steal pastries from the fridge. He’s been gone for months, but the ache in my chest hasn’t dulled. If anything, it sharpens every time someone says his name.
They called it an accident. Said the brakes failed on the coastal road, the weather was bad, these things happen.
I know Enzo. He was careful, always. He could strip an engine down to the bolts and put it back together withoutmissing a beat. I heard the rumors too, about deals gone wrong, names whispered in the dark, the Russians making trouble again. The Sharovs.
Sometimes I hear my uncle’s voice echoing down the hall, low and urgent. He lowers his voice, but the walls are thin and I’ve learned how to listen.
“The Sharov problem,” he calls it.
Sometimes my cousin Matteo is there too, his laughter cold and brittle, but mostly it’s just Vittorio pacing, muttering about loyalty and pride and old debts.
I don’t know the details; Vittorio keeps me away from family business, the same way he once kept Enzo close.
I can read the tension in his face, the way he sharpens every word when the Russians are mentioned. Our families have hated each other for decades, each convinced the other is a snake waiting in the grass.
I finish the last sip of coffee with my head down, picking at the crusts left on my plate. The dining room is too quiet, just the faint scrape of silverware and the thud of my own pulse.
From somewhere down the corridor, I hear Vittorio’s voice, sharper than before, the muffled rumble of a man who thinks he can keep secrets just by keeping his tone low.
“…No, I said no. If the Sharovs think they can—” His words fade, strangled by the heavy doors and his own caution.
I lean forward, barely breathing. The estate’s walls might as well be made of stone, but I can still pick out the cadence of his anger. Sharov. Again.
He’s pacing. I hear the creak of the old wood beneath his shoes, a restless rhythm I’ve come to know by heart. He only walks like that when he’s cornered, or furious, or both.
