The room shrinks around us, the air sharp with panic and defiance. She jerks her head away, breaking my grip, then shoves at my shoulder—weak, desperate. It’s nothing, but I let her do it. I want to see the fight leave her. I want her to understand what happens when you push a man like me too far.
She swings again, a sloppy, open-handed slap. I catch her wrist midair, fingers closing tight enough to make her gasp. Her pulse hammers under my thumb. I pull her close, until there’s no room to breathe.
“You had your chance to play with fire,” I say, voice colder than she’s ever heard. “Now you’ll burn for it.”
I keep hold of her wrist a moment longer, just to feel the tremor run up her arm. It’s not cruelty. At least, not only cruelty. It’s necessity. I need her to understand that every option she ever thought she had is gone.
She’s silent, eyes shining, breathing in ragged little stabs. She tries to wrench free. I don’t let her. I want her to feel it. The shift, the moment when every game ends and the real terms are laid bare.
“Sit.” I point to the edge of the bed. My voice leaves no room for negotiation.
She hesitates, so I tighten my grip and nudge her forward, guiding her down. She perches on the edge, hands fisted in her lap, head bent as if praying for mercy. I stand over her, arms folded, letting the silence draw tight around us.
“This is how it ends, Isabella.” My voice is even. I make it sound like a simple transaction—cold, inevitable. “You’re under my roof now. You have no family, no money, nothing to bargain with but yourself. So here’s what happens next. You and I are going to be married.”
Her head snaps up. The blood drains from her face. “What?”
I don’t let her retreat. I kneel again, slow and deliberate, my face inches from hers. “You heard me. A marriage. Not for love, not for forgiveness. For power. For control.” I let the words settle. She’s shaking her head, lips parted, searching my eyes for a sign of mercy. She won’t find any.
“You think this is a game between you and me?” I continue, voice low, every syllable weighed. “It’s never been just about us. Your family made you their pawn the day they sent you after me. Vittorio was willing to trade your life for another seat at the table, another year at the top. You know it. And you’re still here, so now the board belongs to me.”
She tries to stand, but I catch her shoulders, pressing her gently, almost kindly, back down. “Don’t,” I warn. “You’ll want to hear this.”
She’s staring at me, face pale but fierce. “You can’t—”
I cut her off. “I can, and I will. By marrying you, I get everything your uncle tried to keep from me. I take the Brunos’ public face, their last unspoiled name. Every old-world gangster, every banker in Milan and Naples, every trade broker in Zurich… when they see you at my side, they’ll know the Italians lost. That the Bratva owns them now.”
She bites down hard, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle fluttering. “You want to humiliate him. You want to humiliate me.”
“Not humiliation. Correction.” My tone is cold, businesslike, but underneath it, something meaner slips out. “I want Vittorio to see that all his power—every threat, every bargain, every ounce of pride—meant nothing in the end. I wanthim to look at you and see the cost. That’s what this is. Not love. Not some twisted fairy tale. Power. Control. A reminder that the Brunos answer to me now.”
Her breath catches, fury and panic sparking together in her eyes. She lashes out again, weaker now, her hand landing on my chest. I let her push me, don’t bother defending myself. Let her try. It changes nothing.
“You think you can force this?” she spits, her voice breaking. “What do you want from me—obedience, surrender?”
I lean in, my hands braced on either side of her hips. “I want the world to see you as mine. I want your uncle’s allies to see he couldn’t protect you. I want the old men in Italy to watch the wedding footage and know there are no more Brunos outside my reach.”
She chokes on the wordwedding,her fists shaking. “No. I won’t let you.”
“Yes. You will.” My voice hardens, and she finally hears it. Not just threat, but certainty. “You’ll stand beside me. You’ll take my name. You’ll play the part. You’ll do it because there’s nowhere else to go, and because the alternative is worse. I promise you that.”
She’s crying now, silent tears tracking down her cheeks, but her pride doesn’t break. Not yet. “You could just kill me,” she says, her voice so soft I almost miss it.
I laugh low, humorless. “That’s too simple. Death ends things. I want you to live with this. I want every night, every morning, every dinner in public and every headline to remind your family who won.” I reach out, thumb tracing her jaw, rough but not unkind. “This isn’t about hurting you. It’s about making a point.”
She glares at me, voice ragged. “And if I say no?”
I study her for a long, measured beat. “You won’t, because you know the game. You know what happens to traitors, to orphans, to women who stand alone in our world. You want survival. This is how you get it.” I let my hand drop. “Besides, you want answers about Enzo. I’m the only one left who can give them to you. Play this right, and you’ll get what you came for.”
She turns away, shoulders shaking, breath hitching in her throat. I watch her—her defiance, her grief, the terror she tries to swallow down. For a moment, a softer instinct wants to reach for her, to offer some comfort. But I crush it.
I stand, adjusting my cuff links, letting authority settle over me like a cloak. “The wedding will happen soon. You’ll have new clothes, new guards. You won’t leave this house until I say so. Make your peace with it, Bella.”
She doesn’t answer, so I lean down, mouth to her ear, voice cold and final. “You lost, Isabella. Now you belong to me.”
I leave her there shaking, defeated, but not broken. Not yet. That’s the point. The Brunos need to see her on my arm, proud and shining, even as the world ends behind her eyes. That’s the message. That’s what victory looks like in our world. I want every last soul to witness it.
I retreat to my office after midnight, the house silent except for the distant creak of floorboards and the slow tick of the old brass clock. The air smells of gun oil and cold marble, a reminder that this place is the last fortress left standing between the Brunos and the world they want to believe still belongs to them.
