He handed the photo, still in its frame, to Damion. “This is Isabella. Ask around and find out if she’s the woman who was asking about me at my club. And if she shows up again, I want to know immediately.”
“Of course, boss,” Damion agreed, taking Isabella’s photo. It was time that he met his new bride, and if she was asking around his club about him, he wanted to know why. He’d have a few questions of his own for the princess, and then, he planned on sealing the deal and marrying her because he was a man of his word, after all.
Isabella
Isabella knew she shouldn’t have come back. The thought looped through her mind as she stood across the street from the club, fingers curled tightly around the strap of her purse like it could shield her from the danger she was walking straight into. As though it could keep her from walking straight into something she might not survive. But being safe didn’t give her answers, and answers were the only thing she cared about.
The neon sign above the entrance flickered, casting a red glow across the pavement—like blood smeared across concrete. Two men in dark suits stood at the door, their posture rigid, eyes scanning everything with quiet authority. She could tell that they weren’t bouncers. They were guards. There was a difference, and Isabella had found that out the hard way.
She drew in a slow breath, steadying the chaos in her chest, and then she stepped off the curb. Each step toward the club felt heavier than the last, like the weight of what she was doing was finally catching up to her. But she didn’t stop, and she didn’t hesitate—because hesitation was weakness, and weakness didn’t survive in places like this. Hesitation could get her killed.
One of the guards stepped forward as she approached, his gaze sweeping over her—not with interest, but calculation. Hewas trying to decide if she belonged there. She didn’t, but there was no way that she’d tell him that.
“Private club,” he said. “Members only.”
Isabella lifted her chin slightly, meeting his stare without flinching. “I’m not here for the club.”
His expression hardened. “Then you’re in the wrong place, sweetheart.”
“No,” she said calmly. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Look, sweetheart?—”
“I’m here to see Luca Camorra,” she said, interrupting what he was about to say. The name dropped between them like a loaded weapon. Even the air around them seemed to shift at just the mention of Luca’s name. The second guard straightened. The first went completely still, his eyes sharpening with something darker and more alert. Well, that got their attention.
“Who sent you?” he asked.
“No one sent me,” she spat.
“Then you’re not seeing him,” the guard insisted.
Isabella held his gaze, refusing to back down even as her pulse began to pound. “Tell him his future wife, Isabella Romano, is here.” For a moment, the whole world seemed to stop. She noticed when the guard’s expression changed. It was subtle, but enough to let her know that he recognized her name. Or maybe it was just the weight of a name that meant something in a world she was only beginning to understand.
He pulled out his phone, speaking quietly into it, his eyes never leaving her. Seconds stretched so tightly that she felt like she was suffocating. Isabella forced herself to remain still, to breathe evenly, and not show how much this moment mattered to her because it did—more than anything.
Finally, the guard lowered the phone. “He says he won’t see you.” The words hit like a sharp blow to her chest. But she didn’tlet her disappointment show. Instead, she stepped closer—close enough that the guard tensed slightly.
“Then tell him this,” she said quietly. “Tell him I know what happened to my father.” Silence followed, heavy and dangerous. It was a lie, but there was no way that she’d tell him that. The guard’s jaw tightened, and he didn’t move at first. Then he raised the phone again. This time, the call was brief. He slid the phone back into his pocket and stepped aside.
“Go on in,” he said. Relief didn’t come like Isabella thought it would, as she stepped around him and into the club. Instead, she felt a sharper edge of tension, but Isabella still didn’t hesitate. She walked inside the club with her head held high. She was finally going to meet the man who threatened her and her family’s very existence—the man her father had promised her hand in marriage to.
The club swallowed her whole—dark lights, pulsing music, bodies moving too close together. But beneath all of it, there was something else—power, and even control. This wasn’t just a place for dancing and drinking. This was Camorra territory, and she had just stepped into the center of it.
She moved through the crowd, ignoring the glances that followed her, the subtle way that others’ attention shifted. People were watching her. They were tracking her. “Let them,” she whispered to herself.
A man in a black suit appeared at her side before she reached the bar. “Follow me,” he ordered. It wasn’t a question, and Isabella knew better than to argue.
She followed him through the main floor, past a guarded hallway, and up a private staircase where the music faded into a distant hum. Each step upward felt like she was crossing a line she couldn’t uncross, but she kept going, because there was no turning back now. At the top, the man stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. He knocked once, then opened it without waiting.
“Boss,” he said. “She’s here.” He stepped aside, and Isabella walked in. The room was quieter than the club downstairs. It was dimly lit, but she could tell that it looked expensive without being over the top. And at the center of it—him. Luca Camorra.
He stood near the window like he owned everything he looked at. He was tall, handsome, and seemed to be dripping with danger in a way that didn’t need to be boastful to be understood. His gaze shifted to hers, and everything inside her stilled. There was no surprise in his expression, only assessment. His eyes were cold, precise, and unforgiving.
The door shut behind her with a soft click, sealing her inside with him. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. “You have exactly thirty seconds,” Luca said, his voice low, controlled, edged with quiet warning. “Convince me why I shouldn’t have you thrown out.”
Isabella’s pulse thundered in her ears. But she didn’t look away or step back from him. “Because you know my father.” Something flickered in his expression, but was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “And I’m hoping that you also know what happened to him.”
“I know a lot of men,” he replied coolly.
