No one.
The thought of becoming like my mother terrifies me more than death.
All I can imagine is a man not unlike my father; grizzled by the brutal world he lives in, incapable of empathy or emotion beyond greed and bloodthirst.
Twenty minutes now.
Twenty minutes to decide who Isabella Vitale truly is.
I yank open my closet doors, staring at the rows of designer clothing my father has chosen for me over the years.
Each piece represents the image he wants me to project—demure, elegant, expensive.
The perfect Mafia princess.
Tonight, I'll become exactly what they expect, but on my terms.
I select a deep emerald silk dress that hugs my curves without being vulgar.
The color brings out the green in my eyes, making them appear unnaturally bright.
The neckline dips low enough to hint at what lies beneath without revealing too much.
I step into the dress with utmost resentment toward my father, my mother, Don Dante… to the whole world because I have to do this.
At my vanity, I apply foundation to my face, but it doesn’t cover the anger burning there.
I line my eyes with kohl, extending it into a sharp wing at each corner.
The effect is feline, predatory.
"You can do this," I say to my reflection. "Adapt. Survive."
I glide on lipstick in a dark blood-red shade. The color of my world.
I fasten my mother's diamond earrings, given to her by her mother when she turned eighteen and was betrothed to my father.
Now they come to me.
Another transaction completed.
Another woman sold.
But I won't disappear like she did.
My hair falls in loose waves down my back.
I consider pinning it up, then decide against it.
Let Alessandro see what he's getting.
Let him wonder if I'm as untamed as my appearance suggests.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes.
He'll be here any minute.
I rise from the vanity, smoothing my dress one final time.
