Or is it an act?
She's a Vitale.
Eight men died before my eyes, and all I can think is… Did she know?
23
ISABELLA
I stand frozen, unable to breathe as I stare at the bodies sprawled across Alessandro's dining room floor. Men who were laughing and talking just moments ago now lie still, their faces contorted in their final moments of agony.
I've grown up in this world, have heard whispers of violence since I was a child, but nothing prepared me for this. The brutality. The finality.
Alessandro barks orders while checking pulses. Rage builds with each dead man he encounters.
It’s only then I realize they all drank from the bottle of whisky my father sent. Nausea roils in my gut as I recall the bottle that arrived with a note of apology from my father. I brought the bottle to Alessandro’s office, setting it on his desk. I might as well have handed him the poison directly.
He turns to me, and the look in his eyes makes me recoil. It's not just anger. It’s blame.
"Your father just tried to murder me in my own home."
I can't deny it. Although it makes no sense. My father can't be trusted, but he's not stupid enough to do this. Plus, if he were trying to kill Alessandro, he’d be in attendance. He’d want to see the result of his dirty work.
And yet, the evidence around me suggests I’m wrong.
“Alessandro—”
“Don’t. Don’t. Say. A. Word.” He scans the room, his eyes stopping on one of his men. “Take her upstairs. Make sure she doesn’t leave. Take her phone so she can’t contact anyone.”
“Alessandro, I had no part?—”
But he was already turning away. Dismissing me.
His soldier takes my arm, but I jerk away. “I can get myself up to my room.” I hand him my phone. Who would I call, anyway?
Once in our bedroom, I pace, a torrent of emotions clashing inside me. Anger at my father for doing this. Anger at Alessandro for distrusting me. And fear. Fear that before the night is over, I’ll be dead.
Our marriage has been nothing but whiplash. One moment, Alessandro looks at me with a wild passion and the next, he treats me like the enemy.
I sink onto the edge of our bed thinking back on the honeymoon and how I was sure we were starting to build something together. Were those moments real? Or was he simply securing my loyalty, using pleasure and fake affection to manipulate me? My chest constricts at the idea that he’s used me as much as my father has.
Outside, I hear car doors slam, voices raised. I rush to the window to see men with guns patrolling the grounds. This is the world I grew up in, was married into. Death served alongside dinner. Armed guards instead of friendly neighbors. And Alessandro stands at its center, a man I know nothing about, despite having given him my body, my trust.
I realize how completely alone I am. And how much danger I’m in. I’m waiting for a man who might return to me as my executioner.
The bedroom door flies open with force. I flinch and stumble back against the bed. Alessandro fills the doorway, dark and furious. His usually immaculate appearance is disheveled, his hair falling over his brow, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up.
He doesn't say a word. He just stares at me with eyes so cold, they burn. I've never seen him like this. This isn't the cool, aloof husband from our wedding day or the passionate lover from our honeymoon. This is someone else entirely. Someone dangerous.
He closes the door behind him, his dark eyes never leaving me. Fear ramps up and I instinctively look for a way to escape, knowing there is none.
"Eight men," he finally says, his voice low and dark. "Three of them had protected me since I was a boy. They all died tonight at my table."
I swallow hard. "I didn't know?—"
"Didn’t you?" He moves closer. I try to retreat, but there’s nowhere for me to go.
"Your father sends a poisoned gift, delivered by your hands, on a night you arranged."
