The morning dawned cold and gray, the sunlight filtered through thick clouds like an omen of what was to come. Isabella stood by her bedroom window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The events of the night before played on a loop in her mind: Dante's smirk, his words, his promise that no one escaped him.
But Isabella wasn't the kind of woman who would simply roll over and accept her fate. If Dante Marino thought he could own her, he had underestimated her. She would challenge him at every turn, force him to regret the day he chose her as his pawn in this twisted game of power.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She turned to see one of her father's house staff peering inside timidly. "Miss Isabella, Mr. Marino has requested your presence downstairs for breakfast."
Isabella's jaw tightened. Of course, he was here. Dante wasn't the kind of man to wait until the wedding to start asserting his control. But if he thought she would sit quietly at his side and play the dutiful fiancée, he was in for a rude awakening.
"Tell him I'll be down shortly," she said coolly, waving the staff member away.
She moved to her closet, selecting a sleek black dress that hugged her figure. It was understated yet elegant, a subtle declaration of power. She pinned her dark hair into a neat chignon and applied a bold red lipstick. If Dante wanted a queen, she would look the part—on her terms.
When Isabella walked into the dining room, she immediately felt the shift in the air. Dante sat at the head of the long table, casually sipping his coffee as if he owned the entire house. His dark suit was perfectly tailored, and his presence seemed to suck the oxygen from the room.
His gaze flicked to her, sharp and calculating. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're late."
"I wasn't aware I was on a schedule," Isabella replied, her tone cool as she took a seat at the opposite end of the table.
Dante chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that made her pulse quicken. "You're in my world now, Isabella. You'll find that punctuality is highly valued."
She raised an eyebrow, reaching for the cup of tea a staff member placed in front of her. "And I thought mafia kings didn't concern themselves with trivialities like breakfast. Shouldn't you be off making someone disappear?"
Dante leaned back in his chair, studying her with amusement. "You've got quite the sharp tongue for someone who just agreed to marry me."
Isabella set her teacup down with a delicate clink, meeting his gaze head-on. "I agreed to save my family. Let's not pretend this arrangement is anything more than that."
The smirk disappeared from Dante's face, replaced by something far more dangerous. He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "Let me give you some advice, Isabella. If you want to survive in my world, you'd better learn to play nice. I have a lot of patience, but it's not infinite."
Isabella didn't flinch. "If you wanted someone to bow to your every command, you chose the wrong woman."
The tension between them was electric, the air thick with unspoken challenges. For a moment, neither of them spoke, their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills.
Finally, Dante leaned back, his smirk returning. "You're bold. I like that. But don't mistake boldness for power. In the end, you'll play by my rules, whether you like it or not."
"We'll see about that," Isabella said, her voice steady.
After breakfast, Isabella decided it was time to make her first move. She had no intention of sitting idly by while Dante pulled the strings. If she wanted to survive—and perhaps even win—she needed to show him that she wasn't a pawn.
She slipped out of the estate and headed into the city, accompanied by a single bodyguard Dante had assigned to her. She hadn't argued when the guard followed her; she knew he was there to report her every move. But that didn't mean she couldn't use it to her advantage.
Her destination was a small café on the edge of Little Italy, a neutral territory where members of various families often conducted their quieter business. She had sent a message ahead, requesting a meeting with someone who might be willing to share information about Dante's operations. If she could uncover his weaknesses, she could use them against him.
The man she was meeting, Luca Romano, was a mid-level player in the underworld—a man with a reputation for selling secrets to the highest bidder. When she entered the café, she spotted him immediately: a wiry man in his early forties, his sharp eyes scanning the room nervously.
"Miss De Luca," Luca said, standing as she approached his table. "An honor to meet you."
"Let's skip the pleasantries," Isabella said, taking a seat across from him. "I need information on Dante Marino. Something I can use."
Luca hesitated, glancing around the café. "You're playing a dangerous game, Miss De Luca. Dante doesn't take kindly to betrayal."
"Then it's a good thing I'm not afraid of him," Isabella said, though her heart was racing.
Luca studied her for a moment before leaning in. "There's one thing you should know. Dante's enemies are watching him closely, waiting for him to slip. If you're smart, you'll align yourself with them instead of fighting him alone."
Isabella frowned. "Who are these enemies?"
Before Luca could answer, the door to the café swung open, and the atmosphere shifted. Isabella's blood ran cold as Dante walked in, flanked by two of his men.
He spotted her immediately, his expression unreadable as he made his way to her table.
"Well, well," Dante said, his voice low and calm, but laced with menace. "What a coincidence, finding you here. Care to explain?"
Isabella straightened in her seat, refusing to let him intimidate her. "I don't owe you an explanation."
Dante's jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened. "We'll talk about this later." He turned to Luca, his voice like ice. "Leave. Now."
Luca didn't need to be told twice. He bolted from the café, leaving Isabella and Dante alone.
Dante leaned down, his face inches from hers. "You've made your first move, Isabella. But let me remind you—every move you make, I'm ten steps ahead."
Isabella's heart pounded, but she refused to look away. "Then you'd better start watching your back, Dante. I'm not as predictable as you think."
For the first time, she saw a flicker of something in his eyes—respect, maybe even admiration. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Let's go," he said sharply, pulling her to her feet.
As they left the café, Isabella felt a surge of determination. This wasn't over—not by a long shot.