21. CHAPTER 20—ISABELLA
CHAPTER 20—ISABELLA
F ingers fly across keyboards like dancers across a stage, but this isn't the ballet I know. The air crackles with tension, thick enough to choke on.
Connor hunches over his laptop, all traces of Irish charm gone. His phone buzzes every thirty seconds—precise, mechanical. His crew works in sync, passing tablets back and forth like they're trading state secrets. Maybe they are.
"Get me that fucking backdoor now," Radomir snarls into his headset, his accent thicker with rage. One of his men flinches, fingers trembling as he types. Papers scatter across their table like fallen leaves, covered in strings of code I can't decipher.
Henrik's setup looks like mission control—three screens, two phones, and a tablet displaying what looks like blueprints of Diamonds Inc. His crew moves like a well-oiled machine, but there's fear in their efficiency. The bruises on one man's wrist tell stories of what failure costs.
The new French competitor commands his space like he's center stage at the Paris Opera, every movement precise and calculated. His fingers dance across his keyboard in perfect rhythm, his eyes never leaving the screen. Even Mrs. Lefevre leans forward, watching his performance with the kind of intensity I recognize from old ballet masters.
Mrs. Lefevre's gaze prickles against my skin like pre-surgery prep. She's caught me watching, caught me analyzing. When our eyes meet, her lips curve knowingly, like she sees right through my carefully constructed walls. My fingers find that familiar path—up my throat, down to the constellation of scars inches below my collarbone. The marks of survival that makeup can't hide, that this borrowed courage can't erase.
Whispers swarm around me like hospital monitors beeping warnings, but I can't focus on them. Not when Antonio commands attention like gravity demands falling. My heart performs its own dangerous choreography, a rhythm my doctors would definitely disapprove of.
He raises his head, and our gazes collide like yesterday's kiss—all heat and hunger and things we shouldn't want. Time stretches like an IV drip counting seconds, and memories flood back: his hands on my waist, his lips claiming mine, the way he made me forget about everything but him. Was it just another power play? Another scene in this twisted performance?
Or did I imagine the way his touch became more frenzied when I touched him? The way his breath caught when I kissed him back? The way he stepped in front of me when the gunshot rang out?
His fingers pause on his keyboard for just a fraction of a second. I know I should look away, should remember how he told Georgio on me. But some habits are hard to kick—and watching Antonio has always been my favorite addiction.
My father stands by me, and with one word, Naomi, he has me standing back up and settling at his table.
"Is anyone actually at risk if I don't play along with this auction, or is that just another one of your games?" The words slip out before I can swallow them back, barely a whisper but sharp as surgical steel.
My father's fingers clamp around my wrist. Every ounce of warmth drains from that spot, his touch both familiar and foreign.
There was a time when I saw him as my knight in shining armor. Now all I see are the shadows he casts, the way his empire is built on broken promises and bloody hands. This whole mafia auction feels like something straight out of the Hunger Games—and god, why am I thinking about Katniss now? Maybe because she knew what it felt like to be a piece in someone else's game.
I shift in my seat, arms folded over my tank top. At least today I'm wearing my armor of choice. When the bodyguard arrived this morning with another princess dress, I shut the door in his face. One scalding shower later, I pulled on my favorite jeans, the ones Naomi and I bought thinking of a future that didn’t involve all of this, a tank top that doesn't hide my scars, and one of Mom’s cardigans.
I caught my father's eyes narrowing at the marks peeking out—the roadmap of survival carved into my skin. But for once, I don't care. Let him see. Let them all see what it looks like when death tries to claim you and fails.
It's a small defiance, choosing my own clothes. Like refusing to dance for the Russian or spitting in Henrik's face. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't mean much, but... I feel more myself than I have since they wheeled me into that first treatment. More alive since that kiss. Even though I know that kiss didn’t mean anything, I’m using it, too. Using it to be stronger.
And isn't that the real rebellion?
"Remember what you've been told," my father snaps, his voice dripping with threat.
I arch an eyebrow, masking the turmoil inside. How could I forget? His plans to corner Antonio, to bring him low, maybe even end him, are etched in my mind like the scars on my skin. Both marking moments I couldn't prevent.
I want to stand up and say something. Want to jump up and bring this charade to a stop. Want to scream and cry and fight like I fought the cancer eating me alive.
"You remind me so much of your mother," he murmurs, and a sharp pang of grief stabs me. For once, his words aren't cloaked in wistfulness or manipulation. The raw emotion behind them catches me off guard, like finding an old piece of sheet music in Mom's handwriting.
He's not talking about her grace and elegance. Or her courage—though that's what I try to channel now, sitting here in my defiant jeans and visible scars. I don't remember much about her. A soft smile. Laughter that made rooms feel warmer. And the way she stood between me and disappointment, between me and his expectations, more than once.
She died crossing a road to the music school where she volunteered. Just... gone. One moment teaching kids to play piano, the next, a headline in the morning papers. Back then, I thought Dad was just a grieving husband when he disappeared for months, searching for answers. I was too young to question why a businessman had the resources to search the entire planet for the truth.
Now I know better. Now I understand why his men whispered in corners, why strange men in expensive suits came to offer condolences. He wasn't just searching—he was hunting, using connections I never knew existed, power I couldn't have imagined.
But in the end? It was just an accident. A drunk driver. A rainy day. A moment of bad luck that changed everything.
Sometimes I wonder if that's when he really became the monster I know now. When he realized that all his power, all his control, couldn't save what mattered most.
"I don't think she'd love this for me," I whisper back to him, the words tasting like chemo on my tongue. If he wants to make a scene right now, I'll give him one. I'll stand up and tell them all this is rigged, warn Antonio that there are traps waiting in the shadows. But they'd probably laugh—these men who deal in danger and deceit. They already know.
I used to believe there was honor among thieves. Used to think the mafia was about family, loyalty, protection. Like in those movies Naomi and I watched during my recovery.
I'm not sure there's honor left in my father.
"You don't know what she'd want for you," he tells me, and this time his voice isn't cutting or cunning. It's something worse—almost gentle. "You didn't know her life. You didn't really know her." The whiplash of his tone makes my head spin like bad days in treatment.
He's lying.
The realization hits harder than any diagnosis. He's not trying his best, not protecting me. He's selling me to the highest bidder, orchestrating this tournament to prop himself up, to forge an alliance that will keep him in power. There are layers here I don't understand, secrets wrapped in more secrets.
Time stretches like an IV drip while the men battle their digital war. They don't take breaks, don't look up, don't—
"Done!" The French replacement's voice cracks through the tension. "I found a way."
Antonio's "Finished" comes seconds later, his voice a growl that makes my pulse skip. Connor follows, then Henrik's snarl of completion.
At least Radomir is out. One less monster in this circus.
But as my father's smile curves like a scalpel, I wonder—how many more monsters are hiding behind his plans?
Radomir's rage explodes like a chemo bag bursting. His laptop crashes against marble, pieces scattering like broken promises. When his eyes find me, they burn with enough hatred to make my scars itch. His accent thickens as he demands verification, spittle flying as he accuses everyone of cheating.
My father signals to S—his shadow in everything technical—to verify their hacking paths. Files flash across screens: offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands moving blood diamond money, board members buying underage girls from trafficking rings, the CEO's son dealing drugs through jewelry shipments. The French competitor found something that makes even Mrs. Lefevre's eyebrows rise—proof that three board members are FBI informants. Connor's Irish charm returns as he announces he's found their security chief's entire network of dirty cops.
Millions at stake, and this is just round one. But it's not about money—it's about knowledge. About knowing exactly where to apply pressure until empires crumble.
"Good, good." My father's smile is genuine for once—the kind I haven't seen since before I got sick. The kind that means someone else is about to hurt. And me? I'm left frozen in place, my pulse doing that stupid skip-flutter thing as realization hits: we're one step closer to my wedding day.
One step closer to Antonio's planned destruction.
I should stride away. Should scream that this is all rigged. Should warn Antonio that my father never loses, not really. Should—
The door bursts open with enough force to make the crystal glasses sing.
Antonio moves like a shadow coming to life. One moment he's at his laptop, the next he's on his feet, positioning himself between me and whatever threat waits in that doorway. His gaze finds mine across the chaos, dark and intense. There's something raw in his eyes, something that looks like protection but tastes like possession.
Even from here, his message burns clear: he'd destroy anything that tried to hurt me.
Or maybe he just wants to make sure he's the only one who gets to break me.
My father calls out. “Ohhh, finally. I hear the consolation prize has arrived.”
The room snaps to attention. Yesterday's gunshots still echo in everyone's memory—Mrs. Lefevre's people form a wall around her, guns barely concealed under designer jackets. Henrik's men draw weapons, but there's eagerness in their movements—they're hoping for bloodshed.
But it's Naomi who stumbles through that door, and the room's reaction shifts. Henrik's smile spreads slow and cruel, like he's just been handed a gift he didn't expect. Connor's easy charm falters for just a moment—I remember Naomi telling me about the dinner where she made him laugh so hard he choked on his whiskey, some joke about Irish stubbornness that she wouldn't repeat. Now his eyes hold something almost like regret.
Antonio... Antonio's whole body goes rigid. His eyes dart from Naomi to me to my father, and I see the exact moment he understands. His fingers curl into fists, and something darker than rage crosses his face. Because he knows—he knows what happens to "consolation prizes" in our world. His jaw clenches, and I catch him making a subtle gesture to one of his men. Whatever his plans for revenge were, they're shifting right now.
But my world has already tilted sideways. My best friend, who's always been sunshine and sass, who snuck in chocolate when I couldn't eat anything else, who made me laugh when everything hurt—she looks broken. Tear tracks stain her cheeks, and something in my chest cracks at the sight.
"What's going on?" I turn to my father, but I already know. Deep down, I know.
His words seep into me like poison. "Let's just say we need more than what you can provide. The second needs something, too. And I told you that your insolence would be punished." The insinuation slithers through my veins, and I feel it—that sharp twist in my gut that means everything's about to shatter.
I can't breathe.
The walls press closer, closer, until the room feels like a tomb. "No," I manage, my voice barely a whisper, ragged and raw. That single word carries years of friendship, of shared secrets, of Naomi holding my hand through everything. "You can't do that."
He turns to me with those eyes—the ones that watched me fall in recitals, that watched me struggle to stand again, that now watch me realize just how deep his cruelty runs. His head tilts just so, like I'm a disappointing performance he has to sit through.
Each step Naomi takes echoes like a death knell. My father isn't just taking my freedom—he's taking the one person who's always seen me as more than a Moretti, more than a prize to be won.
"Keep your mouth shut, Isabella. Remember where your loyalty should lie." He doesn't need to say more. The threat hangs between us, palpable as the barbwire tightening around my throat. "And maybe, if you're good, I'll reconsider."
If I'm good. Like I'm still five years old, begging to stay up late for one more pirouette. Like he's still the father who used to lift me onto his shoulders, not this man who trades people like poker chips.
Naomi catches my eye across the room, and I see it—that tiny shake of her head, begging me to stay quiet. Even now, even as my father's bargaining chip, she's trying to protect me.