Chapter 20 Lucia
LUCIA
Isabella Bellandi’s composure has not returned.
She tries, I’ll give her that, sitting straighter when I enter, lifting her chin as though pride alone might rebuild the world she has lost.
But her hands keep betraying her, fingers tightening and loosening against the arms of the chair, her breathing shallow in a way that speaks of fear she does not know how to disguise.
I close the door behind me myself. I don’t let the men do it.
This is my room.
My interrogation.
My war.
“You look tired,” Isabella says, voice brittle with forced disdain. “Is it exhausting, playing Donna?”
I pull out the chair opposite her and sit with deliberate ease, crossing my legs slowly, letting the silence stretch long enough that she begins to feel it.
“It’s exhausting,” I agree calmly. “But not for the reasons you think.”
Her eyes narrow.
“You think you’re strong,” she spits. “Because you stole him.”
I smile faintly.
“You keep using that word,” I reply. “Stole. As though Giovanni Dragoni is a necklace you misplaced, rather than a man who chose.”
Her lips peel back. “He was meant to marry me.”
“He was meant to marry whoever the hell he wanted,” I correct, my voice even. “And that’s what sticks in your craw the most, isn’t it? That, plus you confusing tradition with entitlement. They are not the same thing. And they’re both long past their use-by dates.”
Her breath shudders.
“You don’t belong here,” she says, and there is something almost frantic beneath the cruelty now. “This world will eat you alive.”
“It feels like I’ve been eaten alive before, when your father tried to kill me… oh… three weeks ago?” I tell her softly. “I survived. You, however… you think you’ve survived because no one has ever truly tested you.”
Her jaw clenches hard. “You think this is a test?”
“I think you’re running out of time,” I say simply. “So let us stop circling. Tell me what your father planned.”
Isabella’s laugh is sharp, humourless. “You already know,” she says. “He planned to kill Giovanni.”
“And after?” I press. “What then?”
Her gaze flickers, but her lips purse tighter.
“After he was gone,” I continue, “what was next? La Fratellanza Nera doesn’t move without a reason. Bellandi does not beg for meetings without leverage. What are you not telling me?”
She hesitates.
I lean forward slightly. “I am not asking twice. And next time I might not be able to stop Lorenzo here from extracting much-needed retribution for shooting his Don.”
Her nostrils flare, rage warring with calculation. But like a deflating balloon she realises her only option is to give me what I want.
“They gave him a timeline,” she says finally, the words coming out like poison. “La Fratellanza Nera. They told him to bring Dragoni to heel or step aside.”
My stomach tightens. “How long?”
“Days,” she snaps. “Not weeks. Days. You’re running out of time,” she taunts. A bully who doesn’t know when to lie the hell down.
A cold clarity settles through me. “And if your father fails? What then? They let him waltz off into the sunset? I don’t think so.”
Her jaw works for frantic minutes. Then anguish crosses her face. “They will replace him,” Isabella says, voice rising. “But they will still take New York. They will carve it up like meat. They think Giovanni has grown weak.”
I let out a quiet breath.
Because of me.
Isabella sees it in my face and pounces. “Because of you,” she hisses. “Because he chased you. Because he brought you back. Because he lets you sit at his table when women are supposed to stay silent and pretty.”
I tilt my head. “And yet you are the one in a chair,” I murmur. “Silent. Pretty. Powerless.”
Her face flushes with fury. “You think you’ve won,” she spits. “I look forward to seeing you learn otherwise.”
She can’t help her glee. Stupid woman. Seriously, some women need to learn to say no when the beauty prize grossly outweighs the brains.
“Let me guess. Bellandi has another ace?”
She stills, then her lashes sweep down as she recognises her error.
“Lorenzo,” I say softly.
The giant body advances one step before Isabella gasps. “Wait! I’ll tell you!”
I put up a hand and Lorenzo retreats. “Go on, then.”
Her lips tremble with the need to hurt me back. “He was arranging my marriage,” she says, and the humiliation in her voice is sharp enough to taste. “In Sicily. To a rising capo. An alliance. A shield. A way to prove he still controls something.”
My eyes narrow. “So while he begged Giovanni for peace,” I say slowly, “he was selling his daughter like currency.”
Isabella’s eyes blaze with tears she refuses to let fall. “You don’t understand,” she whispers. “This is how it works.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” I reply, and something dark and calm moves through me. “I understand that your father believes you are a pawn.”
Her throat works.
“And now,” I continue, voice low, “he’s frantic to get you back because his board has been overturned.”
She jerks forward. “You will not keep me here.”
I smile. “I’ll do whatever I like.”
Her breath catches, and for the first time I see the crack widen.
Then—
The door opens. Heavy footsteps.
A familiar presence that changes the air before I even turn.
Giovanni.
He stands in the doorway with a crutch under one arm, his shirt open at the collar, his face pale with injury but his eyes very much alive, very much lethal.
My heart clenches. What is he doing out of bed?
I don’t move; won’t give Isabella the satisfaction of seeing my fear.
But my voice is quiet steel when he’s within hearing distance. “We will have very strong words about this later, maritu.” The word leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
Husband. Sicilian and intimate.
Giovanni stills completely. For one suspended moment, even Isabella forgets to breathe.
Then Giovanni’s gaze locks on mine with something like shock, like hunger, like reverence.
He crosses the room in two strides despite the crutch, reaches for the back of my neck, and kisses me hard, claiming my mouth with a ferocity that makes my skin flush hot.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against mine. “I look forward to hearing that again when I’m balls-deep inside you,” he whispers for my ears alone.
Then his eyes drift to the figure in the chair.
“Anything to tell me,” he murmurs, voice rough, “my Donna.”
The title hits differently now, especially from Giovanni. Hits in the way that makes my very soul tremble. At the recognition I didn’t seek and yet sends waves of electrifying thrill through me.
I swallow, warmth curling low in my belly despite everything. “Yes,” I say evenly, turning my attention back to Isabella. “Plenty.”
Giovanni’s eyes flick to our prisoner. “Speak.”
Isabella’s bravado falters.
I report calmly, precisely, laying out the timeline, the rebellion brewing, the marriage arrangement in Sicily, the desperation underneath Bellandi’s civility.
Giovanni listens without interruption, and when I finish, his jaw tightens. “Salvatore thinks he can outlast me,” he says quietly.
“And La Fratellanza Nera thinks you have softened,” I add.
His gaze slides to me. “I do so love being underestimated.”
The room feels smaller, more dangerous as Giovanni’s hand settles at my back, possessive and steady. “We will silence the Bellandis,” he says, voice low. “Once and for all.”
Isabella makes a sound, half laugh, half sob. “You will die for this,” she spits.
Giovanni’s eyes cut to her, cold. “No,” he replies. “But a Bellandi will. What you need to decide is if you want that to be you. Or your father.”
I exhale slowly.
Enough.
I turn to my husband. “We’re done for now,” I tell Isabella. “Compose yourself. You will be useful again soon.”
Giovanni’s hand tightens slightly at my waist.
And then, because I cannot help it, because he’s injured and infuriating and still mine, I turn deeper into him, slide my arm around his waist as we leave.
“You are going back to bed.”
His mouth curves. “Understood, Donna. I might even rest,” he says, “but only if you are there.”
I glare. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “owe me another maritu.”
Heat rises in my face. “Do not get smug. And no way in hell I’m doing that… that balls-deep thing while you’re still injured.”
“I’m a wounded patient. I believe that entitles me to whatever I want,” he replies softly.
Back in the bedroom, I help him settle despite his protests, despite the way he tries to pretend pain is irrelevant.
He watches me with something unguarded.
Pride.
Concern.
A hunger that is not only physical.
When I shower and climb into bed beside him, he pulls me close with careful strength, his breath warm against my hair.
“You scared me,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His hand stills.
“I know,” he says quietly. “But I also made a promise to you that I will never leave you. So no harm, no foul, si?”
I huff softly. “I hate you.”
“No,” he replies, voice low, “you do not.”
My mouth tightens, but exhaustion drags at me, heavy and relentless.
Sleep comes slowly but inevitably.
Giovanni’s body remains warm, solid beside me, awake even as I drift, his mind already moving pieces across the board.
I know he’s planning.
Waiting.
And I let him. Because we’re partners now.
And nothing can tear us apart.
Right?