Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Isabella
This place is more like home now. I never thought I would say that about Lorenzo De Luca’s fortress of marble and steel, but somewhere between the fighting and the fucking, it stopped being a prison and began to feel more like ours.
I stand before the window in our bedroom, watching the sun rise, and I already feel his absence. Lorenzo left early this morning, slipping out of bed with a kiss to my temple and a whispered promise that he would be back by nightfall.
I can see how torn he is about what he has to do, how that decision weighs on him in a way nothing else ever has. Lorenzo De Luca does not hesitate. He never second-guesses himself. He does what needs to be done, without remorse or regret.
But this is different for him.
And I understand it better than most people do. I grew up in this world. I know how it works, how power is the only currency that matters. My father taught me that lesson over and over until it was carved into my bones.
I am experiencing a joy I never imagined was possible. Three weeks ago, I would have laughed at the idea and said it was impossible. That Lorenzo was a monster incapable of anything resembling human emotion.
But I was wrong.
He is a monster. There is no question about it. But he is also a man. A man who has been broken and rebuilt so many times that the cracks are part of his foundation. A man who kills without hesitation yet holds me with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
I exit the room and head downstairs. The house is quiet this time of morning, the kind of peaceful silence that only exists in the hours before the rest of the world wakes.
My bare feet are silent on the cool marble floors as I make my way toward the kitchen, following the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee, which tells me Carlo is already awake.
I find him standing at the counter, pouring himself a cup from the expensive espresso machine Lorenzo imported from Italy.
He has not started cooking yet, but I can see ingredients laid out on the marble island.
Fresh eggs. Vegetables for an omelet. Bread that was probably baked in the last few hours, because Carlo does not believe in anything that comes from a store.
He looks up as I walk in, and his weathered face breaks into a genuine smile.
“Morning, Isabella.”
“Morning, Carlo.”
The formality that existed between us in the first weeks of my marriage to Lorenzo has long since disappeared. Somewhere along the way, after countless early mornings in this kitchen and late nights when Lorenzo was working and I couldn’t sleep, we became something that almost resembled friends.
He is the only person in this house, other than Lorenzo, that I actually talk to. The only one Lorenzo trusts enough to allow me to have any kind of relationship with. Maybe it is because he has been with Lorenzo longer than anyone else.
Whatever the reason is, I am grateful.
“You’re up early,” Carlo says, already reaching for a second cup. He pours me coffee without asking, adding exactly the amount of cream I like. He has my routine memorized by now. “Lorenzo left before dawn again?”
“Yeah.” I accept the cup and wrap my hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my palms.
“Are you ready for breakfast? I can make you an omelet.”
“I think I might just have fruit today,” I say.
He moves to the refrigerator, pulling out a bowl of fresh berries and sliced melon that he must have prepared earlier. He sets it in front of me with a small fork. “You tell me if you change your mind and want something else.”
“Thank you, Carlo.”
I eat slowly, savoring the fruit’s sweetness as Carlo begins his morning prep. He hums quietly as he works, an old Italian song I don’t recognize.
When I finish, I rinse my bowl in the sink despite Carlo’s protests that he will handle it, then I head down the hall toward Lorenzo’s office.
The door is locked. But he gave me the code when things changed between us, telling me to punch it into the keypad and then making me memorize it.
I push the door wide open and step inside, closing it behind me.
Lorenzo’s office is exactly as he always leaves it. Files stacked in neat piles. His framed family photograph looking back. The board on the wall, covered in photographs, maps, and notes in his messy handwriting.
I sit at his desk, staring at the wall. Matteo and Emery’s faces stare back at me from the center of the board.
Below their photos is a map with a location circled in red, presumably where Matteo and Emery are reportedly hiding.
And then there is the new circle on a different map. The one Lorenzo added yesterday after receiving the call that changed everything.
Where Alessandro De Luca was spotted three days ago.
Alessandro. Matteo’s father. The original Don who ruled the De Luca empire with blood, fear, and ruthless ambition. The man who ran when his son burned it all down around him.
And now, apparently, he is back.
Lorenzo told me about it last night as we lay in bed, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare skin.
He said Alessandro’s return complicates everything.
That the old Don still has loyalists who might rally behind him if they think he is making a play to reclaim what’s his.
That killing Matteo is no longer just about succession. It is about preventing a war.
“I have to be strategic about this,” Lorenzo said. “If I move too fast, I risk pushing Alessandro into action before I am ready. If I wait too long, I give him time to rebuild his network. I need to find the right moment and the right approach.”
What are you contemplating?” I asked.
“I’m thinking I need to isolate Matteo first. Make sure he’s alone. No backup. No escape route. Then I need to make it clean. Quick. Something that sends a message without starting a war.”
“And Alessandro?”
“He is a different problem.” Lorenzo’s hand stilled on my hip. “He’s a coward. He won’t come at me directly. He’ll send others to do his dirty work and that means I need to find out who his allies are.”
“How do you do that?”
“Carefully.” He pulled me closer, his lips brushing my temple. “Very carefully, while keeping you safe.”
I stare at the board now, trying to see what Lorenzo sees and understand the chess game he’s playing. But this is his world, not mine. I can navigate it. I can survive it. But I will never see the angles the way he does.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a message from my father.
The Devil: We need to talk. Call me when you are alone.
My stomach drops. The words are simple, but I understand how my father phrases things when he wants something. When he expects obedience without question.
I have not heard from him since he called me to his house. When I sat across from him in that cold office and he told me exactly what my role in this marriage to Lorenzo was.
I stare at the message for a long moment, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
The fear comes first. It’s automatic. Instinctive. The same fear that has lived in my bones since I was old enough to understand what my father was capable of.
I notice myself slipping back into that old routine. The one where he dominates and I submit, where his voice in my head is louder than my own.
But then I remember where I am. I am not just my father’s daughter anymore. I am Lorenzo’s wife.
I take a deep breath followed by another. The fear is still there, years of conditioning that tell me I have no choice but to obey.
But I have a choice now. I will ignore his demands.
I set the phone facedown on Lorenzo’s desk and stare at it.
But another thought surfaces. What if my father knows something?
He has his own network. If Alessandro De Luca is back in the country and if there is movement in the remnants of the De Luca empire, it is possible my father knows something about it.
And if I can get information from him that could help Lorenzo, then this conversation is worth having.
Maybe I can turn my father’s attempt to manipulate me into something useful.
The idea takes root and grows.
I pick up the phone again and stare at the message. My hands are steadier now, and my breathing is more controlled.
“I can do this,” I tell myself.
I dial the number.
He answers on the second ring.
“Isabella.” His voice is smooth. The kind of smooth that comes from years of practice at manipulating people into doing exactly what he wants. “I was beginning to think you were ignoring me.”
“What do you want?” I keep my voice steady. I will not give him the satisfaction of hearing fear in it.
“Information.” He says it simply, matter-of-factly, as if he is asking me about the weather instead of demanding that I betray my husband. “I need to know what your husband is planning.”
“I told you before I don’t know anything.” I lean back in the chair, forcing myself to breathe, to sound bored instead of terrified. “Why? Have you heard something?”
There is a pause. My father does not like being questioned or having his tactics turned back on him.
“Do not play games with me, Isabella,” he says, his voice edged. “You are in that house. You sleep in his bed. You have access to his conversations. Do not insult my intelligence by pretending you know nothing.”
“I am his wife. He barely talks to me as it is.” I inject just enough petulance into my tone to sell it—the spoiled daughter who married into power but has no real understanding of how it works.
“Then make him talk to you.” My father’s voice hardens. “You are a beautiful woman, my daughter. Use that. Men are weak when it comes to beautiful women, especially in bed. Get him to tell you what he is working on, what moves he is making and who he is targeting.”
Disgust rolls through me. This is what I am to him. A tool. A weapon. Something to be used and then discarded when I am no longer useful.
“You know more than you are saying. You have always been a terrible liar, even as a child. So let me make this clear. I need something solid. Names. Locations. Plans. Whatever your husband is working on, I need to know about it. If you do not give it to me, there will be consequences.”
There it is. The same old threat. The reminder that he still holds power over me if I do not fall in line.
But something inside me hardens, because I am so fucking tired of his bullshit.
“Consequences for who?” I ask, and my voice has an edge now.
“Because I am telling you the truth. I am just the wife he was forced to marry. I sit in this house all day and stay out of his way. That is it. So unless you want me to start making things up, I don’t know what you expect me to give you. ”
“Do not test me, Isabella.” His voice drops, goes cold in a way that used to make my skin crawl.
“You think you are safe now because you married into the De Luca name? Do you believe that Lorenzo gives a fuck about you beyond what you can offer him? You are naive. You have always been naive. And if you do not start being useful to me, I will remind you exactly how much power I still have over your life. Because I am not asking, Isabella. I am telling you. You will get me information, or you will deal with the fallout.”
“And what exactly is the fallout?” The fear is still there, coiled in my chest, but the anger is just as strong.
“You really want to find out?” His voice is ice. “You want to test whether I am bluffing? I promise you, I am not. You know what I am capable of. I do not make empty threats so I suggest you start taking this seriously.”
He hangs up.
The phone slips from my fingers and clatters onto Lorenzo’s desk. My entire body is shaking and my heart pounds against my ribs so hard I think it might break through. I sink into Lorenzo’s chair and press my hands against my face, trying to steady my breathing and collect my thoughts.
God, I hate him.
I hate him for the fear that still lives in my chest, for the way my hands still shake. Even now, married to one of the most dangerous men in this world, I am still not safe from him.
I hate him for making me feel trapped and powerless.
But most of all, I hate him for being right, because he still has control over me, whether I want to believe it or not. My father’s control is something I can’t escape by changing my last name or moving into a different house.
His control is woven into every part of my life. And until I find a way to cut those threads, until I find a way to remove his ability to do so, I will never truly be free.
The realization weighs heavily on me. I am not free. I have never been free. And I do not know if I ever will be.