Chapter Eight
The ballroom of the DeLuca villa was a spectacle of power and excess. Chandeliers cast golden light over the assembled elites, their laughter and whispered negotiations weaving a web of influence that stretched far beyond these walls. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey, masking the undercurrent of tension that always lingered in rooms filled with men who would kill each other if given the opportunity.
Isla stood at the edge of the grand hall, her fingers loosely curled around a glass of champagne, untouched. She wore her defiance like armor, draped in silk and diamonds, her back straight, her expression impassive as she watched the power plays unfold before her. She was the only woman in this room who had no choice in her position. A queen placed beside a king she had never wanted, forced to play her role in his empire.
But if they thought she would remain silent, they were sorely mistaken.
Her gaze flicked to Matteo’s second-in-command, Luca. He was charming in a way Matteo was not—smooth, effortless in his charisma. Where Matteo’s presence was a force of gravity, Luca’s was an invitation, a beckoning to lean in closer, to listen. And Isla needed an ally.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough to force him to lean in. “Tell me, Luca, do all of Matteo’s men follow orders blindly, or do some dare to think for themselves?”
Luca chuckled, his blue eyes flashing with interest. “That depends on the order.”
She tilted her head slightly, allowing a small, knowing smile to play on her lips. “And if the order was to keep me locked away like a prize in a cage?”
Luca’s smirk faltered, just slightly. “I’d say you should ask your husband that question.”
She barely had time to react before the air shifted, before a shadow loomed behind her, bringing a chill despite the heat of the crowded room.
Matteo.
His presence was a force unto itself, dark and all-consuming. His hand closed around her wrist, firm but controlled, a warning in his grip. Conversations around them quieted, eyes discreetly darting in their direction before looking away. No one wanted to be caught in the storm brewing between them.
“A word, wife,” Matteo said, his voice quiet but edged with steel.
She could have refused. She could have caused a scene. But instead, she let him pull her away, her pulse thrumming not from fear—but from something far more dangerous.
The moment they were alone, Matteo spun her around, pressing her against the cold marble wall of the dimly lit corridor. His grip remained firm, his dark eyes burning with something she couldn’t name.
“What exactly are you trying to prove, Isla?”
She met his gaze without flinching. “That I’m not yours to control.”
His lips curled into something that was not quite a smile. “And yet, here you are, in my home, wearing my ring, carrying my name.”
A thrill of fury coiled in her chest. “A name I never asked for.”
His fingers brushed against her jaw, deceptively gentle. “And yet, it’s the only name that will keep you alive in this world.”
The truth of his words stung more than she wanted to admit. Because despite everything, despite her hatred for him, she knew that being Isla DeLuca came with a power she could never have had as Isla Marino.
But that didn’t mean she would surrender.
She pressed her palms against his chest, pushing him back just enough to breathe. “You think I can be tamed?”
Matteo exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Tamed? No, wife.” His voice dropped lower, his thumb tracing over the pulse point at her throat. “I don’t want to tame you. I want to break you.”
Her breath hitched, her body betraying her as heat spread through her veins. She hated him for the way he got under her skin, for the way his dominance sent a thrill through her when it should have terrified her.
She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing.
“You’ll be disappointed, then,” she said, her voice steady despite the chaos inside her. “Because you can’t break something that refuses to bend.”
Matteo studied her for a long moment, the space between them charged, his grip tightening just slightly. Then, abruptly, he let her go, stepping back with an exhale, running a hand through his dark hair as if she had somehow managed to frustrate him more than anyone else ever had.
His next words sent a shiver down her spine. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to enjoy the fight.”
She swallowed hard, refusing to acknowledge the way her heart pounded at the challenge in his voice. She had thought she was the one pushing him, testing him—but Matteo DeLuca was playing the long game.
And she wasn’t sure she was ready for what that meant.
****
The next morning, Isla woke to find her room guarded. Not just outside the door, but at every possible exit. Matteo had tightened his grip, reinforcing her captivity under the guise of ‘protection.’
She refused to be caged.
She tested the boundaries, attempting to slip past them, but Matteo’s men were well-trained, their orders clear. They were not to let her leave. Not even to the gardens.
That night, she found herself back in the same ballroom, this time seated beside Matteo at the head of the table. A quiet, lingering tension stretched between them. The previous night’s confrontation still crackled in the air.
Luca approached, setting a fresh drink in front of her, his expression carefully neutral. But there was something behind his eyes—respect, perhaps. Or maybe just amusement at her defiance.
Matteo noticed. Of course, he did.
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Keep pushing me, wife, and you’ll find out exactly how far I’m willing to go.”
A shiver ran down her spine, but she refused to react. Instead, she took a slow sip of her drink, turning her gaze to him with a smirk.
“Maybe I want to find out.”
His hand gripped her thigh under the table, not enough to hurt—but enough to remind her exactly who she was dealing with.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Isla.”
She tilted her head, meeting his eyes with a challenge of her own. “Then I guess we’ll see who wins.”