23. Isabella
ISABELLA
I stand frozen, unable to breathe as I stare at the bodies sprawled across Alessandro's dining room floor. Men who were laughing and talking just moments ago now lie still, their faces contorted in their final moments of agony.
I've grown up in this world, have heard whispers of violence since I was a child, but nothing prepared me for this. The brutality. The finality.
Alessandro barks orders while checking pulses. Rage builds with each dead man he encounters.
It’s only then I realize they all drank from the bottle of whisky my father sent.
Nausea roils in my gut as I recall the bottle that arrived with a note of apology from my father.
I brought the bottle to Alessandro’s office, setting it on his desk.
I might as well have handed him the poison directly.
He turns to me, and the look in his eyes makes me recoil. It's not just anger. It’s blame.
"Your father just tried to murder me in my own home."
I can't deny it. Although it makes no sense. My father can't be trusted, but he's not stupid enough to do this. Plus, if he were trying to kill Alessandro, he’d be in attendance. He’d want to see the result of his dirty work.
And yet, the evidence around me suggests I’m wrong.
“Alessandro—”
“Don’t. Don’t. Say. A. Word.” He scans the room, his eyes stopping on one of his men. “Take her upstairs. Make sure she doesn’t leave. Take her phone so she can’t contact anyone.”
“Alessandro, I had no part—”
But he was already turning away. Dismissing me.
His soldier takes my arm, but I jerk away. “I can get myself up to my room.” I hand him my phone. Who would I call, anyway?
Once in our bedroom, I pace, a torrent of emotions clashing inside me. Anger at my father for doing this. Anger at Alessandro for distrusting me. And fear. Fear that before the night is over, I’ll be dead.
Our marriage has been nothing but whiplash. One moment, Alessandro looks at me with a wild passion and the next, he treats me like the enemy.
I sink onto the edge of our bed thinking back on the honeymoon and how I was sure we were starting to build something together.
Were those moments real? Or was he simply securing my loyalty, using pleasure and fake affection to manipulate me?
My chest constricts at the idea that he’s used me as much as my father has.
Outside, I hear car doors slam, voices raised.
I rush to the window to see men with guns patrolling the grounds.
This is the world I grew up in, was married into.
Death served alongside dinner. Armed guards instead of friendly neighbors.
And Alessandro stands at its center, a man I know nothing about, despite having given him my body, my trust.
I realize how completely alone I am. And how much danger I’m in. I’m waiting for a man who might return to me as my executioner.
The bedroom door flies open with force. I flinch and stumble back against the bed. Alessandro fills the doorway, dark and furious. His usually immaculate appearance is disheveled, his hair falling over his brow, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up.
He doesn't say a word. He just stares at me with eyes so cold, they burn. I've never seen him like this. This isn't the cool, aloof husband from our wedding day or the passionate lover from our honeymoon. This is someone else entirely. Someone dangerous.
He closes the door behind him, his dark eyes never leaving me. Fear ramps up and I instinctively look for a way to escape, knowing there is none.
"Eight men," he finally says, his voice low and dark. "Three of them had protected me since I was a boy. They all died tonight at my table."
I swallow hard. "I didn't know—"
"Didn’t you?" He moves closer. I try to retreat, but there’s nowhere for me to go.
"Your father sends a poisoned gift, delivered by your hands, on a night you arranged."
My heart hammers. “I didn’t have any part in this.”
His laugh is bitter, humorless. “You’re good.
That innocent princess act had me fooled.
” He reaches for me suddenly, and my protective instinct has me trying to pull free.
But it’s no use. His hands close around my upper arms, not painfully but with enough pressure to make his strength clear.
Those hands that caressed me so tenderly just days ago now hold me like he wants to strangle the life out of me.
“Please… ”
"Look me in the eyes and tell me you had nothing to do with this," he demands.
"I had nothing to do with this." I meet his gaze directly, my voice steady, hoping he’ll see the truth in my eyes. "I swear on my life, Alessandro. I didn't know."
“Fuck!” Alessandro releases my arms suddenly, as if the contact burns. He turns away, raking a hand through his dark hair. "I should have known better. A peace offering from Marco Vitale? I've been in this life too long to make such a basic mistake."
He slams his fist against the wall, and I jump at the sound. The violence of it, even directed at an inanimate object, reminds me how dangerous he truly is.
"It's not your fault," I say softly, taking a tentative step toward him. "My father—"
Alessandro whirls around, his eyes flashing. "Your father sent a poisoned bottle meant to kill me. Like a fucking moron, I served it. The only question now is how deeply you're involved."
"I would never betray you like that.”
He shakes his head.
“And… ” I’m afraid to say this next bit, but it’s important. “I’m not convinced my father did, either.”
The fire in Alessandro’s eyes has me shrinking away from him, afraid he might lash out physically even though he’s never before raised a hand to me.
“Proof that you are a part of this. You’re defending him?”
“No.” I shake my head vehemently. “I’m not defending him. I’m questioning whether he really did it because I really don’t think he’d kill you this way."
"You expect me to believe Marco Vitale suddenly developed a conscience about how he murders people?" Alessandro's laugh is bitter, cutting.
"No. I expect you to believe that a man obsessed with power and reputation wouldn't kill you like this.
" I step closer, willing him to understand.
"My father values reputation above everything.
He'd want everyone to know it was him who took you down.
This" —I gesture vaguely toward the floor below where bodies were carried out— "this is too quiet, too hidden for him. He’d want to watch. He’d want to look in your eyes as your life left your body, knowing you knew it was him who took it. "
Alessandro's eyes narrow, studying me with suspicious intensity. "Then who?"
I hesitate because I’m not sure. "My brother, perhaps."
"Enrico? You think Enrico is behind this?"
"He's always been different from my father. More calculating. Less concerned with the old ways." As I talk it out, it makes more sense. "And he's always hated you."
Alessandro breaks away from me. "Is your brother truly that stupid? To do something like this without your father’s consent?"
"He's that ambitious," I reply. "My father has promised him your business. Your power. He’s tired of waiting."
"And what do you believe, Isabella?" Alessandro steps closer, his gaze piercing through me. "Where do your loyalties lie? With the family that sold you or with the man they sold you to?"
Two weeks ago, I might have hesitated. Now, standing in a house where men just died, faced with a husband who might still decide I'm his enemy, I find my answer comes easily.
"I am Isabella Dante now," I say. "Whatever my father or brother have done, their actions aren't mine. I didn't choose to be a Vitale, but I chose to accept being your wife."
For a flicker of a moment, I think I see surprise, even relief in his expression, but then he laughs. “You had no choice. We both know that.”
“If you believe I’ve betrayed you, then my family has won. They’ve made you question me. He's made me a suspect in my own home. Maybe they expect you to kill me. Then they’d have a just reason to come after you.”
"Your family tried to kill me in my own home," he grinds out. "The bottle that carried their poison passed through your hands."
"Yes. And I hate them for it. I hate that my father's name is on that bottle. I hate that I'm standing here with my husband looking at me like I'm a traitor.” My voice cracks as pain and fear begin to overwhelm me.
“You are a traitor.”
“I’m not. I would never—"
"Never what?" he interrupts, his face inches from mine. "Never betray me? You're a Vitale, Isabella. Betrayal is in your blood."
The words slap at me. I stare at him, suddenly seeing the truth. "No matter what happens between us, no matter how many times I share your bed or stand by your side, you’ll never trust me."
His silence confirms it.
"I thought…" I sniff away tears I’m willing not to fall. "I actually thought we might build something real. That beneath this arrangement, there might be respect. Perhaps even affection."
He scoffs.
"But you've already decided who I am," I continue, unable to stop. "You decided the moment you heard my last name. I will always be a Vitale to you first and your wife second."
The truth makes me sick. Every touch between us meant nothing except to try to placate or manipulate me.
“Why did you even agree to the arrangement if you believed you were bringing the enemy into your home?” That part doesn’t make any sense. Unless… “Unless you want to use me against them. Tell me, are you planning to send me with a poisoned bottle to my father?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Isabella. I’m in no mood.” Alessandro's expression hardens. “I can’t afford to trust you. Not when the price of being wrong is my life and the lives of everyone loyal to me."
The finality in his voice crushes whatever hope I'd been foolishly holding onto.
"Then what am I doing here? If I'll never be more than a potential threat, what's the point of this marriage? Because you should know that my father won’t care what you do to me. Threaten to send my head back on a platter, and he’ll say send it."
Alessandro jerks, shock flashing in his expression. “I don’t kill women.”
“Okay. So threaten to rape me or cut me or lock me up, he won’t care. So you have no leverage over him by marrying me.” My lips quiver at the pain of being seen as worthless by everyone who should love me.
“You know why this marriage exists, but it’s clear your father never planned to honor it. He just used it to get closer to me… to ruin me.”
“And you didn’t?” I find it hard to believe that Alessandro didn’t have a plan to defeat my father.
His jaw tightens, telling me I’m right.
All of a sudden, I’m exhausted. I sink onto the bed. “I think I’ll be happier when I’m dead.”
“What the fuck, Isabella?” He gapes at me.
I shrug. “This life… being used as a tool for death and destruction… not having any say or power over what I want… ” I shake my head. “I’m eighteen years old. My future is just more of this.” I wave my hand between us. “Being used. Being manipulated. Being hated… I dread a lifetime of that.”
“I told you when we married what I could and couldn’t do.”
“You said you’d respect me.”
“And then my businesses were targeted and my men were poisoned.”
I laugh then.
His eyes flare with anger. “You think this is funny?”
“Not at all. I’m just laughing at how na?ve I was. How gullible. But you knew that, didn’t you? You said you wouldn’t love me or have children, but then you outdid yourself in Capri. Wining and dining me. Seducing me. Letting me believe that maybe there could be something more between us.”
“Give me a break. You act like you wanted more, but it was clear you didn’t. We fucked. That’s it.”
“That’s it… ” I’m sure he doesn’t realize how painful those words are.
He stands over me, his hands on his hips. He’s staring at me like he’s confused by me. “Do you have feelings for me?"
I search his face for some hint of his intentions behind the question. Is this a test? A way to gauge my loyalty? Or is he genuinely asking because he... because he cares?
No. He doesn’t care. He made that clear.
"I..." The words stick in my throat. How can I tell him the truth when it’s too hard to believe? When I don’t want them to be true. I want to hate him. My stupid heart has other ideas.
But what good would come from confessing the truth? He's made it clear that he will never trust me. I will always be a Vitale first in his eyes. Dangerous, untrustworthy, potentially fatal.
"Does it matter?" I finally say. "You've already decided who I am."
His eyes darken, and I see frustration. "Answer the question, Isabella."
The command in his tone makes me flinch but also ignites a spark of defiance. I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze directly.
"Would you believe me if I said yes? Or would you assume it's part of some elaborate plot?
" My voice breaks slightly. "I mean, you know the playbook well, don’t you?
You used it that night on the terrace to disrespect my father.
You used it in Capri, manipulated me to feel something for you. Well, congrats. You did."
I do my best to hold his gaze despite how vulnerable I feel right now. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s hurt me. He’s broken me.
"I've tried not to feel anything for you. God knows, it would be easier if I could just be cold like you."
His dark eyes reveal nothing of his thoughts.
I’m tired of this discussion. I’d rather get on with whatever he’s planning to do to me. “I imagine you’ll have greater satisfaction when you punish me knowing that you can break me.”
“You don’t know shit.”