Chapter Two

Isabella POV

The footsteps were coming closer. Each hit felt like it moved the air, booming in my ears. I pressed my hand to the door. The wood felt cool on my fingers. I leaned my head so I could hear even the smallest sound. The house was now still, no voices, no shuffle of fabric. Just the steady approach of whoever had just ended Giuseppe’s life.

I told myself maybe they’d pass by, maybe they didn’t know which room was mine. That fragile thread of hope snapped the instant everything stopped.

No footsteps. No breathing. Nothing.

The silence was worse than the steps, like the air itself was holding its breath. My chest burned from doing it too. My heart was pounding so hard & loud, that I imagine anyone on the other side of the door could hear it.

Then the door splintered open. The door whizzed right past me and HIT me backwards, and I fell hard on the wood floor. The pain hit my back. My sight started to fade, but I got up because of the rush from the adrenaline. Then my breath stopped.

It was Giuseppe.

Alive. Standing in my doorway, holding a pistol I’d never seen before, its barrel aimed at my chest.

“Giuseppe?” My voice was small, my own name for him tasting strange now. “What—? I heard the gunshot—”

“That was one of the other guards who was too curious.” The warmth which I had gotten used to all my life had been removed out of his tone. No smile in his eyes. No clue of the man who stole me some fruit dessert when Papa wasn't looking.

He spoke with a mechanical voice, calm. “I am sorry, the Torinno's assigned me to study your family for years, Isabella. Routines. Weaknesses. Tonight it all pays off.”

My stomach turned. A decade in our home and for the past two years, he’d been plotting against us? Sitting at our table, hearing our secrets, all while carrying this in his pocket?

“Why?” The word escaped before I could think.

His laugh was bitter, hollow. “The Torinnos have my daughter. Eight years old. They took her from school yesterday. They gave me a choice to kill you, or they will kill her.”

The name hit like a slap. The Torinnos, Papa’s oldest enemies, the ones whispered about even in daylight. The ones Papa truly hated.

Giuseppe’s grip on the pistol didn’t waver. “It’s not personal. Just business. Your life for hers.”

My life for his daughter’s. A cruel equation in our world, where innocence was irrelevant.

I saw his finger tighten, and instinct took over before thought could catch up. My hand closed on the heavy glass paperweight from my nightstand, a silly gift from my art teacher years ago. I hurled it at his face.

He flinched, the shot missing, the gunfire shattering the room’s silence.

I lunged.

We hit the floor in a blur of limbs and grunts. He was stronger, heavier, but panic lent me a sharp, desperate strength. My nails raked his wrist, fighting to twist the gun away.

“I’m sorry, Isabella—” His elbow jammed into my ribs.

“I know!” I gasped, vision blurring. “But I don’t want to die!”

Paint tubes skittered across the floor as we rolled into my easel. The gun was caught between us, our hands locked around it, neither willing to let go. His weight pressed me down, his grip overpowering mine.

And then, the barrel shifted toward him.

I didn’t think about it. I just squeezed. The gunshot roared in the small room.

His eyes got big. He looked down to see red growing on his shirt, then looked up at me. He looked shocked, lost, and was starting to slip away.

I said, "I’m sorry," in a quiet voice. It did not feel like the words helped.

He wanted to say something, but there was only blood. Then his eyes lost all the light, and that was it. My Giuseppe was gone.

I moved back quickly. I shook tremblingly that I was not able to hold my hands still. There was gunpowder and blood smell in the air. That nasty metal odor lingered in my mouth until I had a feeling that I would vomit.

I just murdered a human. I barely got to the bathroom when my body revolted. Each gasp was fierce as it tore my throat. When there was nothing left but bile, the truth still sat heavy inside me: I had taken a life.

And his daughter… oh God, his daughter. Would they free her now? Or would she become another ghost in this war that never ends?

“Isabella!”

Papa’s voice thundered through the house. The sound of boots, several pairs pounded up the stairs. My voice caught in my raw throat, useless.

Papa appeared, his suit torn and stained, his shoulder wrapped in bloody fabric. His face paled as his gaze landed on Giuseppe’s body.

“Jesus Christ.”

He found me curled beside the toilet. His hands were unexpectedly gentle as he pulled me up, guiding me back to my room.

“What happened?” His voice was low, dangerous.

I told him. Every word made his expression darker. When I finished, I braced for anger.

Instead, he smiled.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “You did what you had to do to survive. That’s exactly what you’ll need when you take over this family.”

Take over the family. My stomach lurched again.

“I don’t want—”

“Don’t want what? To live?” His grip tightened. “Survival is the only thing that matters. Tonight, you proved you have the spine for it.”

Downstairs, only four men waited, bloodied and battered survivors.

“The Torinnos were waiting,” Papa said. “We can’t take them alone.”

Marco, Papa’s second, suggested the unthinkable: an alliance with Damian Moretti.

The name hung in the air like smoke. I even knew what that meant.

Papa warned that Moretti always wanted payment, payment you couldn’t afford.

Then Marco’s gaze flicked to me. My blood turned to ice.

“An arranged marriage,” Marco said. “Isabella is of age. Educated. Beautiful. It would cement the alliance.”

No.

Papa was silent, but I saw him weighing it.

“It’s not just survival,” Marco pressed. “You see, it is about being untouchable.”

They were talking about me like I was not there. I wanted to scream, I wanted to tell them that I want nothing to do with all this. But, daughter's protests were a noise in Papa’s world.

Finally, Papa’s eyes locked on mine. “Well, Isabella? Ready to become a Moretti?”