CHAPTER 2

Isabella’s POV

The ride stretched on like a funeral procession.

I sat stiffly in the backseat of my father’s car, my nails biting into the leather as Florence blurred by outside the window.

I should have recognized the streets—their cobblestones, their sun-washed walls but today they felt foreign, almost hostile. The city that had raised me was delivering me straight into the hands of the man I feared most.

Leonardo Ricci.

The name itself pressed against my ribs like a blade. I’d only ever heard whispers, rumors passed around like cautionary tales: he slit throats without blinking, burned men alive for betrayal, and wore respect like a mask only when it served him. Now I was expected to sit across from him, smile, and pretend I was not trembling inside.

“Almost there, Signorina,” Roberto, my father’s driver, said quietly.

I swallowed, but my throat was dry. My hands refused to let go of the seat, my knuckles pale.

Then the car turned down a winding road flanked with towering cypress trees, and my heart began to hammer. At the end of the road stood a massive wrought-iron gate, black and cold as the grave. It creaked open with agonizing slowness, as if daring me to turn back before it closed again.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Once the gates clanged shut behind us, I knew the truth, there was no way out.

The Ricci mansion loomed ahead, a fortress of pale stone and dark windows. It wasn’t just a house—it was a warning, a reminder of who ruled here. Even the air grew colder when I stepped out of the car, my emerald dress suddenly feeling like armor that was far too thin. My father had chosen it for me, calling it a symbol of our family’s strength. To me, it felt more like a chain.

Two guards in black suits guarded the front doors. Unblinking, they stood with the ease of men who could kill in a heartbeat. They nodded curtly as I approached, then pulled open the heavy wooden doors.

The mansion swallowed me whole.

Marble floors gleamed beneath chandeliers that dripped with crystal, but no warmth touched the space. It was beautiful, yes, but cold like walking into a tomb lined with wealth. My steps echoed too loudly in the silence.

“Miss Marino,” a voice called.

I froze.

A tall man with slicked-back hair and sharp features approached. His suit was immaculate, his expression unreadable. For a heartbeat, my stomach lurched, I thought this was him. But no. His eyes lacked that rumored storm.

“Mr. Ricci is waiting for you in the study,” the man said, his tone clipped but polite. He didn’t offer his name. I didn’t ask.

I followed him down a corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced men. Ricci men, I guessed. Their eyes seemed to follow me, each one silently judging, weighing, measuring whether I was strong enough to enter their world.

The man stopped before a set of carved double doors. He knocked once, then pushed them open, gesturing for me to enter alone.

I hesitated only a second. Then I stepped inside.

The study was vast, lined wall-to-wall with bookshelves and lit by the orange glow of a fire. The scent of leather and wood polish lingered thick in the air. And there he was. The Almighty Leonardo Ricci.

He didn’t rise to greet me. He sat comfortably in a leather chair near the fire, one hand resting on the armrest, the other holding a glass of whiskey. His dark suit fit his broad frame like it had been tailored by fear itself.

The firelight carved shadows across his sharp jaw and steady eyes, making him look both refined and untouchable. His dark hair was perfectly in place, not a strand out of line. There was something striking about him—handsome, in a way that was dangerous to admit.

But it was his eyes that made my pulse stutter. Gray, like a storm ready to break. Cold, assessing, and far too steady.

“Signorina Marino,” he said, his voice low, smooth, and disarmingly polite. “Welcome.”

It was not what I expected. No barked orders, no overt menace. Just courtesy. But the kind that made me more uneasy, because courtesy could be a trap.

“Thank you. Signore Ricci,” I whispered, forcing my voice to stay even as I dipped my head in acknowledgment.

“Please,” he gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. But it wasn’t a threat either. Somewhere in between.

I crossed the room slowly, every instinct screaming at me to keep distance, yet I obeyed. The chair was soft, but the air was stifling. He studied me in silence for several long seconds, the weight of his gaze pressing down like a vice.

“You’re nervous,” he said finally, tilting his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl.

I clenched my hands in my lap. “Shouldn’t I be?”

His lips curved slightly—not a smile, but something close. “You’re honest. I prefer that to false bravado.”

My breath hitched. I hadn’t expected that either.

“You’ve heard things about me,” he went on, his tone calm, conversational. “That I’m ruthless. That I kill without blinking. That I am—” his eyes flicked up to mine, sharp as a blade “—a monster.”

The word cut into me because it was the one I had whispered myself, in the dark.

I forced myself to hold his gaze, though my voice faltered. “People talk. They exaggerate.”

“Do they?” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. His stare intensified, locking me in place. “Or are you trying to convince yourself you can face what’s coming?”

I opened my mouth, but no answer came.

And then—

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The sound split the air like lightning. Gunshots—sharp, echoing, rattled the windows. I jolted to my feet, heart slamming against my ribs.

Another shot followed. Shouting. The sound of something heavy hitting the marble floor outside the study.

Blood roared in my ears. “What….what’s happening….”

Leonardo didn’t move quickly. He didn’t panic. He set his glass down with deliberate calm, then stood, tall and commanding, his presence filling the room like a storm breaking.

“Stay here,” he said, voice low but edged with steel.

I shook my head frantically. “Wait…..”

But he was already striding to the door. When he opened it, I caught a flash of chaos: a man in a suit collapsed against the wall, blood spreading across his chest, another dragged away by guards. The sharp tang of iron filled the air.

My stomach lurched, bile burning my throat.

Leonardo stepped out, murmured something I couldn’t hear, and the shouting dulled to curt orders. Within moments, the hallway was cleared, the bodies gone, the blood smeared away as if it had never been there.

When he returned, he shut the doors softly behind him. Not a drop of blood marked his suit. His expression hadn’t changed still calm, steady, controlled.

But his eyes….they were colder now. Deadlier.

I realized then: the rumors weren’t exaggerations. They weren’t stories told to frighten people. They were truth, barely concealed beneath this polite facade.

He looked at me, at my trembling hands clutching the armrest. “You see, Signorina,” he said quietly, “this is the world you’ve been brought into. There is no room for weakness here.”

My chest heaved. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t weak, even as fear knotted my stomach. But my voice failed me.

Leonardo picked up his glass again, as though nothing had happened. “You’ll learn,” he said, swirling the whiskey. “And if you’re clever… you may even survive.”

The fire crackled behind him, throwing his shadow across the wall. And I sat frozen, realizing that whatever cage my father had locked me in before—this was worse. This was the lion’s den.