LOGINIsabella Romano has spent two years trapped in a house where every glance and whispered word reminds her she is nothing more than a pawn. Her husband, Adriano De Luca, keeps her at arm’s length, while his mother, Caterina, views her with disdain. When a figure from the past returns to Chicago, the delicate balance of power shatters. Alliances shift, dangerous desires ignite, and a web of deception threatens to consume everyone in its path. In a city ruled by mafia families, trust is rare and betrayal lurks behind every smile. Caught in a deadly game of manipulation, forbidden passion, and ambition, Isabella must decide: remain a pawn in her husband’s secret agenda, or rise, reclaim her power, and fight for the life she was meant to live — before everything she holds dear burns around her.
View MoreThe De Luca mansion woke slowly, like a beast after feeding.The echoes of last night’s dinner still hung in the air — laughter turned brittle, whispered gossip drifting through marble halls.Isabella stirred at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. A shaft of morning light slipped through the curtains, pale and cold, cutting across the silk sheets. The other side of the bed was empty, untouched.It always was.She sat up, the ache in her chest familiar, dull. Another day. Another performance.Downstairs, voices murmured — staff moving carefully, as if afraid to disturb the ghosts that lived between these walls. She caught the faint clink of china, the slow drawl of Caterina’s voice ordering breakfast, the sharp edge of control in every syllable.It was strange how a house could feel so alive and yet so dead.Isabella rose, pulling her robe tight around her frame, and glanced at herself in the mirror. The reflection staring back was one she barely recognized — pale skin, tired eyes,
The house was finally quiet.Adriano De Luca stood in the dark of his office, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the city stretching before him in a line of gold and smoke. Chicago’s skyline glimmered like temptation — untouchable, deceptive, alive. From up here, everything looked orderly. Down there, everything bled.He liked that difference.He liked control.He turned the glass of whiskey in his hand, the liquid burning amber under the low light. The scent of it mingled with something softer — perfume. Gianna’s perfume. It still lingered, even though she’d left hours ago, the ghost of her presence etched into the air like a bruise he refused to acknowledge.She had looked perfect tonight — poised, radiant, commanding.Exactly as she was meant to.Caterina had praised her openly, her approval spilling like honey over a table meant for daggers. And Isabella… Isabella had stood there, stiff and silent, eyes wide as Caterina ordered her around like staff. Bring more bread. Clear the dishe
The storm had cleared by evening, leaving the air thick and heavy, the sky bruised with the fading light of dusk. The De Luca mansion glowed like a cathedral — gold light spilling through tall windows, crystal reflecting every breath of movement.Dinner with allies, Caterina had said. A small gathering, nothing formal. But in this house, nothing was ever small, and nothing was ever just dinner.Isabella stood at the top of the staircase, fingers tight around the railing. Below, men in tailored suits moved like shadows, laughter spilling through the corridors, low and practiced.Gianna was there, of course — radiant in a crimson dress that shimmered with every step she took. Her hair fell in perfect waves, her smile calculated to disarm. She looked like she belonged.And Isabella — in her modest black gown — looked like an afterthought.Adriano was by the fireplace again, speaking to a man she didn’t recognize. He looked composed, effortless, untouchable. When he saw her descend, his g
The morning came gray and slow, the kind of light that made the city look like it was holding its breath. Chicago had that way of waking up — with a hum under the surface, restless, watchful, like it knew something was coming.Isabella stirred before dawn, the habit carved deep after years of sleepless nights. The space beside her was empty, as always. Adriano’s side of the bed was untouched, the pillow cold.She pushed herself up, running a hand through her dark hair, and sat still for a moment, listening. Somewhere below, the house was already alive — footsteps, voices, the distant rumble of engines in the driveway. The De Lucas woke early. Power never slept.By the time she entered the breakfast room, Caterina was already there. Perfect posture. Perfect makeup. A silk robe that probably cost more than Isabella’s entire wardrobe before the marriage.“Good morning,” Isabella said softly.Caterina didn’t look up from her coffee. “Is it?” she asked, tone neutral, almost polite. Then sh
The bed was too big.It always had been.Isabella lay on her side, facing the empty half that smelled faintly of Adriano’s cologne. It clung to the sheets the way his presence clung to her life—cold, expensive, inescapable. Outside, the wind rattled against the windowpanes of the De Luca mansion, a low whisper that filled the silence he’d left behind.He wouldn’t come back tonight. She knew that.She had known it long before the door closed behind him.The clock on the wall ticked softly—eleven past midnight. The city outside never slept, but this house existed in a different time—its own cruel rhythm, ruled by duty, control, and fear.She closed her eyes, and the memories came uninvited.The wedding had been beautiful.Lavish. Sacred. A performance staged for Chicago’s elite—the perfect union between two of the oldest Italian bloodlines still standing.She remembered the flowers. Thousands of white roses, imported from Naples. Her father had insisted.And Adriano… God, she had though
The silence in the De Luca mansion wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy—like a fog that clung to Isabella’s skin, to her lungs, to the faint sound of her heartbeat echoing through the marble halls.Chicago’s winter pressed against the tall windows, the city lights blurred by frost. Inside, warmth was an illusion.Isabella sat by the grand dining table, a long stretch of mahogany that could seat twenty but never did. Dinner was a ritual of appearances—Caterina at one end, regal and cold; Adriano at the other, untouchable; and Isabella somewhere in between, the ghost in white silk.“You’re quiet again,” Caterina remarked, her tone sweet as poison. “Not that I expected conversation from a Romano.”Isabella lifted her gaze. She had learned not to respond. Every word was a trigger, every reaction a victory she refused to give.Across the table, Adriano’s fork scraped against his plate. That sound—metal on porcelain—always made her tense. “Leave her,” he said, his voice low, measured. The kind tha






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