Chapter Four – The Ghost He Chose

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 dishes. Smile, even when you’re dying inside.

She hadn’t fought. Not until Gianna cornered her.

Adriano remembered the way her voice had cracked — trembling, angry, desperate — when she’d tried to defend herself. Then Gianna, all innocence and poise, had played the perfect role. And when he returned to see the aftermath, it was Isabella who looked unhinged, fragile, jealous.

He’d believed Gianna, of course.

He always did.

Now, as the night stretched around him, he found himself replaying that moment again and again — the way Isabella’s composure had cracked, revealing something he couldn’t name.

He told himself it was disgust. He told himself he liked seeing her break.

After all, what else could he feel for a Romano?

He hated the name.

Hated what it represented.

It wasn’t the woman herself — it was everything she carried: deceit, betrayal, a legacy of weakness pretending to be honor. He could never separate her from it. Even when she stood before him, silent and obedient, he could still hear the echo of that ancient lie in her voice.

The Romano name had poisoned everything long before she was born.

He set the glass down on the edge of the desk, the sound sharp in the silence.

His father’s words still rang in his memory — the weight of them, the fire beneath them. Never forget what was taken from me. Never forgive what bears that name.

That was the oath.

Not a choice. A command.

And Adriano had obeyed.

He had married Isabella not for love, not for peace, but to keep his enemies close — to make her name his weapon. Every smile at the wedding, every toast, every kiss was another nail sealing the debt his family was owed. She’d never know how deep the hatred ran beneath the surface.

She didn’t need to.

Gianna had understood from the start.

She always did.

She had been waiting for him when the time came — patient, calculating, beautiful in that sharp, dangerous way that drew blood before you knew you’d been cut. Together, they had built the plan piece by piece, restoring the power her family had lost and fulfilling the vow his had sworn.

Gianna was everything Isabella could never be.

Where Isabella was soft, Gianna was steel.

Where Isabella hesitated, Gianna struck.

He admired that. Desired it.

Needed it.

She didn’t ask for promises. She didn’t pretend this was love. What bound them wasn’t affection — it was purpose. And purpose was far stronger than love.

He returned to the window, watching the city flicker under the night sky. Somewhere beyond the lake, storms gathered. He could feel it — the shift, the pull, the inevitable consequence of setting everything in motion.

Gianna was back in Chicago now.

The game had truly begun.

Still… something in him twisted when he thought of Isabella — the look in her eyes tonight, the quiet defiance that had surfaced for the first time since their marriage.

She was changing.

And change, in this world, was dangerous.

He would have to remind her of her place soon — not out of cruelty, but necessity. She couldn’t be allowed to forget what she was. What she represented.

He poured another drink, forcing the unease back down.

Control.

Always control.

He’d been raised on it, molded by it, bled for it. There was no space for doubt, no space for guilt. Every move had meaning. Every decision a cost.

And yet… the silence in the house felt different tonight. Heavy. Watching.

He finished the drink and set the glass aside, his gaze still fixed on the skyline.

Gianna would call tomorrow, as she always did. They would plan the next step — the next strike. The next piece of the oath fulfilled.

Everything was falling into place.

Everything was as it should be.

So why, when he closed his eyes, did he see not Gianna’s fire… but Isabella’s quiet, unbroken stare?

He pushed the thought away, but it lingered like smoke — stubborn, unwanted, impossible to ignore.

Because no matter how much he hated her name, a truth was beginning to claw its way out of the dark — one that terrified him more than he’d ever admit.

That the thing he hated most about Isabella Romano…

was that she refused to break.