Chapter Three – The Guests

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 gaze flickered once over her — impassive, approving in the way one might acknowledge fine art — and then returned to business.

It was all the acknowledgment she’d get.

“Ah, Isabella.” Caterina’s voice sliced through the noise like a blade wrapped in silk. “Finally.”

“Good evening,” Isabella murmured, approaching with the grace she’d practiced her whole life.

Caterina’s eyes swept over her. “You’re pale. Try not to look so nervous. It gives the wrong impression.”

“Yes, madre.”

Gianna’s laugh was soft, melodic. “You’re too hard on her, Caterina. Not everyone thrives under pressure.”

It was almost kind — almost.

But the way she said it, the tilt of her chin, the gleam in her eyes — it was a game. Every word from Gianna Moretti carried a hidden blade.

Caterina smiled indulgently. “You’re too generous, cara mia. Some women are simply… not made for this life.”

Gianna’s gaze slid toward Isabella, deliberate. “Oh, I don’t know. I think everyone has their place.”

The men chuckled politely. Isabella’s throat tightened, but she kept her face still. She had learned the art of composure — of bleeding quietly.

Dinner was served in the grand dining hall, candles flickering over polished silver. The table stretched endlessly, filled with the scent of roasted meats, truffles, and fine wine. Conversation flowed easily, the kind that mixed business with charm.

Isabella sat at Adriano’s left, silent, her fork untouched. She listened — to the coded talk of territory, trade, alliances — to the laughter that covered old rivalries.

And through it all, she felt Gianna’s gaze, sharp and assessing.

When a servant reached for the breadbasket, Caterina stopped him.

“No, no,” she said, waving a manicured hand. “Isabella, be a dear and bring more bread from the kitchen, would you? You know where it is.”

Isabella froze. For a moment, the entire table stilled.

Gianna’s lips curved faintly, as if savoring the tension.

“Yes, of course,” Isabella said softly, rising. Her cheeks burned, but her smile didn’t falter.

She walked the long way around the table, her heels clicking softly on the marble. Behind her, conversation resumed — laughter, low voices — the sound of her own humiliation drowned beneath crystal and wine.

In the kitchen, she gripped the edge of the counter, breathing slowly until the trembling in her hands stopped. She gathered the fresh bread, warm and fragrant, and carried it back with practiced poise.

When she returned, Gianna’s voice was the first to rise. “Oh, there you are,” she said sweetly. “I was starting to think you’d run away.”

The table chuckled again.

Caterina smiled, pleased. “She wouldn’t dare.”

Adriano said nothing. His silence was worse than laughter.

Later, as the dinner thinned into smaller groups, Adriano was called away to take a phone call. Isabella stood near the windows, watching the guests disperse into little clusters of cigars and conversation.

Gianna approached, holding a glass of wine. Her smile was polished, her perfume rich with something sharp beneath the sweetness.

“You play the quiet wife well,” she said softly, just for Isabella. “Almost convincing.”

Isabella met her gaze, calm. “It’s not a role.”

Gianna tilted her head, amused. “Oh, darling, everything in this house is a role. Surely you’ve realized that by now.”

She took a slow sip of wine, eyes glittering. “Do you really think he’ll ever love you? That he married you for anything other than convenience?”

“I don’t think about it,” Isabella said.

“Liar.” Gianna’s smile widened. “You think about it every time he looks through you. Every time he doesn’t come home.”

Her words hit like needles.

Gianna leaned closer, her voice a whisper. “You’re just the mistake he has to live with. A name on paper. A bridge to power. When he’s done, you’ll be forgotten — like your father should have been.”

Isabella’s breath caught. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I do,” Gianna murmured, stepping back, her eyes alight with cruel delight. “You’re standing in a house built on betrayal, cara. The only difference between us is that I know who I am.”

For the first time, Isabella felt the crack in her control. Her pulse roared in her ears, anger rising like heat.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Gianna added, her tone feather-light. “He’s mine. He always was.”

The glass shattered before Isabella realized she’d dropped it. Red wine spilled across the marble, a dark stain spreading between them.

Every head in the room turned.

And then — timing like a curse — Adriano walked back in.

He saw the glass, the red spill, Isabella standing rigid, and Gianna — wide-eyed, lips trembling in perfect imitation of distress.

“Adriano,” Gianna whispered, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean to upset her. I just—she got angry—”

“She’s lying,” Isabella said sharply. “She—”

“Enough.” His voice cut through the air, sharp and final.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

His gaze turned to Isabella, cold as the marble underfoot. “Do you know how this looks?”

“She provoked me,” Isabella said, voice breaking. “She—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Not here. Not tonight.”

Gianna’s lashes lowered, her voice trembling with perfect sorrow. “I should go. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

Caterina was beside her in an instant, hand on her shoulder. “No, darling, don’t apologize. Some people simply… don’t know their place.”

The humiliation burned hotter than shame.

Adriano didn’t defend her. He didn’t even look at her again.

He turned to one of the guards. “Have someone clean this up.”

And then he walked away.

Isabella stood there, surrounded by the soft murmur of pity, the rustle of silk, the faint scent of roses and spilled wine.

Her chest ached — not from heartbreak, not anymore. It was something deeper. Something colder.

Gianna watched her as she left the room, a small, triumphant smile curving her lips.

Later that night, the mansion was silent again. Isabella stood at the sink, washing the red stain from her hands. The water ran pink, circling the drain.

She could still hear Gianna’s words, Adriano’s voice, Caterina’s laughter.

She looked up, meeting her reflection in the dark window — a stranger staring back at her.

The wind rose outside, shaking the branches against the glass.

Somewhere deep in the house, a door closed.

And Isabella Romano De Luca realized something she’d never dared think before.

If this was war, she’d stop being the collateral.

She’d start being the weapon.