Chapter Two – The Storm

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 she smiled, slow and sharp. “You should tell your husband that breakfast is meant for family. He’s been missing it for weeks.”

“I’m not sure he’d listen.”

That earned her a glance — brief, assessing. Caterina was always studying her, waiting for a crack, a weakness to exploit. “A De Luca man listens to no one,” she said finally. “You should have learned that by now.”

Isabella didn’t answer. She focused on stirring sugar into her cappuccino, pretending not to notice the faint tremor in her hand.

Silence filled the air, broken only by the low murmur of voices in Italian coming from the hallway. Men’s voices — heavy, confident. The business of the De Lucas.

She caught fragments as they passed: shipments, South Side, territory. Words that didn’t belong in polite company but had always been part of her world. Her father used to speak them, too, back when she believed it was just “family business.”

Now she knew better.

---

After breakfast, she wandered through the house, the rhythm of the staff moving around her like clockwork. Everyone in the mansion had a role. The housekeeper, Rosa, was discreet and loyal; the guards never met her eyes; even the cook, Mrs. Leone, spoke to her only when necessary.

No one truly saw her. Not as a woman. Not as a De Luca.

The mansion itself was beautiful in a cold, old-world way — dark wood, marble floors, art imported from Italy, and an echo in every hall that made her footsteps sound like an intrusion.

Isabella used to love beautiful things. She’d studied design in Florence before the marriage — colors, textures, the way light could change the soul of a room. Here, beauty felt like a cage.

Every corner was perfect, untouchable. Every surface polished to the point of reflection, as if to remind her that nothing in this house belonged to her.

She paused by the library, drawn by the faint sound of voices. The door was cracked open just enough to hear Adriano’s tone — smooth, commanding.

“She can’t know,” he said.

“She won’t,” another voice replied.

There was a pause. Then the soft clink of a glass being set down.

“Gianna’s return changes things,” Adriano continued. “The old alliances need to be revisited. We can’t afford mistakes.”

Her heart thudded once, loud and sick.

Gianna. Again.

She leaned closer, careful not to let the door creak.

“The Romano name still carries weight,” the other man said. “Use it. Make her useful.”

Isabella’s breath hitched.

Use her.

Adriano’s reply was quiet, but it cut through her. “She already is.”

The words hit harder than they should have. They shouldn’t have surprised her — not after everything she’d seen, everything she’d learned — but hearing them spoken out loud was different.

Something inside her twisted, then settled into a strange, cold calm.

She stepped back before they could notice her shadow by the door and made her way toward the back garden, her pulse ringing in her ears.

---

The garden was the only place she could breathe.

Rosa was tending the roses near the stone wall, humming softly. Isabella offered her a small smile before walking further down the path, toward the fountain. The air was sharp, damp with the scent of rain. The storm from last night had passed, but the sky was still heavy with clouds.

She sat on the marble edge, fingers tracing the surface of the water. Her reflection rippled and disappeared.

She thought about the night before, about Gianna’s knowing smile, Adriano’s touch on her back, the way Caterina had watched it all with approval.

For a long time, Isabella had wondered what she had done wrong — what she could fix, how she could make herself worthy of their acceptance. Now she realized there was nothing to fix. She had been chosen for what she represented, not for who she was.

A bridge.

A pawn.

A name that meant power.

Her phone buzzed again. Another unknown number. Her stomach clenched as she opened it.

Unknown:

Be careful who you trust.

The walls have ears in that house.

She looked around instinctively, scanning the empty garden. Only Rosa in the distance, pruning roses. No one else.

Her fingers hovered over the screen. Who are you? she typed.

No reply.

The message stayed there, glowing like a warning.

---

By the time she returned inside, the mansion had shifted into its afternoon rhythm. Men came and went; cars rolled through the gates; the smell of espresso lingered in the air.

Caterina’s laughter echoed faintly from the sitting room — the polite, artificial kind she reserved for business guests.

Isabella paused by the staircase. Through the banister, she could see Adriano in the foyer, his back to her as he spoke to someone in a tailored suit.

The man handed him a small black envelope. Adriano took it without a word, then looked up — almost as if he’d felt her gaze.

For a second, their eyes met.

There it was again — that flicker. A shadow of something unreadable, human. Then it was gone.

He turned away, tucking the envelope into his jacket.

“Mrs. De Luca?” Rosa’s voice startled her from behind. “La signora Caterina would like to see you in the drawing room.”

Of course she would.

---

Caterina was waiting with a glass of red wine in hand, sunlight cutting through the blinds in thin stripes across her face.

“You look pale,” she said, gesturing for Isabella to sit. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Isabella lied. “Just tired.”

“Ah.” Caterina smiled, like a cat. “A tired wife. Such a common problem.” She sipped her wine. “But tell me, cara — does Adriano know?”

“Know what?”

“How much you hate being here.”

The question landed like a slap. Isabella blinked, steadying her breath. “I don’t—”

“Don’t bother,” Caterina said, her tone suddenly sharp. “I see it in your eyes. You think I don’t? You walk these halls like a ghost. But ghosts don’t survive long in this family.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

Isabella met her gaze for the first time, steady and unflinching. “Maybe it’s time someone did.”

Caterina’s smile faltered. Just a fraction. But it was enough.

---

That night, the storm returned. Rain hammered the roof, thunder rolling through the sky like a warning.

Isabella lay awake, her thoughts circling the same truth she’d been trying not to face.

The messages. The conversations she wasn’t meant to hear. The woman her husband had brought back into their lives.

Something was moving beneath the surface of this house — secrets that ran deeper than loyalty, deeper than blood.

And for the first time, she wasn’t just afraid.

She was curious.