Chapter 2

Vincent visibly relaxed.

He sat back down in his chair, putting on that condescending air again.

Like he wasn't the one panicking a minute ago. Like I'd imagined it all.

"Isabella, you disappoint me."

I blinked. What?

"Tradition is tradition," he said, his tone turning serious. "The conditions of the marriage contract must be met. That's a rule passed down for generations. You're being emotional, Isabella. You don't have the composure of a Donna."

I almost laughed out loud.

Emotional?

I had busted my ass for him for ten years.

For ten years, I put away my paintbrushes, gave up my art, turned down a chance to study at the Louvre.

I buried the artist inside me and became a shark in the boardroom. All because he said his wife needed a sharp mind, not a foolish heart.

And now he was calling me emotional?

"Vincent, I just thought…"

"Thought what?" he cut me off, standing up. His tone softened a little. "Alright, Isabella, I know you're eager to marry me. I know our mothers arranged this years ago. But rules are rules…"

"My mother's memorial is important to me," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "If I could be your wife on that day, it would mean everything."

"Enough." Vincent walked to the window, his back to me. "The dead are dead. The living have business to attend to. You should be focused on how to finish the job."

I stared at his back, feeling something burn in my chest.

"The job?"

"Of course, the job." He turned, looking at me like it was obvious. "You think marriage is a game? The position of Donna requires real strength and intelligence. And right now, you don't measure up."

Not measuring up.

I remembered what Marco said—they'd gotten Ava ready to "compete."

So in Vincent's eyes, this ten-year engagement wasn't about love. It was a tryout.

And I wasn't even the only one auditioning.

"Vincent, you…"

"Oh, Vincent!"

A syrupy voice cut me off.

The study door opened and a girl in a black silk nightgown ran in.

Her long hair was loose on her shoulders, her face sleepy and soft. She was only wearing slippers.

Ava.

She jumped into Vincent's arms, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I was looking all over for you," she cooed, nuzzling his chest. "I woke up and you were gone. Why weren't you in bed?"

Vincent’s face instantly softened. His hand went to her waist, a natural, easy motion.

"I was handling something," he murmured, his voice full of a tenderness I'd never heard before. "Why didn't you sleep in?"

"I can't sleep when you're not there," Ava said, tilting her head up to kiss his chin.

I just stood there. A third wheel. An outsider.

This was Vincent Corleone. The same man who was just lecturing me about "family tradition."

He was holding the daughter of the woman who drove my mother to her death, acting like this right in front of me, and I was supposed to just stand there and watch?

"Vincent," my voice was colder than I expected. "We're still talking."

Ava finally seemed to notice me. She turned her head, a perfect smile on her face.

"Oh, Isabella," she said, her voice sickly sweet. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here."

I suddenly remembered the territory dispute three months ago.

The Russians tried to take our docks in Brooklyn. Talks broke down, guns came out.

Ava was there. Afterward, she ran into Vincent's arms, face covered in blood, sobbing that my men hadn't protected her and she'd been cut by flying glass.

Vincent nearly took my head of security's head off and forced me to apologize to her. On my knees.

But looking at her now, her skin was flawless. Perfect. Not a single mark.

Where was the scar?

If it was really glass, how could the wounds have healed so perfectly, without a single mark?

Unless the wounds were self-inflicted. A perfect little show for her perfect hero.

"Ava, your face healed nicely," I said, staring at her. "Can't even tell you were ever hurt."

Her smile froze for a second, then went right back to innocent.

"Yes, Vincent found the best doctor for me," she said, hugging his arm tighter. "He takes such good care of me."

Vincent shot me a smug look, like he was showing off a prize.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I reached down and picked up the torn pieces of the audit report, ready to show them the truth.

To let Vincent see how his little "accident" had failed.

To let him know I'd won, and he had to marry me.

"Vincent, actually, I was just…"

"Don't," Ava suddenly rushed over, grabbing my hand, her eyes welling up with tears. "Isabella, please, don't argue with Vincent anymore."

"What?"

Her eyes were full of tears, looking pitiful and weak.

"Vincent was shot," she whispered, her voice cracking. "He took a bullet for me. The doctor said any serious stress could reopen the wound. He could bleed out."