Chapter 4

Matteo stared at the closed door, his anger still rising. He cursed under his breath, grabbed his coat, and followed me outside.

The street was already empty.

The black sedan had disappeared. The guards had not seen its license plate. They only remembered that the driver spoke with a European accent and treated Isabella with unusual respect.

One of the young heirs from the card game followed Matteo onto the steps.

“Should we send someone to bring her back?”

“Bring her back?”

Matteo looked down the street and laughed coldly.

“She has no family in New York and nowhere of her own to stay. Give her three days. She’ll come back herself.”

He returned to the drawing room and kicked aside the chips scattered across the carpet.

“Monday’s registration will not wait for her. If she misses it, there will not be another date.”

A faint smile appeared on Sofia’s face.

Soon after I reached the hotel, she sent me a voice recording. Matteo’s restrained anger could be heard in the background.

“Give her two days to calm down. If she returns before Monday, I’ll pretend none of this happened.”

Several messages followed.

[If you truly have any pride, never come back.]

[But I know you too well.]

[You cannot give up Matteo or the life the DeLucas gave you.]

[Even when no one wants you there, you will still return to him.]

She believed she could provoke me into fighting for Matteo again.

I blocked her without replying.

My aunt was waiting in the hotel suite with a stack of documents.

She glanced at my suitcase.

“Is that everything?”

“I left behind everything the DeLucas bought.”

“Good.”

She pushed the inheritance papers toward me.

“The family council has approved your return. Once you sign this acknowledgment, the formal transfer will be completed in Palermo.”

I signed the final page.

Isabella Venturi.

I had remained in America under my mother’s surname because my family had allowed me one chance to choose love for myself.

I had not hidden my name to test Matteo.

For once, I wanted something that belonged only to me—a home I had chosen, a man I had chosen, and a future that had not been negotiated by my family before I was old enough to understand it.

The condition had been simple.

If the wedding failed, I would return to Sicily and accept my position as the Venturi heir.

I had once considered that fate a punishment.

That was why losing Matteo still hurt.

I had not lost a game.

I had lost the life I had once believed was mine.

But as I looked down at Isabella Venturi written across the inheritance documents, returning home no longer felt like surrender.

It felt like freedom.

The following morning, Venturi personnel escorted me to a private airport.

A jet bearing the family crest waited on the runway. I put the Venturi signet ring back on my hand and allowed one photograph to be taken before boarding.

At the DeLuca townhouse, the card game had still not ended.

Matteo sat in silence, the drink before him untouched.

Sofia placed a cup of coffee beside him.

“She only wants you to give in. Once you truly cancel the registration, she’ll come back and beg.”

Matteo ignored the coffee.

“She took the engagement ring?”

“That ring was worth a fortune. Of course she kept it.”

Matteo remembered my empty hands as I left, and his expression changed slightly.

Across the table, one of the men suddenly sat upright.

“Matteo, you need to see this.”

A photograph from a private airport filled his screen.

I stood before a jet marked with the Venturi crest.

Matteo barely glanced at it.

“Where did she rent the plane?”

The others laughed.

“She certainly created an impressive scene while waiting for you to chase her.”

“Maybe she still thinks this will make you propose again.”

The tension in Matteo’s face finally eased.

“Let her wait. When I’m no longer angry, I’ll decide whether to give her another chance.”

Before he finished speaking, the page refreshed.

A report from a European financial publication appeared beneath the photograph.

The laughter stopped.

The man holding the phone stared at the headline as the color drained from his face.

“Matteo, that plane isn’t rented.”

Matteo’s eyes fell on the official portrait beneath the headline.

It was my face.

But the name printed beside it was not Isabella Vale.

It was Isabella Venturi.

SOLE HEIR OF THE VENTURI FAMILY RETURNS TO SICILY.