CHAPTER TWO: THE HOUSE WITHOUT A MASTER

The car came to a stop in front of the mansion, and a uniformed guard hurried forward to open the door. The stranger stepped out first, adjusted his jacket, and extended a hand toward her.

She stared at it, too confused to move.

He gave her a crooked smile.

"My name is Lorenzo Moretti," he said. "Alessandro is my older brother."

Isabella felt the world tilt beneath her feet.

Before she could ask another question, the mansion's enormous front doors swung open, and a man appeared at the top of the steps.

He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his dark hair was slightly dishevelled, as though someone had interrupted his evening. His face was expressionless, but the men around him immediately straightened, and even Lorenzo's smile faded a little.

The stranger's gaze settled on Isabella.

She knew who he was before Lorenzo spoke.

Alessandro Moretti.

The real mafia king.

Alessandro Moretti looked at Isabella as though she were a problem he had no intention of solving.

She stood at the foot of the mansion's steps, clutching her handbag with both hands, unable to tear her gaze away from the man everyone feared. He was more intimidating than she had imagined, with cold grey eyes, a firm jaw, and a presence that seemed to silence everyone around him. Unlike Lorenzo, who could smile while delivering frightening news, Alessandro didn't bother pretending to be pleasant. He simply watched her, and somehow that was worse.

"Is this the girl?" he asked.

Lorenzo slipped his hands into his pockets. "Unless your brother has another daughter hidden somewhere, yes."

Alessandro gave him a warning look.

Lorenzo raised his hands innocently. "What? I've had a long evening."

Alessandro ignored him and returned his attention to Isabella.

"What's your name?"

"Isabella, sir."

Her head lifted immediately, but the moment their eyes met, she wished she had kept them lowered. There was something unsettling about his stare, something that made her feel as though he could see every frightened thought she was trying to hide.

"Isabella Rossi," she added quickly.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"And do you understand why you're here?"

She nodded, then shook her head when she realized she wasn't sure what answer he expected.

Alessandro's expression hardened.

"I asked you a question."

"Your brother said my father owes you money," she whispered. "He said the debt would be settled if I came here."

"Then you understand."

"But I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

For the first time, Alessandro's expression changed.

Not with sympathy, but with irritation.

"You'll be told what you need to know."

He turned toward Lorenzo. "The papers?"

"In the car."

"Bring them to my study tomorrow morning."

Lorenzo nodded, then glanced at Isabella. "Someone will show you to your room."

Alessandro was already walking away.

Panic rushed through her chest.

"Sir?"

He stopped but didn't turn around.

Isabella swallowed, forcing herself to speak before she lost her courage. "Please, I want to know when I can go home."

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Lorenzo looked at her, then at his brother, as though he already knew the question would end badly.

Alessandro slowly turned his head.

"Home?"

"My father's house," she explained, her voice growing weaker. "I mean, when can I return there?"

His eyes were cold.

"Your father gave you to me to settle his debt. You are not returning there tonight."

"Tonight?" she repeated, desperately holding on to the word. "So I can go tomorrow?"

"No."

One word.

One simple word that crushed the tiny hope she had been holding.

Alessandro looked toward the guard waiting beside the entrance.

"Take her inside. Make sure she has everything she needs."

Then he walked away.

Isabella stood frozen until Lorenzo touched her elbow.

"Come on."

She followed him through the doors, her eyes burning as she tried not to cry in front of the people watching her. The mansion was beautiful, with polished marble floors, expensive paintings, and enormous chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Yet the more she saw, the more frightened she became, because she knew none of the beauty belonged to her. She had entered a world where money could buy almost anything, and she was beginning to suspect that her own wishes would be the one thing nobody cared about.

A housekeeper approached them.

"Mr. Lorenzo, should I take her upstairs?"

"Yes, Maria. The east guest suite."

"Of course."

Isabella followed the older woman up a wide staircase, glancing back once to see Lorenzo heading toward another corridor. She wanted to ask him whether Alessandro was always so cold, but the question remained trapped behind her lips. She was afraid that speaking too much would make her troublesome, and troublesome people rarely survived comfortably in places like this.

The guest suite was larger than any room she had ever occupied.

There was a king-sized bed, a private bathroom, a dressing table, and a balcony overlooking the gardens. Fresh flowers sat beside a bowl of fruit, and someone had placed a glass of water on the bedside table. Maria showed her where everything was, then asked whether she would like something to eat.

"No, thank you."

"You haven't eaten since this afternoon."

"I'm not hungry."

Maria studied her face for a moment.

"Would you prefer tea?"

Isabella shook her head.

The housekeeper sighed softly but didn't insist. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything, dear."

When the door closed, Isabella sat on the edge of the bed and finally let herself cry.

That night, she barely slept.

Every sound in the corridor made her sit upright, and every passing shadow beneath the door made her heart race. She kept the bedside lamp on until dawn, clutching the thin blanket around herself as though it could protect her from the world beyond her bedroom.

But Alessandro never came.

Neither did Lorenzo.

By morning, the house had returned to its quiet routine, and Isabella began to wonder whether the previous evening had been some terrible dream.