Chapter Five: The Queen’s Gambit

  

  (Alessandro’s POV)

  

  She was performing a miracle. With every patient stroke of her brush, she was not just restoring a painting; she was restoring a part of my soul. The face of my mother, once marred by a violent tear, was slowly becoming whole again under Isabella’s gentle, skillful hands.

  

  This gratitude, this admiration… it was a dangerous poison. It made me feel things I had suppressed for a decade. It made me want things I had no right to want from her. She was a treaty, a symbol. But my heart, the treacherous, stupid organ, was beginning to see her as something more.

  

  To reassert my authority, both to my world and to myself, I arranged the dinner with my capos. She would sit at my side. A beautiful, silent symbol of my power.

  

  When she walked out of her room in the crimson dress I’d had Sofia lay out for her, the air was punched from my lungs. The dress was the color of my family’s crest, the color of power and blood. On her, it was magnificent. She was not a symbol. She was a queen. A fierce, possessive fire ignited in my gut, a feeling that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with a primal, masculine need to claim her as my own.

  

  The dinner was a gathering of wolves, all circling, testing the hierarchy. My capos were loyal, but they were dangerous men. They needed to see that she was not a weakness.

  

  Then Rico, his face florid with wine and arrogance, opened his mouth. “Quite the prize the Don has claimed… a pretty little Falcone dove. Let’s hope her loyalty is more steadfast than her father’s was.”

  

  A cold, murderous rage, clean and absolute, washed over me. Rico had been a loyal soldier for years, but in that moment, I wanted to end him. The insult to her, to the memory of her father who died because of my war, was an unforgivable transgression. I was about to give the subtle signal that would have Rico dead before dessert when she spoke.

  

  Her voice was like ice, her words a perfectly aimed stiletto. She defended her father, she defended herself, and she wrapped it all in a declaration of loyalty to me that was both a shield and a sword. She silenced a room of killers with nothing but her words and her will.

  

  Pride. It was a foreign, intoxicating emotion that burned through me, hotter than any whiskey. She was magnificent.

  

  “Apologize to my fiancée,” I heard myself say, the word tasting both strange and perfectly right on my tongue. I was no longer playing a part. In that moment, it was the absolute truth.

  

  The ride home was a blur of taut silence. The moment the penthouse door closed, my control, which had been fraying for weeks, finally snapped. I pinned her against the door, my body caging hers, drowning in the scent of her, in the fire I’d seen in her eyes.

  

  “Fiancée?” she whispered, her heart hammering against my chest.

  

  “You earned the title tonight,” I breathed, my voice rough. “You have the heart of a queen, Isabella.” I stared at her mouth, at the lips that had spoken with such power. “You are not a dove, Isabella. You are a fire. And I am tired of fighting the urge to get burned.”

  

  I crushed my mouth to hers. It was an explosion, a release of weeks of pent-up tension, admiration, and a desire so raw it threatened to consume me whole. She didn't just yield; she met my ferocity with her own, her fingers tangling in my hair, her body arching against mine. It wasn’t a kiss of submission; it was a collision of equals.

  

  When I finally pulled back, I rested my forehead against hers, my carefully constructed world in ruins around me.

  

  “God help me, Isabella,” I whispered, my voice ragged. “I think you are going to be the ruin of me.”