Semua Bab BLOOD AND ROSES: Bab 11 - Bab 20

The invitation had arrived days earlier, thick ivory card with Moretti embossed in gold. Isabella had thought little of it until Damian casually mentioned, over breakfast, that she would be attending. “It’s about time they saw you,” he said, lifting his coffee to his lips. His gaze cut toward her, quick and sharp as a blade, before shifting back to the newspaper. She had smiled serenely. “Of course.” But beneath the table, her hands tightened around her napkin until the fabric bruised her palms. --- The night of the party, the mansion’s halls pulsed with preparation. Servants darted through corridors, arms full of packages, while Maria oversaw the seamstresses who had brought the gown. The fabric spilled across Isabella’s skin like midnight itself—silk that clung like a secret, whispering with every movement. Pearls gleamed cool against her ears, her hair drawn into a chignon that bared the vulnerable slope of her neck. When Damian came to escort her, he was all in black. Tailo

The morning after the punishment, the mansion felt different. The staff moved more briskly, the guards stood straighter. Even Maria, when she brought Isabella her tea, avoided her eyes.It wasn’t the house that had changed. It was her.For the first time since she had stepped into Damian Moretti’s world, Isabella was no longer waiting for him to define her role. She would make her own.And it would begin tonight.---Damian left before dawn. She heard the sound of his car fade through the gates, leaving the halls strangely hollow. Marco remained, as always, shadowing her steps with polite surveillance. He appeared at breakfast, at her walk through the gardens, even when she visited the kitchen.But Isabella had learned something important from her punishment: Damian expected obedience, masks, a wife who played the role. What he did not expect was subtlety.Rebellion, if it was to survive, would have to look like compliance.---That afternoon, she entered the library. It was one of th

Damian’s silence was louder than any fury. Three days had passed since Marco had reported seeing her in the study. Damian had not raised his voice, had not issued another threat. He had only watched. At breakfast, his coffee went cold while his gaze lingered on her, steady and dissecting. At dinner, Marco and Caruso spoke of shipments and contracts while Damian remained quiet, eyes on her more than the men. Isabella had worn her mask flawlessly. Smiles when appropriate, lowered lashes at the right moments, idle comments crafted to sound harmless. But she felt the leash tightening with every passing hour. Damian was waiting for her to slip. The silence was his storm before thunder. --- The test came on the third night. The dining room had been arranged with more care than usual—candles burning low, silver polished to a gleam. The guest list was small: Caruso, Marco, two of the other lieutenants with their wives. And one outsider who did not belong. Nicholas Harrow. The sight

The house had never felt heavier. After the guests departed and silence returned to the mansion, Damian shut himself in his study. Isabella heard the door close from down the corridor, the muffled click echoing like the lock of a cage. She lay in her chamber, still in her gown, her heart hammering, ears straining for every sound through the walls. He had said little in the car. Almost nothing. But silence was never mercy with Damian Moretti. Silence was the drawing back of a blade before the strike. The grandfather clock ticked in the hall. Downstairs, she heard the muted clink of glass, the scrape of a chair against marble. Damian was awake. Damian was thinking. And when Damian thought too long about something, blood tended to follow. --- In the study, the fire burned low. Damian stood at the window, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled back, his profile lit by both flame and moonlight. A tumbler of whiskey rested in his hand, the amber liquid untouched. He didn’t drink when he w

Marco Benedetti believed in patterns. Patterns kept men alive in a world that tried to erase them. You watched how someone moved, how they breathed, how often they smiled. A man’s routines told you what he wanted, what he feared, and what he would give away if pressed. Nicholas Harrow was a man who lived by patterns. And Harrow also knew when those patterns were being followed. --- Marco sat in the back of a nondescript sedan, cap pulled low, cigarette between his fingers. Beside him was Carlo, one of Damian’s younger men, eyes sharp but restless. Through the windshield, they watched Harrow step out of his sleek glass office building on Park Avenue, trailed by assistants and his driver. “He doesn’t even flinch,” Carlo muttered, adjusting his seat. “He knows,” Marco said simply. And he did. Harrow moved with the same confidence he always had—pausing to shake a hand, glancing at his phone, sliding into the back of his Bentley. Yet every so often, his eyes flicked to reflections