Chapter 2: The ice’s king rule
859 Words
Villa Moretti — Morning
The sun rose over Naples like a reluctant promise, casting pale gold across the marble floors of Villa Moretti. Isabella Romano stood at the window of her new prison, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. The view was breathtaking Lake Como shimmered in the distance, framed by cypress trees and silence. But beauty meant nothing when it came with chains.
She hadn’t slept. Her mind replayed Marco’s broken apology, Alessandro’s cold stare, and the way the guards had looked at her like she was already owned.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
A maid entered, eyes downcast. “Signorina, breakfast is served.”
Isabella didn’t move. “I’m not hungry.”
The maid hesitated. “Signor Moretti insists.”
Isabella turned slowly. “Tell him I don’t take orders.”
The maid paled and fled.
Dining Hall — Thirty Minutes Later
Alessandro sat at the head of a long table, dressed in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the edge of a tattoo an ouroboros wrapped around a dagger. He sipped espresso, reading a newspaper in silence.
Isabella entered like a storm.
“I’m not here to play house,” she said.
He didn’t look up. “You’re here to obey.”
“I’m not your pet.”
He folded the paper and set it aside. “No. You’re collateral. There’s a difference.”
She sat across from him, refusing the food laid out fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, all untouched.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
Alessandro leaned back. “Nothing. Yet.”
“Then let me go.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re not a prisoner. You’re a debt.”
Isabella’s voice dropped. “You think that makes it better?”
Alessandro stood. “You’ll find your schedule in your room. You’ll be escorted if you leave the east wing. You’ll not speak to anyone without permission.”
She rose too. “And if I break your precious rules?”
He stepped closer, eyes unreadable. “Then your brother dies.”
East Wing — Afternoon
Isabella paced her suite, fury simmering beneath her skin. The room was lavish velvet drapes, antique furniture, a balcony overlooking the lake. But it felt like a cage.
She found the schedule on her desk:
8:00 AM — Breakfast
10:00 AM — Language lessons
1:00 PM — Lunch
3:00 PM — Free time (restricted to east wing)
6:00 PM — Dinner
8:00 PM — Curfew
Language lessons? She scoffed. What was this reeducation?
She tore the schedule in half.
Library — Later That Day
Curiosity led her to the library. It was massive floor-to-ceiling shelves, leather-bound volumes, a fireplace crackling softly. She ran her fingers along the spines, pausing at a book of Italian poetry.
She opened it.
Inside was a note, handwritten in elegant script:
“Even kings bleed when no one’s watching.”
She stared at the words, heart thudding. Was it Alessandro’s? A message? A warning?
She pocketed the note.
Security Room — Meanwhile
Giovanni watched Isabella on the surveillance feed.
“She’s already snooping,” he said.
Alessandro didn’t look up. “Let her.”
“She’s unpredictable.”
“She’s human.”
Giovanni frowned. “That’s dangerous.”
Alessandro finally turned. “So am I.”
Garden — Evening
Isabella wandered the garden, flanked by two silent guards. The air smelled of jasmine and gunpowder. She paused by a statue of Persephone queen of the underworld, stolen from the light.
Fitting.
She sat on the stone bench, staring at the lake. A shadow fell across her.
Alessandro.
“You like mythology?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
He sat beside her. “Persephone. Taken against her will. Made queen of hell.”
Isabella turned. “Is that what you think you are? Hades?”
Alessandro’s smile was bitter. “I think I’m the man who doesn’t believe in spring.”
She looked away. “Then why do you keep planting roses?”
He didn’t respond.
Naples — Same Night
Marco Romano sat in a dingy motel, nursing a broken rib and a bottle of whiskey. He stared at his phone, debating whether to call Isabella. He knew she hated him. He hated himself more.
A knock at the door.
He grabbed his pistol and opened it slowly.
A man stood there tall, scarred, wearing a Rossi ring.
“You’re a dead man, Romano.”
Marco fired.
The man dropped.
Marco fled.
Villa Moretti — Midnight
Isabella couldn’t sleep.
She wandered the halls, drawn by the sound of music. A piano.
She followed it to a hidden room dimly lit, filled with shadows and silence.
Alessandro sat at the piano, playing something haunting. His eyes were closed, his face unguarded.
She watched, transfixed.
When he finished, he looked up.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He stood. “Neither can I.”
She stepped closer. “Why do you play?”
He hesitated. “Because it’s the only thing I can’t control.”
She stared at him. “You’re not what I expected.”
He met her gaze. “Neither are you.”
- Writer
