Young-Love

CHAPTER 2: BELLA'S POV

You ever sat at a table so damn quiet you could hear your own heartbeat bouncing off the marble?

The f**k is wrong with this house—sorry what I meant to politely say is—it’s always quiet in the Lovereign mansion at breakfast. Not peaceful quiet—more like the kind that crawls under your skin, dares you to break it, then slaps you for trying. The kind that smells like imported coffee, leather chairs, and things people aren’t saying.

Yeah. That’s every morning in this house.

The sun’s out, glinting off chandeliers worth more than most people’s homes. The eggs are perfectly poached, the bacon crisp, the orange juice fresh-squeezed from Sicily like that matters.

Mom is sitting up head of the long, antique table like some damn painting. Contessa Vitale-Lovereign, everyone knows her for her expensive imported jewels—but in the Lovereign mansion, she’s the Italian Mafia princess turned queen of ice. She's flawless as usual, with her silver cross glinting just above her collarbone and her dark hair coiled like a crown.

Giancarlo—I mean Carl, he hates that name—he’s three years older than me, he's lounging in his seat beside mom, phone in hand, tapping like the world ain't heavy, probably texting college sluts. I think dad thinks of me and Carl as spoilt brats. Yeah cause we are good at wasting money—I don't give a s**t though, cause money is meant to be wasted.

Then there’s Nico, who just came home from college for the weekend, is scrolling too, looking sharp even half-asleep in a black hoodie and gold chain. He's two years older than Carl. Nico is dad’s favorite, the responsible one, the heir to the throne. He's like a robot, no nonsense kind of guy but soft as a teddy bear when it comes to me.

Dad, though? Malik Lovereign, nigga barely looks up. He’s halfway through his espresso, flipping through The Times like he's looking for a reason to breathe. He says nothing. Always nothing. Not even a glance.

Dad folded the paper. “Nico. That thing with the Brooklyn port—handle it tomorrow.” His voice is gruff, heavy with instructions but never affection. Never a “How’d you sleep?” Never “Pass the salt, sweetheart.”

“Yes, sir?” Nico replied, cool as ice.

I swear Nico is a mini version of dad. I guess when he looks at dad, he sees 45-year-old version of himself in a mirror.

I swirled the edge of my spoon in the yogurt I’m obviously pretending to eat. Well, my reflection’s staring back: caramel skin, brown eyes—yeah, real damn subtle. Nobody ever says it out loud, but I know. I’ve known since I was old enough to understand the colour of loyalty in this family is blood and mine’s the wrong shade.

My eyes, just one of the many things that don’t match me to my parents or even my brothers. Not to Mom’s delicate Italian angles—Carl and Nico both got the blue eyes like Mom and even Grandpa—Don Aurelio, my mom's father plus my uncles and cousin brothers from the Italian lineage got blue eyes but not me... kinda odd if you ask me. I’m a question mark in this house that no one dares to ask.

Dad on the other side and grandpa Mansa-Musa got black eyes which got me recently wondering how I got brown eyes.

Those two, hate every bit about me.

Believe me when I say, I’ve had everything a girl could ask for in life.

Imported perfume. A walk-in closet that smells like Paris and Milan had a baby. Custom-made uniforms. Bodyguards who open doors before I even think about reaching for the handle. A damn Rolls-Royce with my initials stitched into the leather. I’ve flown first class to the b****y Buckingham palace for lunch with the Queen. I’ve had birthday cakes bigger than some people’s apartments to mention but a few.

But I’ve never had my father’s love.

Not once.

Malik Lovereign—the man everyone in this city fears, the business tycoon who owns most of New York City—never feared breaking my heart. Never feared leaving me out in the emotional cold. From the moment I could walk, I think he saw me and decided I was already a disappointment. Too soft. Too pretty. Too female.

Maybe he wanted another son. One that could carry the name with pride, fight beside Carl and Nico, get blood on his hands without flinching.

What he got... was me.

So, I tried. I toughened up. I shut down my tears like they were weaknesses. Learned how to curse like the boys. Learned how to lie, to stare down grown men without blinking.

But it didn’t matter. His silence stayed. And when he did speak, it was always clipped, transactional. A nod when I did something “acceptable.” A command when he needed me out of the room. Never a hug. Never a “good job.” Never “I love you.”

Then there’s Mansa Musa—my grandfather. The legend. The old king with silver in his beard and fire in his veins. He’s worse. At least dad ignores me. Mansa Musa just looks straight through me. Like I’m nothing more than a mistake. Like my presence insults the very walls of this house.

“You raise something beautiful, Contessa,” he said, voice like stone. “But beauty don’t always bloom from blood.”

I was eleven.

I remember gripping the edge of the table, my nails digging into the wood, my heart trying to understand what the hell I had done to make the men in my bloodline hate me without reason.

And yet—I still chase it. That feeling. That approval. Like maybe if I do enough, they’ll finally say it. “You’re one of us.” Or maybe they won’t. Maybe that part of me will always stay hungry.

Mom says I don’t need their validation. She tells me I’m the bridge between two worlds. She says, “They fear you because you’re a threat to their empire.”

But it’s not fear I want.

It’s love.

Or maybe just... acknowledgment.

It’s so bad that even my four uncles and cousin brothers distance themselves from me, the mafia group—the Five Families consist of the kingpin Granpa Mansa Musa and his five sons, including dad—I clearly said “FAMILIES” right but in this big-a*s family I was blessed with, only mom and my two brothers see me, the rest look at me like a pile of dog s**t.

I’d trade a hundred designer shoes, a thousand gala nights, every single crown of influence Mom says I’m destined to wear—just for one moment where dad sees me, really sees me, and says, “That’s my daughter.”

Once when I was six, I tried to draw a family portrait for school. I remember colouring Mom’s eyes the right shade of blue, Carl’s smirk, Nico’s jawline. I drew Dad holding my hand, even though that never happened. Dad saw it and immediately crushed it in his fists with no remorse. That was the time I realized if it wasn't for mom always standing up for me, I would already be crushed too like that piece of paper.

In this family, you either learn to play the game—or get played.

I learned early.

I’m not the heir. I’m not even considered a threat. That’s what makes me dangerous.

Carl and Nico? My brothers would tear this world apart if I so much as frowned. And I’ve used that more times than I’ll ever admit. Want a favour done? Mention Carl. Want someone quieted? Nico’s got a stare that could shut down a city block. And me? I just sit there, innocent. Smiling. Untouchable.

Like last year, there’s this nigga I dated in middle school—Trae, he broke my heart, I told Carl, he definitely broke that nigga too. If I had told Nico, that nigga would be in the ground right now—hey don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to get blood on my hands.

So, anyway my mother calls me her “wildflower in a war zone.” But she’s no delicate gardener—Contessa Vitale-Lovereign is a queen born of fire and wine-stained vendettas. She shields me like her life depends on it.

When dad lashes out with words or colder silence, Mom’s always there—soft hands, sharp eyes, stepping between us like she’s defending something sacred.

“Your father doesn’t know how to love gently,” she told me once. “But you—you—you are the legacy they don’t deserve.”

At school, I didn’t just survive—I owned the place. Even in middle school. My last principal once tripped over his words during a dress code violation talk because he noticed my bracelet had our family crest.

I didn’t even have to threaten anyone. They knew. No one wanted to mess with the Lovereigns. Especially not the girl they all whispered about in the hallways, if you touched her, you’d vanish instantly.

But respect? That’s different. I get compliance. I get silence. I get fear.

What I want is recognition.

Not from them—my classmates or those snivelling teachers not even the fuckin mayor of New York city. No. I want it from dad. From Mansa Musa and my uncles.

I mastered the art of listening when no one thought I could understand. I watch their moves like a chess board. I tilt my head, smile just enough, play soft when needed. They don’t know I’m gathering power like secrets in a vault. I'm the queen bee here, Queen Bella to be precise.

My mother calls it elegance. I call it survival.

“Never show your whole hand,” she said while clasping a necklace around my throat once, “and if you do—make sure it’s already too late for them to fold.”

They underestimate me because I don’t look like them. Because I don’t walk into rooms with a g*n at my side or a legacy wrapped in testosterone. But what they forget is... I am the legacy—the only girl in the Five Families.

I am the reason two empires haven’t gone to war. I’m the glue in this fragile treaty between the Five Families and the Vitale bloodline. Without me? They’d all be bleeding in the streets.

Mansa Musa once said in front of me—cold as winter, sharp as glass:

“Pretty things don’t always carry the right blood, Isabella. Sometimes they just wear the right name.”

I didn’t flinch. I stored it. Right beside every smirk, every ignored birthday, every look that said you don’t belong.

Because one day? I’ll make them regret ever thinking I was just the girl in pearls.