ISABELLA

Chapter 24

The room smelled of leather and aged whiskey. A long mahogany table stretched across the center, polished to a dark shine. Crystal glasses glittered under the chandelier, already set with bottles of Barolo and a spread of cigars. My men stood at the edges, silent and armed, a reminder that no conversation here was truly private.

Riccardo.

Sitting at the far end, already leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, a glass of red wine in his hand and that smug grin carved across his face.

My grip on Isabella’s waist tightened before I even realized it. Her eyes flicked up to me, curious, but I said nothing. I just guided her forward, slow and deliberate.

“Leo,” Riccardo drawled, standing just enough to appear polite but not enough to show respect. His gaze, of course, slid immediately to her. “And you’ve brought a guest.”

The way he looked at her made my blood run hot. Not like the others in the hall—hungry, crude—but with calculation, amusement, like he wanted to see if he could provoke me.

I pulled out a chair for Isabella, seating her beside me at the head of the table. My hand lingered on her shoulder longer than necessary, the silent message clear: untouchable.

“Sit,” I told her softly, then I straightened, my voice hardening for Riccardo. “This is not a family dinner. Keep your eyes on the business, cousin.”

He smirked, swirling his glass. “Relax, Leo. You act like I’d steal your toy.”

Isabella stiffened beside me at the word. My jaw clenched, and I forced myself not to lunge across the table. He wanted me angry. He wanted to see the crack in my control.

Instead, I leaned forward, my voice a low growl in Italian.

“Non toccare ciò che è mio, Riccardo. Ti ho già avvertito.”

(Do not touch what is mine, Riccardo. I’ve already warned you.)

Riccardo’s grin widened, his eyes flicking between Isabella and me like this was his favorite show. “Tuo?” he said mockingly, taking a slow sip of wine. “She’s not a shipment, cousin. Not one of your guns or docks. She breathes. She thinks. Careful, or she might just decide she doesn’t want to be claimed.”

The table went quiet. Even Matteo shifted uncomfortably at the tension lacing the air.

I slammed my palm flat on the table, the glasses rattling. Isabella flinched, but I didn’t look at her. My eyes stayed locked on Riccardo.

“You want a war in this family, cousin? Keep talking.”

For a moment, silence stretched razor-sharp between us. Then Riccardo chuckled low, as if it was all a game to him.

“Peace, Leo. Always so dramatic. I’m only here for business. What you do with your… guest”—his eyes lingered on Isabella again, deliberately slow—“is your problem.”

I wanted to put a bullet between his eyes right there. But Isabella was sitting beside me, and the last thing I wanted was for her to see the blood side of me—not yet.

So I forced myself into the leather chair, pulling Isabella subtly closer. She didn’t resist, though I felt her eyes on me, full of questions I wasn’t ready to answer.

“Fine,” I muttered, my voice like steel. “Then let’s talk business.”

But as the others began to file in, as cigars were lit and deals laid out, I never took my eyes fully off Riccardo. And he never stopped smirking at Isabella.

The door shut behind us with a heavy click, sealing the room from the outside world. One by one, the men we were meeting entered, dressed in tailored suits, their bodyguards lingering just outside.

The Toscani family. Old allies of my father’s, slippery snakes to me. They wanted territory. They wanted power. And I… I had no intention of giving either without blood in return.

“Gentlemen,” I said, my voice even, sharp. “Let’s not waste time. You asked for this meeting. Speak.”

Their spokesman, Lorenzo Toscani, adjusted his cufflinks, eyes flicking briefly—too briefly—to Isabella before returning to me. That single glance was enough to twist my insides into rage, but I forced my hand flat against the table, steady.

“We want access to your shipping routes,” Lorenzo said smoothly. “The docks in Naples. Weapons come easier through your hands than ours. We offer a fair share—forty percent cut.”

Riccardo leaned back, smirking. “Forty percent is generous, Leo. We should listen.”

I shot him a look that could have carved stone. “No. Forty percent is theft. You don’t sit at this table and call it generous. You sit because I let you.”

The room went still. Even Isabella shifted beside me, her hand brushing her dress like she was grounding herself.

Lorenzo’s smile didn’t falter. “Thirty-five, then. We both profit. Your father understood the value of partnership.”

I leaned forward, my voice low, controlled, every word like the click of a gun chamber.

“My father isn’t here. This is my table. You get twenty percent, and you get my protection. That’s the only deal you’ll leave with.”

Matteo, at my right hand, gave a curt nod, already pulling out the contract draft. My men at the wall shifted, making their presence known, leather jackets shifting just enough to flash the steel beneath.

Riccardo’s smirk deepened, his fingers tapping the table lazily. “Careful, cousin. Push too hard, and our friends might walk. Isn’t that right, Lorenzo?”

The bastard was baiting me—again.

Lorenzo chuckled, leaning back in his chair, fingers drumming against his glass. “Family tension. Always entertaining. But… twenty percent is insulting, Deluca.”

I pushed my chair back, slow and deliberate, then stood. The whole table followed the movement with their eyes.

“Insulting?” I repeated softly. “Do you know what’s insulting, Lorenzo? That you walk into my city, sit in my room, and look at what’s mine without permission. That you think you can negotiate like you hold the knife, when all you hold is an invitation.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

I leaned down, closer to him, so only he could hear the last words.

“You’ll take twenty… or you’ll take a bullet.”

When I straightened, Isabella’s wide eyes met mine. She hadn’t spoken a word, but I saw it—the flicker of fear, yes, but something else too. Something that told me she finally understood what it meant to sit beside me.

Lorenzo cleared his throat, forced a smile. “Twenty-five,” he said finally. “Not a coin less.”

I didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just stared him down until he shifted in his chair.

Finally, I nodded once. “Done.”

The tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight. Cigars were lit again, contracts passed around, signatures scribbled. Riccardo raised his glass in mock salute, smirking at me over the rim, his eyes once again darting toward Isabella.

And the entire time, I didn’t let go of her hand under the table.

The contracts slid across the table, pens scratching against paper. For a moment, it seemed like we were finally getting somewhere. But in this world, peace never lasts long.

Lorenzo’s younger brother, Marco, slammed his pen down. “This is bullshit,” he spat, his accent thick, his voice louder than necessary. “Twenty-five percent for scraps? We bleed more than this. You’re robbing us, Deluca.”

The room froze.

I stayed seated, calm, though every nerve in me hummed with the urge to break his jaw. Matteo’s hand twitched toward his weapon. Even Riccardo sat forward now, his smirk curling wider, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“Watch your tone,” I said evenly. “You sit at my table and call me a thief? That’s how you want to play this?”

Marco stood, his chair screeching against the polished floor. “You think because your father’s crown sits on your head, you can talk down to us? You’re just a boy playing king.”

Before I could move, Matteo was on his feet, gun drawn, barrel pointed straight at Marco’s skull.

The Toscani bodyguards reacted instantly, pulling their weapons, steel gleaming under the chandelier’s glow.

In less than three seconds, the private dining room had turned into a standoff.

Isabella’s gasp echoed faintly beside me, but I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. If I did, I’d risk softening. And soft wasn’t an option. Not now.

“Lower. The gun.” Lorenzo’s voice was sharp as glass. His men aimed steady, waiting for the slightest twitch.

But Matteo didn’t flinch. His loyalty was iron, unwavering. “Say the word, Leo,” he growled, his finger already tightening on the trigger.

My pulse stayed steady, my mind razor-sharp. This was the game. Pressure. Fear. Dominance.

I rose slowly, my chair sliding back in eerie silence. My hand rested on Isabella’s shoulder for only a moment—grounding her, warning her not to move—before I stepped around the table.

“You want to see if I’m a boy playing king, Marco?” I asked, voice low, deadly calm. “Then let’s see who walks out alive tonight.”

Marco sneered, pulling his pistol, pointing it straight at my chest.

The sound of Isabella’s sharp intake of breath cut through me, but I didn’t waver. I walked closer, stopping only when the cold barrel was pressed against me, right over my heart.

“Do it,” I whispered, my eyes burning into his. “Pull the trigger. Spill my blood in my own house, at my own table. And watch how fast every man you brought here gets carried out in body bags.”

The room was suffocating. The air thick with sweat, fear, and the metallic promise of violence.

Riccardo finally moved, lounging back in his chair, voice silk and poison.

“Marco, don’t be a fool. He’s right. You shoot, you don’t leave this room alive. And frankly…” His eyes cut to me, his grin sharp. “…I’d like to be the one to kill him when the time comes.”

The tension snapped with a crack of knuckles. I shoved the gun barrel away from me and slammed Marco against the wall, forearm digging into his throat. His pistol clattered to the floor, Matteo kicking it out of reach before it could even bounce.

Marco struggled, choking, clawing at my grip. I leaned close, voice a growl meant only for him.

“You ever disrespect me again, I’ll carve your name into the marble floor with your blood.”

I released him, letting him collapse against the wall, gasping.

The Toscani guards still had their weapons raised, but Lorenzo, ever the snake, lifted a hand, his sharp eyes gleaming. “Enough. We didn’t come here to die. We came for business. Consider this… settled.”

Slowly, reluctantly, guns lowered.

The deal was sealed in silence after that, no more negotiations—just signatures, glares, and the unspoken promise of war if either side faltered.