ISABELLA

Chapter 31

Their eyes locked—her red, tear-stained ones and his dark, conflicted ones.

The silence burned. His thumb brushed away one of her tears without thinking, lingering against her cheek longer than it should have.

Neither of them moved back.

Her lips parted, trembling, it felt like the space between them might collapse completely.

Leo’s jaw clenched. He dropped his hand abruptly, breaking the spell, and stood, stepping back from the bed. His breathing was ragged, but his voice was back to that hard, controlled tone.

“Get some sleep,” he said roughly, as if nothing had just happened. “You’ll need your strength.”

And then he left her—shaken, burning, and more confused than ever.

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Next morning

Isabella lingered at the top of the staircase, her hands gripping the banister. She could already hear the faint murmur of voices downstairs—the clinking of cups, the quiet shuffle of servants. Every nerve in her body screamed to run back to her room, to hide under the covers and pretend none of this was real. But Leo’s words from last night echoed in her ears:

“You’re not safe out there. But here, they’ll have to go through me first.”

So she stepped forward.

Her silk slippers touched the marble floor, soft yet echoing in her ears like a drumbeat. She descended slowly, the weight of invisible eyes following her every step.

At the end of the table sat Don Salvatore, his presence filling the room before he even spoke.

Aria was already seated, watching with curiosity as Isabella entered. Matteo stood near the far end of the room, silent and unreadable, though his gaze flickered toward her once with a soldier’s awareness.

And then there was Riccardo—his slow smile as Isabella appeared was enough to chill her blood. He sat with deliberate ease, eyes glinting with something between amusement and disdain, like a predator that had just spotted a nervous rabbit.

But it was Leo who drew her eyes. He wasn’t seated yet. Instead, he stood by the head of table,His black shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His jaw was set, expression unreadable, but when his gaze caught hers, the faintest flicker of reassurance softened his otherwise hard edges.

“Come,” Leo said, his voice quiet but carrying enough authority that it cut through the tense silence of the room. He pulled out the chair beside his, waiting until she slid into it before taking his place—directly at the head of the table.

Valentina’s cup paused midair for a fraction of a second before she resumed sipping. Aria’s lips curved into the smallest hint of a smile And Don Salvatore… he leaned forward slowly, steepling his hands, gaze like a dagger.

Isabella tried to focus on the fruit in front of her, but her stomach was knotted too tightly to manage much.

Then Salvatore’s voice cut through the silence, calm but sharp.

“You know…” he began, his tone deceptively casual, though his eyes never left Isabella. “There are certain… bloodlines… I do not trust. The Russians, for instance.”

The table stilled.

He continued, swirling the wine in his glass though it was still early morning. “They are snakes. Always slithering where they don’t belong. No honor, no loyalty—just greed and violence. They smile to your face while plotting your death behind your back.” His gaze flicked briefly to Leo, then back to Isabella, like a blade drawn across her skin. “They bring nothing but ruin wherever they go.”

Isabella’s chest tightened. Her hands trembled against her lap, but she forced herself not to look away. She knew he wasn’t speaking in generalities. He was speaking about her. About her family. About the blood in her veins.

Leo’s fork clinked sharply against his plate.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low, deadly calm.

Salvatore’s brows arched slightly. “Enough? I was simply sharing my perspective.”

“You were insulting a guest under this roof.” Leo’s voice hardened, each word precise, deliberate. “A guest under my protection.”

Don Salvatore set down his glass with deliberate slowness, his gaze locking on Leo’s. “You think sitting at the head of this table makes you ready to challenge me, Leonardo?” His tone was quiet, but the authority in it rattled the air. “Do not mistake a seat for power. Power is earned.”

Leo leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his stare unyielding. “I’ve earned my place here a hundred times over. And as long as she sits at this table, she will be treated with respect. Whether you like her bloodline or not.”

Isabella’s breath caught. Her heart pounded so loud she was certain the others could hear it. No one had ever defended her like this.

A long silence stretched. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock against the wall.

Finally, Salvatore leaned back, expression unreadable. “Very well,” he said slowly, each word laced with warning. “For now, she sits. For now, she eats. But mark my words, Leonardo—blood is destiny. And the day may come when hers brings nothing but death to this family.”

Isabella’s stomach sank. Her hands twisted under the table.

Leo, however, didn’t flinch. He reached over, sliding his hand over hers, grounding her. His eyes stayed locked on his father’s, his tone unshaken.

“Then if death comes,” Leo said coldly, “it will have to go through me first.”

Isabella didn’t move, didn’t breathe. But beneath the table, her trembling eased just slightly under the steady weight of Leo’s hand.

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Leo’s POV – After Breakfast

The scrape of chairs against the marble floor was the only sound as everyone rose from the table. Father didn’t look at me again, not directly, but I could feel his warning hanging in the air like smoke. His words were deliberate—designed to cut Isabella, but also to cut me.

Typical.

Don Salvatore DeLuca never raised his voice. He didn’t have to. His silence carried more weight than most men’s rage. He had built his empire on fear and control, and even now—old, but not weak—he thought he could still control me.

He was wrong.

I pushed my chair back slowly, deliberately, not rushing to follow anyone’s pace. Isabella rose beside me, stiff as stone, eyes down, her hand brushing against mine as if she wasn’t sure whether to hold on or let go. She looked pale—too pale—but she walked with her chin lifted, as though she refused to give Father the satisfaction of seeing her shaken.

I admired that. Hell, I more than admired it.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Riccardo smirking as he moved toward the door, as if he’d just watched the opening scene of a game he was eager to play. Valentina swept out with her wine glass still in hand, muttering something under her breath in Italian.

And then there was Sabrina.

She sat a little longer than the others, fork still in her hand, her gaze fixed on Isabella. Not with Riccardo’s mocking amusement, not with Valentina’s cold curiosity—hers was calculating. Quiet. The kind of look that made the hairs at the back of my neck rise.

I knew Sabrina. Knew the way her mind worked. She didn’t waste her time with open cruelty or empty words; she studied. She read people like open books, page by page, until she found their weaknesses. And right now, her eyes were locked on Isabella as if she’d just discovered a new puzzle worth solving.

I didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

When Isabella finally excused herself, I followed. I didn’t care if the others noticed. Let them. I wanted them to.

We walked down the long hallway, silence pressing between us. Her footsteps was unsteady, betraying what her straight spine tried to hide. When we reached the doors leading out into the gardens, I caught her arm gently, stopping her.

“Hey.”

She blinked up at me, her lashes wet though she hadn’t shed a tear at the table. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but the words caught in her throat.

“Don’t listen to him,” I said firmly. My voice dropped lower, sharper, because I meant every word. “My father thrives on fear. He knows where to cut deepest, and he’ll keep cutting until you bleed. That’s how he is. But he doesn’t decide who belongs here. I do.”

Her chest rose and fell, fast. “But he’s right,” she whispered. “The Russians—my family—they’ve done things, terrible things, and now I’ve dragged it all to your doorstep.”

I shook my head, stepping closer, close enough that she had no choice but to meet my eyes. “No. Don’t twist this. They came after you, not the other way around. You didn’t drag this here. They did. And as long as you’re under this roof, they’ll have to go through me first.”

Her breath hitched, but her gaze didn’t waver. I could see it—her fear, her guilt, the cracks in the wall she’d built around herself since her parents died. She was holding it together with nothing but sheer stubbornness, but inside she was breaking.

I wanted to take that weight from her, to rip it out of her chest and carry it myself.

Instead, I reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “I don’t care what blood runs in your veins. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

The space between us burned, heavy with something neither of us could name out loud. Last night, she broke in front of me. This morning, Father had tried to tear her down. And now… now there was nothing but the two of us, standing in the silence, every unspoken word hanging in the air.

But I pulled back. Not because I wanted to—God, I wanted to—but because she deserved more than being consumed by the storm my family had built.

Still, as I turned toward the gardens, I couldn’t shake the image of Sabrina’s eyes on her, cold and calculating.

Father wasn’t the only one she needed protection from