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Chapter 5: War Paint and the Romano Meeting

The Romano estate looked like a threat dressed in marble.

Tall gates. Men with guns. Laughter that didn’t reach their eyes. Isabella felt it the second Donatello’s car stopped — the air here was different. Colder. Sharper. Like a knife held to her throat.

“Rule number six,” Donatello said as the driver opened his door. He didn’t look at her. He never did when he was about to go to war. “Stay beside me. Say nothing. Let them look. Let them wonder.”

Isabella smoothed the black dress. Armor. Again. “And if they don’t just look?”

His hand found hers. He laced their fingers together, ring pressed against her skin. “Then they die.”

Simple. Final. No room for debate.

The doors opened. Cameras flashed. The Romano family was waiting on the steps — three brothers, suits too loud, smiles too sharp. The oldest, Marco Romano, stepped forward.

“Don Moretti,” Marco said, eyes dragging over Isabella like she was something to appraise. “Heard you got married. Didn’t send an invitation.”

Donatello didn’t return the smile. “Didn’t send one because you weren’t invited.”

Tension crackled. Isabella felt Donatello’s thumb press into her knuckles. A warning. A promise. Mine.

Marco’s gaze dropped to their joined hands. To the ring. His smile widened. “She’s pretty. For a debtor’s daughter. Tell me, Don, is she worth twenty million? Or did you just like the way she looks on her knees?”

Isabella’s blood went cold. Her fingers twitched in Donatello’s grip.

Donatello didn’t move. Didn’t blink. When he spoke, his voice was soft. That was how she knew he was dangerous.

“Choose your next words carefully, Marco,” he said. “Because the woman beside me is Mrs. Moretti. She has my name. My ring. My protection.”

He stepped forward, pulling Isabella with him. She stumbled half a step, but he caught her. His arm went around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. Possessive. Public. A brand.

“And anyone who speaks her name with disrespect,” he continued, “will learn why men cross the street when they see the Moretti crest.”

Silence. Heavy. Ugly.

One of the younger Romano brothers laughed. Nervous. “Relax, Don. We’re just talking. She’s hot, that’s all. We get it. You married the debt.”

Donatello turned his head. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes locked on the brother.

“Last chance,” he murmured. “Apologize. To her.”

The brother sobered up fast. “I—”

“Now.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Moretti,” the kid choked out.

Donatello’s arm tightened around Isabella. “Good boy.”

He led her inside without another word. The Romano men parted like the sea. No one met her eyes after that. No one dared.

Inside, the meeting was business. Territory. Shipments. Old debts between families. Isabella sat at Donatello’s right, silent like he ordered. But she watched. She learned. The way he spoke — low, controlled, every word a blade. The way his men watched him, waiting for a nod, a glance, a death sentence.

Halfway through, Marco tried again. “We’ll need a guarantee on the south docks. Something to hold the deal.”

“Here’s your guarantee,” Donatello said. He didn, t look at Isabella. He didn’t need to. His hand slid under the table and found her thigh, fingers pressing into the silk of her dress.

Isabella froze. Heat flooded her face. Under the table, no one could see. But she felt it. Every man in the room could guess.

“Touch her and the deal dies,” Donatello said casually, like he was discussing wine. “Touch her and you die. That’s the only guarantee you need.”

Marco’s jaw ticked. He got the message.

When the meeting ended, Donatello stood and pulled Isabella up with him. His hand never left her waist. Never left her hand. Never left her.

Outside, the air hit her lungs like relief. Until Donatello stopped her beside the car.

He turned her to face him. His expression was unreadable. “You did well.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly.” His thumb brushed her cheek, then dropped to her lips. Just for a second. “You stood there. Silent. Strong. Mine. That’s all I needed.”

Isabella swallowed. “You used me.”

“I claimed you,” he corrected. “There’s a difference. A used thing gets thrown away. A claimed thing gets protected.”

She wanted to hit him. She wanted to kiss him. The confusion was killing her.

“Why do you care what they think?” she asked instead. “You’re Donatello Moretti. You don’t answer to anyone.”

“I don’t,” he agreed. “But they need to know. If one of them touches you, breathes on you, looks at you too long… I burn his whole family down. No hesitation.”

The way he said it — quiet, certain, like he was promising her the sun — made her shiver.

He opened the car door for her. Before she slid in, he leaned down. His lips brushed her ear.

“Rule number seven, Isabella,” he whispered. “You don’t just belong to me. The world needs to see it. So no one else ever tries.”

The door closed. The car moved.

Isabella stared at her ring. It felt heavier now. Not just debt. Not just marriage.

A target.

And Donatello Moretti had just painted it red for every enemy to see.