Page 16 of Marriage of Revenge

The roar of the crowd fades as a spotlight shines on a large screen set up on one side of the arena. It's showtime. I can't help the smirk that curls on my lips, wondering what Isabella's old man has planned.

The video starts, and every carefully constructed wall I've built threatens to crack. Isabella. Dancing. Not the calculating girl who watched me burn, made my mother disappear, but the one who used to spin across marble floors like gravity was optional. Her body tells stories I've spent years trying to forget—of music and hope and things that died screaming.

The room fills with appreciative murmurs, and my fingers itch for a trigger. These men watch her like they understand what they're seeing. They see a mafia princess, fragile and pure. What a fucking joke. They're all buying her innocent act. The same act that's kept her hidden away in her father's mansion these past years while I built my empire from nothing.

Henrik Mueller's voice carries above the others, thick with want. "Such grace," he purrs, like he has any fucking right tocomment on what he sees. "Hard to believe she's been locked away all this time."

My jaw clenches. They don't know her. Don't know the steel beneath the silk, the calculation behind those perfect pirouettes.

It was always her world, her sanctuary. I remember that much. There are things she couldn't do—sing, engage in our world's darker pursuits—but she could dance. And watching her now, it's evident how much it meant to her. Maybe that’s the one thing she never lied about.

“Those legs,” Henrik drawls, his voice cutting through the tension in the room, loud enough to make my jaw clench. “Imagine them wrapped around me, squeezing tight while she begs for my cock.” He leans back, swirling his drink, eyes glinting with twisted amusement. “Bet she’s still flexible from all that dancing. Think Daddy’s little ballerina has any idea what’s coming for her?”

The fucker catches my glare, but he only smirks, like he’s untouchable. Like he’s not already on borrowed time.

Rahul chuckles from his corner, his fingers idly tapping against the crystal of his scotch glass. The Mumbai kingpin is infamous for breaking his acquisitions, leaving them shattered shells of who they once were. “The Moretti auctions usually deliver,” he says, voice rich with indulgent cruelty. “But this?” He licks his lips, as if tasting the power in the air. “His own daughter? That’s power you can taste. And fuck, I’d savor every second of breaking her.”

My fists curl, but I force myself to stay still. To listen. To mark every word.

“Nothing like the usual merchandise,” Carlos chimes in, the Colombian’s smile cold, the wealth of his bloodstained empire stitched into every flawless seam of his suit. “Your daddy’s auctions are always memorable, but his virgin princess?” Hiseyes gleam, the hunger there as raw as it is dangerous. “That’s worth starting a war over.”

My vision narrows, the room closing in with every filthy word. My teeth grit, the predator in me pacing, craving violence.

Takeshi’s voice cuts through, soft but lethal. “The things I’d make her dance to.” He leans forward, studying the footage with a calculating gaze that makes my blood boil. “Breaking Moretti’s perfect ballerina while stealing his empire? Now that’s what I call a two-for-one special.”

Connor, the Irish man, who seems to have missed the memo on the seriousness of this gathering, drawls from his seat, “You all seem pretty pathetic, don’t you? Needing to destroy a beauty to get it up.” He pauses, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I guess your cocks can’t get hard otherwise.”

The room goes silent, the tension fracturing into shock as every head swivels to Connor. He raises his glass, unfazed by the murderous glares now aimed his way. “Cheers to compensating,” he adds, with a wink.

Despite the danger simmering in the air, there’s a flicker of dark amusement in me. Connor always had a way of throwing a live grenade into the room and walking away whistling.

The others glare, but they know better than to take the bait. For now.

The French matriarch who came with the next in line for her empire laughs—a woman in our world. “Can we finish watching? Or do you have to be talking?”

The video ends, the screen fading to black, but the room is thick with anticipation, crackling with dark promises. These men think they’re here to bid on a prize, to use her, to break her. They’re circling like vultures, salivating over the thought of tearing down her father’s empire piece by piece, using her as the weapon.

They don’t realize they’re the ones walking into a slaughterhouse. They’re already ghosts, and when the time comes, they’ll bleed for every word, every look, every filthy thought.

Henrik smirks again, and I let my lips curl into a shadow of a smile, promising retribution. He doesn’t know it yet, but soon, he’ll understand exactly how far I’ll go to protect what’s mine. And when that day comes, there won’t be enough left of him to bury.

But there's something else—a spark, a memory. That dance, I've seen it before. The realization hits me like a freight train. It was years ago, a private performance, just for me. That was the night things changed between us, the night before everything went to hell.

She must have told him about that night. Of course, she did.

It's a strategic play. A reminder of what's at stake. Her father is using her, her art, as a pawn in this deadly game we're playing.

A game of power, revenge, and loyalties.

I pull myself away from the memory, focusing on the present. On the plan.

"Antonio."

I turn to face Henrik. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Still hung up on her?" he taunts.

I clench my fists. I remember all too well the night he cornered Isabella, attempting to claim what he believed was his. And then, there were the tainted drugs he'd shipped to my territory, resulting in the loss of some of my loyal men. Henrik was playing a dangerous game, and it seems he isn’t done yet.

His grin is wolfish as he continues, "Anticipating a reunion?"

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