Page 20 of Marriage of Revenge

“Make sure you get back to our compound,” I tell Paola. I don’t want her to pay the price of her betrayal to Isabella’s father. WillIsabella tell? Probably not. She’d get in trouble, too. And little Principessa doesn’t like to get in trouble.

I leave Paola there, breathless and confused, my frustration twisting into something cold and lethal. I roll my shoulders back, letting the rage settle into something more controlled, more focused. Like loading a gun—all that volatile power compressed into something I can aim.

The only thing I'm certain of is this: I'm going to win that auction. I'll put that fucking ring on Isabella's finger, mark her as mine for everyone to see. Then I'll break her in ways that can't be repaired, make sure she feels every ounce of the betrayal that shaped me. And when I've crushed her spirit, I'll rip apart the Moretti business, leave her father in ruins.

Revenge isn't only about power. It's the perfect crescendo to make them suffer.

As I step into the grand ballroom, the air feels thick, almost suffocating, charged with the kind of tension that prickles along the back of your neck. My heart thuds heavily, a dark rhythm that matches the low hum of conversation around me. The scent of expensive cologne and aged whiskey hangs heavy, mingling with the metallic edge of anticipation. Every set of eyes scans the room, predators sizing up prey, gauging their competition.

In the shadowed corner, there's a stage where Moretti's other "merchandise" performs. Their curves, their teasing moves wrapped in next-to-nothing fabrics catch every glint of light—they look like they've stepped out of some forbidden fantasy. But they're just the appetizer. Some were payment for debts, others trapped by Moretti's web. Not all broken, but none with any real power.

A redhead catches my eye—her smile sharp, defiant. She knows how to play this game, probably thinks she can manipulate her way to freedom. But tomorrow, after the mainevent, they'll all be sold regardless of their spirit. The thought has me wincing and my jaw clenching. They didn’t do anything.

And in my world, you have to agree to play by the rules. Or you have to get a taste of your own medicine. Like Isabella.

They didn’t.

Yet, I’m not saving all of them.

Sometimes you have to become the monster to slay one. But I’ll ask Franco to get one or two to rehabilitate them. Can’t do it too loudly or the Morettis will know.

Madame Lefevre whose the powerhouse in the Parisian underground delicately waves her fan as she approaches. "Monsieur Antonio, such a pleasure," she purrs. "Have you met my son, Sébastien?" She gestures to a striking young man standing close by, his eyes fixed on the entrance with keen anticipation. "He needs a proper wife, and Isabella would be the crown jewel. You know her. Maybe you can give him tips for once he wins.”

She doesn’t stand a chance and her son doesn’t either. So, I nod, eyes never leaving the entrance. "Maybe, later, Madame.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch Henrik Müller giving me a pointed look as he strides in the room before smiling his creepy smile. The German thinks he can rattle me. He knows nothing.

Connor, the Irish bastard with eyes that seem to put a price tag on everything—including the souls of men—slides into the seat across from me, whiskey in hand. “Italy’s a fine place for chess, isn’t it?” he muses, his grin casual but his eyes calculating, always.

I lean back, letting my predatory smile do the talking. "Only if you enjoy watching knights discover exactly how long they can dangle by their balls before they start singing soprano." The threat wrapped in humor is a language we both speak fluently.

Connor chokes on his whiskey, drops of amber liquid catching the light. "Fuck me, Antonio," he says, shaking his head. "Younever fail to make me question why we're usually on the same side."

I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the light play off the crystal like blood in water. "We call it an alliance, Connor. Anything more sentimental might make me want to demonstrate my creative side."

"Alliance." He tests the word. "Just keep your creative side away from my balls." His grin turns calculating. "Though you'd probably charge me a loyalty tax just for breathing."

"Only if I thought you'd live long enough to pay it."

Before Connor can respond, a hush falls over the room, every head turning in a ripple-like effect toward the entrance.

Whispers crawl through the crowd like fire through dry grass.

Connor leans back, eyes widening just slightly, a tell-tale sign even he is taken aback. The atmosphere is thick, almost unbearable, as if the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

First, a tall woman with raven-black hair enters, her confident strides echoing in the hushed room. But no, it isn’t her. Then another, her red gown a fiery contrast against the marble floor. But as she moves further inside, the disappointment in the room is palpable.

Connor, taking another sip of his whiskey, chuckles lightly as another woman enters. "All these grand entrances, and for what? You think the elusive Isabella will even show?"

Another woman, a blonde draped in silver, makes her way in, catching a few glances. But it's nothing compared to what Isabella's entrance would incite.

From the table close to ours, men are cheering and sighing.

“All these appetizers," Takeshi muses, sake glass catching the light. "When we're waiting for Moretti's prize jewel."

"Kept pure for the highest bidder," Henrik adds with that fucking smile that begs to be broken. "What a thoughtful father."

Connor smirks, leaning in, "Seems like a parade of almost but not quite. Wonder if they'll ever tire of being second best."

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