Page 25 of Marriage of Revenge

"You seem rather... taken with the girl, Antonio." The matriarch purrs my name like expensive wine, her red lips curved in invitation I won’t be answering.

"That's where you're wrong," I lean back, letting the wine catch the light like blood. "It's not about her. It's about the power she represents."

Even as the lie leaves my tongue, my eyes betray me. Isabella commands attention like she used to command a stage—yet something's different. The way she holds herself, like she's carrying invisible wounds. Her eyes still flash with that familiar defiance, but there's fear there too, turning her into some kind of wounded masterpiece. The gentle curve of her neck as she turns away from Henrik's latest attempt to intimidate her. Those lips, parting slightly as she sips her water like she's dying of thirst.

"She might not mean anything to you." The French woman’s voice drags me back, dripping with the kind of knowing thatmakes me want to show her exactly how wrong she is. "But don't underestimate her. Women like her have a way of turning the tables when you least expect it."

My smile is all teeth, no warmth. Oh, I know exactly what Isabella's capable of. I have the scars to prove it. But she's been locked away in daddy's fortress, protected from the real darkness of our world. She's a porcelain doll trying to play in a game of steel and blood. She won't last a day without someone to guide her, to protect her.

To break her.

"You seem to have a lot of faith in her," I observe, tasting violence on my tongue along with the wine.

She shrugs, watching her son fumble his way through seducing some dark-haired prop at the bar. "Let's just say I have a feeling about her." Her smile turns sharp. "After all, the most dangerous creatures are the ones who've learned how to survive." She pauses, tilting her head back toward me. “You should know.”

CHAPTER 12—ISABELLA

Ithought I couldescape right after the auction.

I was wrong. This would be the title of my autobiography.

The broken doll in the middle of the ballroom has to sit up and look pretty while deals are made in dark corners and women are passed around like party favors.

The Colombian mafioso lounges at his table like nothing happened, like two of his men weren't just dragged out bleeding. The woman with red hair—the one he calls Ruby—perches on his lap now, laughing at whatever he's whispering in her ear. But her eyes—they're stage lights after final bow. Dead. Empty.

Another reminder of what happens to defiant girls in this world. Is that my future? Being draped over some monster while he plays king?

The Russian still commands his corner like a general at war, his men clustered around him like armed shadows. The Irish mafioso's disappeared with his blonde, but his guards linger, watching everything. And over there, Antonio sits with theFrench matriarch, all calculated moves and predator's grace while her son drowns his fears in another whiskey.

Henrik's words keep slicing through my thoughts: "I'll make you dance for me, little ballerina. But not on stage. Not like before. This time you'll dance on your knees. Maybe I’ll shatter them so you can stay there as I fuck your pretty little mouth. I’ll come all over your face, marking you. Because you’re going to be mine." The memory makes bile rise in my throat, makes my hands shake as they grip my water glass. Makes me understand why Ruby's eyes look so empty.

When Antonio's gaze collides with mine, he doesn't do the mocking glass raise thing again. No. He stands up like some dark prince from the romance novels hidden under my mattress, and my throat forgets how words work.

"That should be interesting," my father murmurs, his voice carrying the kind of edge that has my shoulders tightening.

Henrik must sense the shift—predators always do—because he stands up again. But between Henrik's promise of broken knees and Antonio... well, at least Antonio’s brand of danger is familiar. Even if that familiarity now includes knowing exactly what he looks like when he's claiming someone.

He's beautiful in that terrifying way that makes my hands want to shake. His crisp navy shirt stretches across shoulders that were bare just hours ago, muscles flexing beneath the fabric as he drove into Paola like she was salvation.

The left side of his face is a jagged map of burned scars, a stark contrast to the chiseled perfection of the other half. Ink snakes up his neck and down his wrists, black lines crawling out like they might strangle him if he lets his guard down. Or maybe they'll strangle me.

While other men play dress-up in their suits, he’s wearing jeans that should be illegal, and his eyes—those storm-dark eyes that watched me through the mirror while he took her—arelocked on me now, like I’m the only thing in this room worth seeing.

He doesn’t even glance at my father or the guards clustering around us like nervous pigeons. Doesn’t acknowledge Henrik who’s striding our way.

No, Antonio just reaches for my hand, and when his lips brush my knuckles, it’s so gentle it hurts. Like he’s still the boy who used to play piano for me, not the man who promised to marry me while fucking someone else.

“A dance?” he growls, voice rough as gravel.

Did I nod? Whisper yes? Black out completely? My brain’s too busy short-circuiting, caught between the memory of how his cock disappeared into Paola and the heat of his hand now, pulling me up like I weigh nothing.

Is he taller? More magnetic? Or is it just that I’m trying to convince myself he’s still human, that this dance is a game and not the prelude to something I can’t escape?

My father makes that sharp gesture that usually means someone’s about to have a really bad day. “One dance.” He pauses, eyes cold. “Just with him. One dance. For old times’ sake.”

When Antonio’s scarred, muscular arms close around me, it’s like dancing into the lion’s den thinking the beast won’t bite. The fight drains out of me like air from a balloon, muscles betraying me by softening into his hold when they should be rigid, braced for the onslaught. His tattoos burn against my skin through the thin fabric of my dress, his scent—wine, cologne, and something darker—wrapping around me like a barbwire.

My breath hitches as his hands press into the small of my back, possessive, like he’s already claimed me for later. And my body remembers this too well—the way the simple though of his touch used to ignite me.

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