Page 43 of Marriage of Revenge

But as my father's smile curves like a scalpel, I wonder—how many more monsters are hiding behind his plans?

Radomir's rage explodes like a chemo bag bursting. His laptop crashes against marble, pieces scattering like broken promises. When his eyes find me, they burn with enough hatred to make my scars itch. His accent thickens as he demands verification, spittle flying as he accuses everyone of cheating.

My father signals to S—his shadow in everything technical—to verify their hacking paths. Files flash across screens: offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands moving blood diamond money, board members buying underage girls from trafficking rings, the CEO's son dealing drugs through jewelry shipments. The French competitor found something that makes even Mrs. Lefevre's eyebrows rise—proof that three board members are FBI informants. Connor's Irish charm returns as he announces he's found their security chief's entire network of dirty cops.

Millions at stake, and this is just round one. But it's not about money—it's about knowledge. About knowing exactly where to apply pressure until empires crumble.

"Good, good." My father's smile is genuine for once—the kind I haven't seen since before I got sick. The kind that means someone else is about to hurt. And me? I'm left frozen in place, my pulse doing that stupid skip-flutter thing as realization hits: we're one step closer to my wedding day.

One step closer to Antonio's planned destruction.

I should stride away. Should scream that this is all rigged. Should warn Antonio that my father never loses, not really. Should—

The door bursts open with enough force to make the crystal glasses sing.

Antonio moves like a shadow coming to life. One moment he's at his laptop, the next he's on his feet, positioning himselfbetween me and whatever threat waits in that doorway. His gaze finds mine across the chaos, dark and intense. There's something raw in his eyes, something that looks like protection but tastes like possession.

Even from here, his message burns clear: he'd destroy anything that tried to hurt me.

Or maybe he just wants to make sure he's the only one who gets to break me.

My father calls out. “Ohhh, finally. I hear the consolation prize has arrived.”

The room snaps to attention. Yesterday's gunshots still echo in everyone's memory—Mrs. Lefevre's people form a wall around her, guns barely concealed under designer jackets. Henrik's men draw weapons, but there's eagerness in their movements—they're hoping for bloodshed.

But it's Naomi who stumbles through that door, and the room's reaction shifts. Henrik's smile spreads slow and cruel, like he's just been handed a gift he didn't expect. Connor's easy charm falters for just a moment—I remember Naomi telling me about the dinner where she made him laugh so hard he choked on his whiskey, some joke about Irish stubbornness that she wouldn't repeat. Now his eyes hold something almost like regret.

Antonio... Antonio's whole body goes rigid. His eyes dart from Naomi to me to my father, and I see the exact moment he understands. His fingers curl into fists, and something darker than rage crosses his face. Because he knows—he knows what happens to "consolation prizes" in our world. His jaw clenches, and I catch him making a subtle gesture to one of his men. Whatever his plans for revenge were, they're shifting right now.

But my world has already tilted sideways. My best friend, who's always been sunshine and sass, who snuck in chocolate when I couldn't eat anything else, who made me laugh wheneverything hurt—she looks broken. Tear tracks stain her cheeks, and something in my chest cracks at the sight.

"What's going on?" I turn to my father, but I already know. Deep down, I know.

His words seep into me like poison. "Let's just say we need more than what you can provide. The second needs something, too. And I told you that your insolence would be punished." The insinuation slithers through my veins, and I feel it—that sharp twist in my gut that means everything's about to shatter.

I can't breathe.

The walls press closer, closer, until the room feels like a tomb. "No," I manage, my voice barely a whisper, ragged and raw. That single word carries years of friendship, of shared secrets, of Naomi holding my hand through everything. "You can't do that."

He turns to me with those eyes—the ones that watched me fall in recitals, that watched me struggle to stand again, that now watch me realize just how deep his cruelty runs. His head tilts just so, like I'm a disappointing performance he has to sit through.

Each step Naomi takes echoes like a death knell. My father isn't just taking my freedom—he's taking the one person who's always seen me as more than a Moretti, more than a prize to be won.

"Keep your mouth shut, Isabella. Remember where your loyalty should lie." He doesn't need to say more. The threat hangs between us, palpable as the barbwire tightening around my throat. "And maybe, if you're good, I'll reconsider."

If I'm good. Like I'm still five years old, begging to stay up late for one more pirouette. Like he's still the father who used to lift me onto his shoulders, not this man who trades people like poker chips.

Naomi catches my eye across the room, and I see it—that tiny shake of her head, begging me to stay quiet. Even now, even as my father's bargaining chip, she's trying to protect me.

CHAPTER 21—ISABELLA

"Don't make a scene,"my father warns, his words slicing through me like pre-surgery prep. But it's Naomi's silence that hurts worse—my best friend stands beside me with her eyes fixed on her shoes like a prisoner awaiting sentence.

I force myself to nod, swallowing back words that taste like bile. Like that time the doctors said "good news" and "cancer" in the same breath. Because if I speak now, every ounce of rage and betrayal will pour out, and we'll both pay the price.

Antonio strides toward us, and the air changes—thickens like when storms roll in, when monitors start beeping warnings. People part around him like he's gravity incarnate, a force of nature wearing designer jeans and deadly grace. His scar stands out stark against his olive skin, a reminder of how badly things can burn when my father feels crossed.

But it's not the scar that catches my breath—it's the thunder in his eyes, the way they lock onto Naomi like he remembersher too. Remembers the girl who used to make him laugh, who taught him to swear while I practiced arabesques. There's something else there too, something that looks dangerously like concern.

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