Page 55 of Marriage of Revenge

CHAPTER 27—ISABELLA

Naomi sits up, moonlightcatching the tear tracks on her face. She takes a breath that shakes worse than mine during bad nights. "Any update from the Beast?" Her voice wavers between fear and forced lightness, eyes darting to the pillow where my phone hides. "If this were one of my manuscripts, this would be the moment where everything either falls apart or..." She can't finish, the words catching like hope in her throat.

"Nothing." The word tastes like bile and broken promises. For all I know, Antonio's phone is feeding fish in the Mediterranean. Or maybe this is just another game, another way to make me dance to his tune.

His arms around me, his blood on my skin flash through my mind. That wound - Henrik's blade went deep. Too deep. Panic rises sharp and unwelcome in my throat. "The wound - did you see how bad it was?"

"Between the blood and that kiss?" She tries for her usual analytical tone, but fear threads through it. "He seemed okay enough to give you the darkest romance scene I've ever witnessed in real life, so..." Her attempt at normalcy cracks, fresh tears threatening.

"You're right. He's fine." The words ring hollow as empty promises. The phone's silence speaks volumes, and isn't that just perfect? Here I am, worried about the man who promised to destroy me.

"I'll try again," I whisper, clutching the pillow to my chest. The walk-in closet becomes my new sanctuary - like all those times I used to hide and try to find courage in solitude. Dresses hang around me like ghosts of the girl I used to be, the one who believed in fairy tales instead of survival. How long has my father been orchestrating this performance? How many acts were written before I even knew I had a part to play?

My fingers shake as I type:

Are you okay? Don't let Naomi pay for my father's sins.

The message feels like surrender - desperation wrapped in concern I shouldn't feel. But Naomi deserves better than becoming another casualty in this war. Better than ending up like Antonio's mother, like all the others who got caught in my father's web of power and pain.

I hear Naomi's voice through the closet door, steady despite everything. "She just needed a minute. You know how brides get before their wedding." A weak attempt at humor threads through her fear, but she's trying. Still protecting me, even now. "Probably hiding from all this madness. I mean, if someone told me I was getting married tomorrow..."

The closet door swings open and my heart performs the kind of leap that would make my cardiologist panic. Through sheer will, I don't flinch. If they find the phone, Naomi's father willdisappear like smoke. Or worse - they'll make her pay the price. Either way, I've failed her.

"What are you doing in there?" Georgio's grunt carries years of watching me, guarding me, reporting my every move to my father.

I slide to the ground, phone pressed between silk dress and floor, and meet his gaze with practiced defiance. "Contemplating my life choices." The bite in my voice isn't an act - anger simmers under my skin, mixing with fear until I can barely breathe.

When he steps closer, invading my sanctuary with polished shoes that probably cost more than most people's rent, I add, "I wanted space. Was looking for my Juilliard sweater." His eyes harden. He remembers all the times he complained about waiting, about my waste of time of a hobby as he called it. How couldn't he? All those drives to rehearsals, recitals, auditions. Back when I thought New York held my future instead of Naples holding my cage. "The one Mom gave me."

The lump in my throat feels like grief solidified. Mom had dreams too, before everything shattered. She used to tell me stories about almost making it to American Ballet Theatre, about the life she imagined. I was small enough to swim in her sweater when she gave it to me, her scent wrapping around me like a promise.

A promise that ended in a headline and a closed casket.

"Don't forget dinner,” he grunts.

"Room service will do," I say, not moving from my spot on the floor.

Georgio's snicker carries years of watching innocence die. "That's not what your father wants. Remember his words." His half-grin turns my blood to ice. "Special guests tonight. Very special guests. After all, you're a bride now."

Antonio? My mind races to the possibility before I can stop it. But no - the memory of flames and screams crashes back. The acrid smell of burning flesh...

I force a sigh, careful not to let him see how my hands want to shake. This man used to carry me on his shoulders, used to laugh at my terrible ballet puns. Now those same shoulders would probably dump my body in the Mediterranean without hesitation. Whatever warmth he had has been carved away, leaving nothing but my father's blade behind.

"Fine. Ten minutes." The words come clipped, controlled. But defiance rises like bile in my throat, and I can't swallow it back. "Tell me, did you always dream of this life? Making people suffer? Or did the soul-crushing come naturally?"

His gaze rakes over me like a physical thing. "Your father protects you. You're too blind to see it."

"Or maybe you're the blind one. This—" I gesture at our gilded cage, at everything this nightmare represents, "—isn't protection. It's him using us like chess pieces in his power play."

"You're alive, aren't you?" His words cut deeper than Henrik's teeth ever could. For a moment, he steps forward and fear shoots through me sharp as chemo. I've seen those hands end a life without hesitation. The only reason they haven't ended mine is the Moretti blood in my veins - blood that feels more like chains with each passing second.

The door slams behind him, and rage explodes in my chest. Yes, I'm alive. But not because of my father's "protection." I'm alive because I fought through every treatment, every fever, every moment my body tried to quit. I survived chemo, radiation, immunotherapy, a transplant. More immunotherapy. Dozens of ER visits, of scans, of moments where I thought this was the end.

I did that.

Not him.

Not his empire.

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