Page 10 of Marriage of Revenge

She doesn’t ask for more, doesn’t linger, and I like that. She’s useful. A pawn who knows her place. But soon, she’ll be more than that. She’ll be a tool, one I’ll wield to chip at Isabella’s defenses.

The man on the phone is still babbling, and I grip the receiver harder. “Either you deliver the goods,” I snap, “or you’ll be wishing for a grave.” I hang up, dragging my sweatpants back on, but the satisfaction is already fading.

Minutes later, I’m at the training grounds, the cold night air biting at my skin. Around me, the crowd gathers—men with hardened eyes and faces shaped by lives steeped in violence and loyalty. They respect me. And unlike the rest of our world, they respect me not because of fear, but because they know I standwith them. I’ve fought beside them, bled beside them, built this empire with them.

Everyone else shits their pants when they hear my name. Not them.

Franco’s voice booms over the murmurs, cutting through the tension. “Dare, Boss!” It’s more than a cheer. It’s a call to arms, a reminder that I’m not just their leader—I’m their weapon, their shield.

I step into the makeshift ring, the damp Italian soil grinding under my boots, the weight of purpose settling over me. This isn’t a game or a performance. It’s a ritual, a way of showing my men that I never take my position for granted. The opponent facing me is built like a tank, muscles straining against his shirt, his eyes burning with the desire to prove himself. He’s strong, but strength alone isn’t enough in our world.

The fight begins, and he lunges. I sidestep, my movements precise and calculated, landing a jab to his ribs. He grunts, pain flashing across his face, but he doesn’t falter. Good. I need men who don’t break easily.

Each punch I throw, every blow I dodge, is a lesson—a reminder of what I’m willing to endure and what I expect from them. This is about more than physical dominance; it’s about showing them the lengths I’ll go to for the family we’ve created.

The crowd’s energy crackles around me, their focus sharpening with every movement.

They don’t just see a leader; they see a man willing to fight alongside them.

My opponent swings again, and I duck, retaliating with a brutal uppercut that sends him sprawling into the dirt. I stand over him, breath coming in controlled pants, the cut on my cheek stinging as sweat drips into it. But pain is only noise. A distraction I’ve long since learned to ignore.

“Enough,” I command, extending a hand to the man on the ground. He takes it, pulling himself up with a grimace and a nod of respect. I don’t fight to humiliate. I fight to remind them that we’re in this together, bound by more than blood.

“Get him to the medic,” I tell one of my men, and they move quickly. No one who fights for me goes uncared for. It’s a rule, a small act that solidifies the loyalty we share.

Franco claps me on the shoulder, his admiration clear. “Good fight, Boss,” he says, his voice rough with approval.

I nod, the adrenaline still coursing through me. “We have work to do. The shipments for the orphanage leave tonight. Make sure everything is perfect. They’re counting on us.”

Franco’s eyes widen slightly, but his respect deepens. “You’ve always got your mind on the bigger picture,” he says, a hint of awe in his tone.

I allow myself a grim smile. “We have responsibilities, even in this world. We don’t forget that.”

As I make my way back to my car, my muscles ache, but my mind is clear. Paola is in place. And we have Luka who’s been creeping his way through the ranks. And more people in place than he thinks.

Watching him.

Watching her.

The thought of Isabella creeps in, unbidden. In two days, she’ll be here, thrust into this world she’s never truly understood. She’s not like Paola, who knows the rules and plays the game well. Isabella is softer, untested. She’ll have to learn, and she’ll have to learn fast.

Because in two days, Isabella Moretti will belong to me.

And the Beast never loses.

CHAPTER 5 – ISABELLA

The night before weleave for Naples, I can’t seem to stop my hands from being clammy and my shoulders to tense.

"You got to understand, Piccola Ballerina," Mrs. Romano uses the Italian nickname she gave me when I was a little girl, twirling in the living room, as she brings me my medicine.

The one I still have to take because my heart goes awry sometimes, pounding faster than any of the pirouettes I ever mastered. The pill feels bitter on my tongue—another reminder that my body betrayed me just when I'd finally started landing my fouettés perfectly. Less than a year ago, I was in a hospital room with beeping sounds all around, alone most of the time, going through the motions with as much of a smile as I could muster to survive.

As I swallow the pill with cold water, my eyes drift to the dresser in the corner. To its hidden compartment. To what's waiting there. But I'm not ready. Not yet.

During his sole visit at the hospital, my father told me he was proud of me. The only time he ever said that.

When I didn’t cry in front of him. He didn’t know how much I cried when he was gone. Or the extent of the treatments would have on my body. What he didn’t understand was that I didn’t have much choice.

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