Page 63 of Isaia

Everything around me blurs, fades to static. My breathing slows, controlled only because I’m barely hanging on.

Images flood my mind—her in a white dress, saying yes to him in front of God, wearing his goddamn ring.

His mouth on hers.

Her body arching under his on their wedding night.

A sick twist of rage and something darker claws at my spine.

He’ll never have her. Not while I’m still breathing. If he so much as looks at her like she belongs to him again, I’ll make sure he never looks at anything else.

I push off the chair and pace, my thoughts racing, fury building in my chest. “A Rinaldi-Paladino alliance.”

She nods, wiping at her face. “First, Michele offered me money—more than I could ever spend in a lifetime. When that didn’t work, he turned to threats.”

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. “What kind of threats?”

Her fingers twist the orange scarf around her neck, pulling it tight. “If I don’t agree, he’d sell me to the highest bidder. He’d make sure I spent my life locked away, being nothing more than a—how did he put it?—fuck doll to some psycho.”

“Motherfucker.” Anger ripples through my veins as I grab the bottle of bourbon from my desk and pour myself a glass.

It’s all starting to make sense now, Rinaldi trying to kidnap her and take her back to New York. He’s in a hurry to marry her off.Son of a fucking bitch. My hand shakes slightly, a rare tell I don’t bother hiding.

“Make that two.”

I glance at her, her eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks streaked with tears.

I pour another glass and hand it to her silently. She takes it without a word, downing it in one go, her face scrunching slightly at the burn. The heavy silence that follows presses against my skull like a vise.

Finally, I break it. “I know how this shit works. Arranged marriages, alliances, power grabs. But what I don’t get is how you’ve managed to dodge this arrangement for so long.”

She sets the empty glass on the table with a soft clink, her fingers lingering on the edge. “He’s been helping me.”

I cock a brow. “Who?”

“Anthony.”

The way she says his name, soft and familiar, makes me want to end him. Not because I’m afraid he’ll take her—he won’t—but I hate his fucking name on her lips.

I want to erase him, wipe him from her memory. Does she trust him that much? Does she run to him when she needs someone?

The thought twists in my gut, sharp and unforgiving.

Fingers gripping the glass, I let the edge bite into my palm. “That makes no fucking sense, Paladino helping you.”

She stands, pacing, her scarf twisted between her hands. “We’ve been friends since I moved in with Michele and my mom. Anthony promised he’ll only marry me if it’s what I want and not because I’m forced.”

Marry her? Over my bleeding, rotting, decomposing fucking corpse.

“He made it clear to Michele that it’s the one and only condition he has. I have to agree to a marriage willingly, or else he won’t do it.”

The way she speaks of him, soft and full of trust, sends a jolt of rage straight through me. Heat pools in my chest, dangerous and uncontrollable.

“How fucking noble of him,” I spit out. Piece of shit motherfucker.

“He’s not like the others,” she continues, and I roll my eyes, my chest burning.

“Don’t kid yourself, Everly. They’re all the same.”

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