Isabella barely slept.
The memory of Alessandro's words clung to her skin like a bruise: "Your father's debt is mine now. And so are you."
She should have screamed at him. She should have said no. But the truth was, when those eyes pinned her on the dance floor, the word had turned to ash in her throat.
By dawn, her father was gone. She found only a note on the kitchen table, his scrawled handwriting barely legible:
Forgive me. Stay alive.
Her chest hollowed as she read it over and over, the reality sinking in. He hadn't left her a choice. He had delivered her into Alessandro's hands as payment.
***********
The black car came at noon. A polished Mercedes, windows tinted like obsidian. Two men in suits stepped out, silent as shadows.
"Miss Moretti," one said, opening the door. "Mr. Vitelli is expecting you."
Her heart thudded. "And if I refuse?"
The man's expression didn't change. "You won't."
She slid into the car, her hands curled into fists in her lap. Florence blurred past in silence, until the city gave way to gates taller than her boutique had ever been. Wrought iron twined with roses—beautiful, lethal. The Vitelli estate.
★★★★★
Inside was a palace masquerading as a home. Marble floors gleamed beneath vaulted ceilings. Oil paintings of stern-faced men watched from the walls—generations of Vitellis, each pair of eyes more unforgiving than the last.
Isabella's throat tightened as she stepped into the great hall. And there he was,
Alessandro.
Leaning against a carved pillar, a glass of red wine in hand. He looked carved from the same marble that built this place—cold, flawless, dangerous.
"You came," he said.
"You sent guards," she snapped. "That's not the same as an invitation."
His lips curved slightly. "Semantics." He pushed off the pillar and circled her, his gaze deliberate. "Your father's debts run deep. Money, favors, betrayals. He gambled away more than fortune. He gambled away his life. And you…"
She forced herself to meet his eyes. "What about me?"
"You're the collateral." His voice dropped, soft but cutting. "And now, you belong to me."
Heat flared in her cheeks—anger, fear, something far more dangerous. "I'm not property."
"Not yet," Alessandro murmured, tilting his head as though considering a piece of art. "But you will be. Unless you'd rather I collect payment in blood."
Isabella's stomach clenched. She thought of her father's hollow eyes, the debts that had drowned him. She thought of the men at the gala who looked at her like prey. And then she thought of Alessandro, standing before her like the storm itself.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
He stepped closer, until his shadow swallowed hers.
"Your loyalty." His fingers brushed a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear with unnerving tenderness. "Your obedience." His eyes burned into hers. "And maybe, if you're very lucky… your heart."
Her breath caught, heat pooling low in her stomach against her will.
"And if I refuse?"
Alessandro smiled then—slow, lethal, devastating.
"Then, Isabella," he said softly, "I'll teach you what happens to those who refuse me."