Isabella's POV.
Naples was always most beautiful in the evenings, when the light melted gold against the sea and Mount Vesuvius glowed like a painting in the distance. From my balcony at the Romano villa, I had the kind of view poets would kill for: the Bay of Naples stretched wide and gleaming, boats bobbing in neat rows, their sails white as folded linen; and beyond them, Mount Vesuvius brooded, casting its ancient shadow across the land.
It should have calmed me. It usually did. Tonight, the view pressed heavy on my chest, reminding me how small I was in this gilded cage of stone and marble.
The household below throbbed with life. Servants hurried in and out of the ballroom, their arms full of flowers, silks, and gleaming silver. The sound of hammers echoed faintly as carpenters erected a new arch of carved wood over the gardens. Someone shouted about wine deliveries from Florence; someone else barked orders about linens. All this for one night.
My night.
Or at least, that is what everyone wanted me to believe.
My twenty-third. A Romano daughter's celebration, Naples had begun to whisper, would be an event of the season.
Papa insisted on a grande e indimenticabile celebration, because a Romano must never fade quietly into another year. No, my birthday had to be an event, something Naples would remember.
And yet, as I leaned against the stone balustrade, the sea breeze tugging at my hair, I felt no excitement. Only the weight pressing tighter on my chest, the invisible corset of expectation. Every flower arranged, every note of music chosen, every ribbon tied was another stitch in a tapestry I had never asked to be part of.
I should have been flattered. I should have been grateful.
Instead, unease gnawed at me.
This was no ordinary birthday preparation. The draperies were too rich, the shipments too extravagant, the kitchens too frantic. Every corner of the villa hummed with expectation, and every time I asked why, my father's answer was the same:
"It must be perfect."
Perfect for what?
I'd been hearing snippets about the guest list—how the nobles from Rome and Florence were coming, even whispers of Sicilian families sending emissaries. That was not a birthday celebration. That was politics disguised in crystal glasses and gold-plated forks.
I touched the silver locket at my throat, the only inheritance from Mamma. A faded picture of her and me when I was small, her smile caught in that eternal rebellion that never dimmed. She had been light where my father was shadow, softness where he was stone. When she died, it felt as though someone had drawn all the color out of the world, leaving me with men who only saw me as a piece to move across their board.
She had died too young, leaving me with nothing but whispers of her laughter and the suspicion that sorrow had hollowed her out long before illness finished the job.
Sometimes I wondered if she had felt this same crushing weight now closing in on me.
"Signorina," came a voice behind me. Rosa, one of the maids, curtsied awkwardly as she balanced a stack of linens. "Your father wishes to know if you've chosen your gown for tomorrow evening."
Of course he did. My father, Don Romano, believed every detail mattered because details were power. A wrinkled napkin, a wilted rose, a daughter who did not shine—all could be seen as weakness. And weakness was not tolerated in our world.
"Yes," I lied softly. "The emerald silk." The one he had bought me last month. Papa liked emeralds because they matched my eyes. A reminder, he said, that I was his blood.
Rosa sighed with relief and hurried off.
I hated the dress. Hated how it made me look exactly like what they wanted me to be: a jewel to be paraded, owned, admired.
For as long as I could remember, I had done everything Papa asked. I walked at his side at dinners, kissed the cheeks of men who smelled of tobacco and blood, smiled at their wives and daughters. I learned the names of every powerful family in Italy—Naples, Milan, Florence, Palermo, Rome—because he drilled them into me until I could recite them in my sleep. Every crest, every name, every son who mattered.
He said knowledge was armor but I knew better: it was currency.
And I was his most valuable coin.
The thought made my throat close. I pressed the locket harder against my skin, as if Mamma's memory could shield me. But all I felt was the fear that everything was about to change.
I found him in the main hall, hands clasped behind his back, directing servants like a general before battle. Don Romano was not a man who needed to raise his voice to command obedience. Power clung to him, cold and absolute. When he turned, his eyes swept over me like one might examine an expensive painting.
"Papà," I tried, forcing lightness into my voice, "don't you think all of this is a little… much? It's only a birthday."
His gaze sharpened. "Nonesense. A Romano's birthday is never only a birthday."
Dinner was quiet, just the two of us at the long table where twenty could sit.
Candles burned low in golden holders, their flames flickering shadows across the frescoed ceiling. The porcelain gleamed; the silver cutlery was polished until it reflected like mirrors. A feast laid for two felt more like an execution.
He spoke little, but when he did it was about arrangements: the flowers from Florence, the wine from Sicily, the orchestra rehearsing in the city. "Tradition must be honored," he said once, his voice softening. "It is what keeps us strong. Families fall when they forget their roots. Unity is worth sacrifice."
I barely touched my food. My fork scraped porcelain as I pushed lamb around my plate, the rich scent of rosemary and garlic turning my stomach.
I wanted to ask him. I wanted to demand the truth. But I saw the warning in his posture, in the way his jaw clenched as he carved his meat. So I swallowed my questions with my wine.
"Isabella," he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of command.. "Tomorrow will be perfect."
I nodded, my face a mask of obedience. "Sì, Papa."
Later, alone in my chambers, I lit a single candle and returned to the balcony. The air smelled of salt and orange blossoms. The city below still pulsed with life—vendors calling out their wares, laughter spilling from taverns, carriages rattling over cobblestones. Freedom lived just beyond the walls of this villa, loud and unpolished and real.
I pressed my palm to the cool stone railing and imagined stepping over, imagined walking down into the chaos of Naples where no one would know my name. Where I could breathe without a thousand expectations crushing my chest.
But I didn't move.
Instead, I whispered into the night what I had whispered countless times before. "One day."
One day I would find a way to choose for myself. One day, I would no longer be the pawn my father moved for power.
The candle flickered, my locket heavy against my skin. Tomorrow was my birthday. Tomorrow, I would discover what cage he had built for me this time.
And for the first time, I feared I would not be strong enough to escape it.