Isabella's POV
Morning sunlight sliced through my room like a spotlight, painting gold lines across the polished floor. The echoes of last night's ball lingered like ghosts: the clinking of glasses, orchestrated laughter, calculated smiles. I blinked against the brightness and swung my legs off the bed, the weight of my father's announcement pressing down on me.
I sat up, hands clenching the sheets. My life had been measured, displayed, admired—but never asked for. And now, it had been promised to another man.
I dressed quickly, ignoring the breakfast left untouched on the table. Silk blouse, fitted trousers, leather boots—I needed armor, not elegance. My reflection stared back at me, green eyes sharp, jaw set. Today, I would not be a passive piece on someone else's board.
I left my chambers without a backward glance, striding toward my father's office. Each step I took was a promise: I would not go quietly. Today, I would not wait to be spoken to—I would speak first.
The massive oak door stood before me. With a breath, I pushed it open, not bothering to knock. Inside, Papa and Enzo, his underboss, were bent over ledgers and papers, voices low but precise. Enzo looked up, nodded at me, then turned back to Papa.
"Papa," I said, tone sharp, cutting through the murmured calculations. "We need to talk about last night."
Papa lifted an eyebrow, calm authority radiating from him. "Morning, Isabella. I trust the festivities were… enlightening?"
"I won't marry him."
His eyes darkened slightly. "Enzo, if you would give us a moment."
The underboss's gaze flicked between us. For a second, I thought I saw hesitation—a flicker of pity—but then he gave a quiet nod and stepped out.
The office felt smaller with Enzo gone. Sunlight fell across Papa's face, highlighting the unflinching control he always carried. I squared my shoulders.
His head lifted slowly. The lines of his face were calm, almost amused, but his eyes—cold, sharp—locked on me like a predator sizing up its prey. "Isabella," he said softly, almost indulgently, "this isn't a request."
I stepped further into the room, letting my anger fill the space. "I know that. That's why I'm here. You planned this birthday, every detail—for what? To parade me like some prize? To remind me that I've always bent to your will? No more. I won't be part of this. I won't be traded for your ambitions."
His expression didn't waver. "You are central to our family's future. The alliance is set. The decision is made. And as the daughter of this famiglia, you will obey."
"I've spent twenty-three years obeying," I shot back, my voice cracking with restrained fury. "Every move I make, every dress I wear, every person I speak to—it's all been according to you. And for what? So I can be handed to Damiano Bianchi like a signed contract?"
Papa leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His silence was somehow worse than shouting. "Damiano is not just a contract. He is strength. Stability. A union that will protect us for decades."
I laughed—short, sharp, bitter. "Protect us? Or protect you? Don't twist this into loyalty to the family when it's just loyalty to your power."
His gaze hardened. "Careful, Isabella." The warning was low, but it cut like a blade. "You think you're free to challenge me, but you live because I've kept you safe. Every guard in this villa answers to me. Every privilege you enjoy exists because I permit it."
The truth of it coiled tight in my chest, but I didn't back down. "And yet, you've never once asked me what I want. Not once."
Papa rose slowly from his chair, his height, his presence, filling the room like a storm cloud. "What you want doesn't matter."
His harsh words landed heavier than a slap. They pressed the air from my lungs, but I refused to let him see me falter.
His voice dropped to a cold murmur. "Your marriage is set in stone. End of discussion."
My jaw clenched, teeth grinding. What I wanted—permission to refuse, a crack in his armor—never came.
So I slammed the door behind me, the sound echoing through the hall like a gunshot.
Enzo was waiting outside, hands clasped behind his back. His dark eyes studied me quietly, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might scold me. Instead, he gave a small sigh.
"Isabella," he said, his voice low, almost fatherly, "there are battles you cannot win."
I froze, anger still simmering in my chest. "Then I'll choose my own battlefield."
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but his gaze softened, just barely. "Be careful, signorina. You think you're striking at Damiano, but your father…he doesn't forgive rebellion."
I held his stare, chin tilted stubbornly. "Then let him choke on it."
I swept past him, refusing to let him see my hands shake. The corridors seemed longer than usual, the villa suffocating. A maid dipped her head as I passed, murmuring a quiet "signorina," but the words were hollow.
Another guard by the staircase shifted to follow me with his eyes, not unkind but impersonal. They weren't my people. They were Papa's eyes, Papa's fists. Every wall of this house reminded me: I was caged.
By the time I reached my room, the plan was clear. If I could not refuse the marriage outright, I would make Damiano want to refuse it himself. I would make him see me as unpredictable, untamable, impossible.
At this point, I grabbed my phone and dialed—the number of the one friend my father never approved of but could never keep away. Serena De Luca. Her family's influence in Naples ran deep enough that Papa had to grit his teeth and allow our friendship, though he hated every second of it.
She answered on the second ring, her voice still groggy. "Bellissima, do you know what time it is?"
"Time for me to set fire to my life," I snapped. "You busy tonight?"
That woke her up. She laughed, low and delighted. "I knew you wouldn't roll over for this. Tell me everything."
"He thinks he can decide my future. Fine. I'll show him exactly who he's trying to control."
Serena gasped dramatically. "You're planning something reckless. I can hear it in your voice."
"Reckless? No. Strategic. If Damiano gets even a taste of what I'm really like, he'll run the other way."
"You're evil. I love it," she purred. "I know the perfect set of people to drag into this—Dario and the twins, Nico and Violet. They're good friends of mine, always up for some fun. Violet would die when she hears this. Dario will pretend to be scandalized, but secretly love it And Nico.. well, Nico likes a little chaos.
The names meant little to me yet, but the way she said them—the gleam in her voice—made me smirk. At least I wouldn't be alone in my rebellion.
"Perfect," I said. "Let them all see."
"Leave it to me. Naples isn't ready for us tonight."
Her laugh carried through the line, bright and wicked, and for the first time since last night, I felt the weight lift off my chest.
"Then let's make it burn," I whispered, more to myself than her.
When the call ended, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, excitement and defiance sparking in my chest. Tonight, I would reclaim a piece of myself—at least temporarily.