(Leonardo POV)
The dining room was built for intimidation. Twenty-foot ceilings. A table long enough to seat thirty but set for two. Crystal glasses that caught candlelight and threw it back like scattered diamonds. My men had sat here once, mapping wars over wine and blood oaths.
Now it was just me and her.
Isabella sat at the far end, the chair swallowing her small frame. But she didn't hunch or fold in on herself. She sat straight, spine rigid, hands loose in her lap. Eyes steady on mine across twenty feet of polished mahogany.
She'd arrived at seven-fifteen. Fifteen minutes late.
The defiance was noted.
I set my pistol on the table between us. Not loaded, not pointed at her. Just there. A reminder. Then I picked up a cloth and began polishing the barrel with slow, deliberate strokes.
The rhythm calmed me. And it reminded her who controlled this room.
"You'll remain in the east wing." My voice carried easily across the distance. "The rooms are locked for your safety and mine. Guards patrol the halls. Don't test them."
Her gaze flicked to the gun, then back to me. No flinch. No widening of eyes.
"You'll be given clothes, food, anything within reason. If you want something, you ask Elena. She decides if it's appropriate."
Still no reaction. Most people would nod, promise obedience, apologize for breathing my air. She simply listened, face unreadable as marble.
"You'll dine here every evening." I set the cloth aside, angled the pistol so candlelight caught the engraving on the handle. My initials. A gift from my father before someone put three bullets in his chest. "With me. Whether you eat or not is your choice, but you'll sit across from me."
Finally, a spark. She leaned forward slightly. "And if I refuse?"
I let the silence stretch. Let it fill the room like smoke. Then I smiled, slow and cold. "You won't."
Her eyes narrowed. Not in fear. Curiosity. That was worse.
I poured myself wine, the bottle one I'd been saving for something significant. The scent was rich, earthy. Notes of cherry and tobacco. I didn't offer her any. She didn't ask.
"You like rules." She tilted her head, studying me like I was a puzzle she intended to solve. "But you're not telling me all of them."
I sipped the wine, let it sit on my tongue. "You'll learn the rest."
She tapped her fingers against the table once. Sharp. Deliberate. The sound echoed in the cavernous room.
"Then I want to know about your business."
The words landed heavier than the pistol between us.
I set down my glass. Watched her, slow and deliberate, as if she'd just stepped into a circle she couldn't step back from.
"My business."
"Yes. If I'm collateral for my father's debt, I should understand what I'm collateral for. What you do. How your empire works."
The audacity should have been insulting. Women in my world didn't ask about business. They lived in ignorance by design, kept safe and stupid in their gilded cages.
But she wasn't asking permission. She was stating terms.
"Why would I tell you that?"
"Because I'm good with numbers. Because I saw your ledgers that night, the ones my father stole from. I understand how money moves." She paused. "And because I'm going to be here a while. I'd rather be useful than ornamental."
I picked up the pistol again, turning it over in my hands. The weight was familiar, comforting. "You think I need your help?"
"I think you wouldn't have prepared that room for me if you only wanted a prisoner. You want something else. I'm just trying to figure out what."
Smart. Too smart for her own good.
I stood, the chair scraping against marble. Walked the length of the table toward her, boots echoing with each step. She didn't move. Didn't lean back or tense up. Just watched me approach with those dark, calculating eyes.
I stopped beside her chair. Close enough to smell the perfume she'd chosen from the bottles I'd left. Not the dark, sensual one I'd expected. Something lighter. Defiant in its simplicity.
"You want to know about my business? Fine." I set the pistol on the table beside her plate. "Pick it up."
She looked at the gun, then at me. "Why?"
"Because if you want to understand my world, you need to understand what holds it together. Fear. Control. The knowledge that I will always have the upper hand."
Her jaw tightened, but she reached for the pistol. Her fingers closed around the grip with surprising confidence. Not the grip of someone who'd never held a weapon. She'd been taught, probably by the same father who'd gambled her into my hands.
"It's not loaded," I said.
"I know." She checked the chamber anyway. Professional. Thorough. Then she set it back down. "Your point?"
"My point is that every person who sits at this table understands what that gun represents. They understand that my mercy is the only thing keeping them breathing." I leaned down, hands braced on the arms of her chair, caging her in. "But you don't seem to understand that at all."
Her breath hitched. Just slightly. But she didn't look away.
"I understand perfectly." Her voice was steady. "You want me afraid. Compliant. Grateful for my beautiful cage."
"And yet you're not."
"No."
The word hung between us, charged with something I couldn't name. Challenge. Promise. The beginning of a war neither of us would win.
This close, I could see the pulse hammering at the base of her throat. Could smell the rain still clinging to her hair despite the hours that had passed. Could feel the heat of her, alive and defiant and utterly unbowed.
I should have crushed that defiance. Should have reminded her with words or actions that she existed here at my pleasure, that I could break her as easily as I'd broken men twice her size.
But looking into those eyes, I realized something that sent ice through my veins.
She knew all of that already. And she'd chosen defiance anyway.
"You want to know about my business?" I straightened, putting distance between us before I did something I'd regret. "Then you'll start by learning the first rule of survival in my world."
"And what's that?"
"Never let anyone see what you really want. Because the moment they do, they own you."
She smiled then. Small, knowing. "Is that why you polish guns during dinner? To hide what you really want?"
The question hit like a blade between ribs.
I returned to my seat, picked up my wine glass. "Eat your dinner, Isabella. Before it gets cold."
"I'm not hungry."
"Then sit there and watch me eat. But you'll stay until I'm done. Those are the rules."
She settled back in her chair, hands folded in her lap. Watching me with those calculating eyes that saw too much.
I cut into my steak, the knife sharp enough to split atoms. Blood pooled on the plate, red and accusatory.
"Tell me something," she said after a moment.
I didn't look up. "What."
"If I'm so beneath your notice, why did you come to my apartment yourself? Why not send Rico?"
The question was fair. And dangerous.
"Because your father took something that belonged to me. Something irreplaceable. I wanted to look him in the eye when I made him pay for it."
"And did you? Make him pay?"
I looked up then, met her gaze across the table. "I'm working on it."
She understood the implication. That her presence here was payment. That every day she spent in this house, every dinner she suffered through, every locked door and armed guard was the price her father owed.
But instead of shrinking from that knowledge, she lifted her chin higher.
"Then I want to make a counter-offer."
My knife paused mid-cut. "Excuse me?"
"You said I'll be here until the debt is settled. But the debt is forty-seven thousand dollars plus whatever interest you're charging. My father doesn't have that kind of money. Neither does my family. So either I'm here forever, or we find another arrangement."
The audacity was staggering. "You're in no position to negotiate."
"Aren't I? You want something from me. I can feel it. You didn't prepare that room, fill those closets, plan these dinners because you wanted a hostage. You wanted something else." She leaned forward. "So tell me what it is, and maybe we can both get what we want."
For a long moment, I just stared at her. This woman who'd signed her name in blood and walked into my fortress like she was moving into a hotel. Who met my eyes and saw not a monster, but a man playing at being one.
I should have been furious. Should have reminded her that I held her life in my hands, that her audacity would cost her.
But instead, I found myself smiling. A real smile this time, not the cold mask I showed the world.
"You want to be useful?"
"Yes."
"Fine. Tomorrow, you'll meet with my accountant. Show me what you can do with numbers. Prove you're worth more than the debt your father owes."
Something flickered in her eyes. Triumph, maybe. Or satisfaction at winning a small battle in a much larger war.
"And if I prove it?"
"Then we'll discuss new terms." I returned to my meal, dismissing her. "But Isabella?"
"Yes?"
"Don't mistake a small concession for weakness. I'm still the one holding all the cards."
She stood, pushing back her chair. "We'll see."
And then she did something no one had done in my house in a decade. She turned her back on me and walked away before I'd dismissed her.
I should have called her back. Should have reminded her that she left when I said she could leave, not before.
But I let her go, watching her stride toward the door with her head high and her spine straight.
And realized I'd just made a terrible mistake.
I'd given her hope that she could win.
The problem was, I wasn't sure I wanted to prove her wrong.