Chapter 4

Isabella’s POV

Marco drags me through Villa Salvatore's corridors, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. The marble floors echo with our footsteps. His are measured and confident. Mine stumble as I struggle to keep pace.

We pass oil paintings of Salvatore patriarchs. Their dark eyes follow our progress. The walls display antique weapons. Daggers, swords, maces. This isn't just a home. It's a fortress built on violence.

He stops at a heavy oak door carved with Sicilian motifs.

"After you, principessa," Marco says, pushing the door open.

The room beyond steals my breath. It's a private study where the Salvatore family handles discipline.

Weapons line the walls. Stilettos with pearl handles, antique pistols, a garrote. Between them hang oil portraits of Salvatore men. All bear the same dark eyes Marco inherited.

A mahogany desk dominates the center. Its surface is scarred with knife marks. Behind it sits a leather chair like a throne, carved with the family crest.

This is where his father used to "educate" disobedient soldiers.

Marco locks the door. The click echoes like a gunshot.

"You brought me here to intimidate me," I say, backing against the stone wall. "Just like your father used to do."

"My father was practical," Marco replies, loosening his tie. "He understood that people need reminders about their place."

"Natural order?" I laugh bitterly. "Is that what you call it?"

The rage I've held back for three years finally breaks free.

"Tell me something, Marco. When you set up those hunting games in the forest, when you let your men chase terrified women like animals, what exactly does that bring to Salvatore family honor?"

His hands pause on his tie. Something flickers across his face.

"When you sell human beings like livestock, when you let innocent people tear each other apart for entertainment." My voice rises. "Is this what your precious Sicilian bloodline has been building toward?"

"Isabella..." His voice drops to that dangerous whisper I remember.

"Don't." I cut him off. "Don't you dare say my name like that."

But he does it again. Slower this time. Each syllable rolling off his tongue.

"Isabella."

No. Not again. I won't let him do this to me again.

But the memories flood back with violent force.

Central Park, three years ago. Autumn leaves were falling like golden snow. I was twenty-three and incredibly naive.

Marco had chosen Bethesda Fountain for his proposal. He wanted witnesses to see Isabella Romano accept the Salvatore name.

"Isabella Rosa Romano," he'd said, dropping to one knee. "Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

The ring box held the Salvatore family cross. An antique silver pendant passed down through generations.

"This belonged to my great-grandmother," he'd whispered, fastening the chain around my neck. "I want you to be my donna, Isabella. The queen of my world."

I'd believed every word. Believed that love could conquer the darkness.

God, how stupid I was.

The memory shatters as Marco moves. He's shed his suit jacket. His white dress shirt is open at the collar, revealing the strong line of his throat and a hint of his shoulder tattoo.

He moves around the desk with predatory grace. He settles into the leather chair with casual authority.

"You ask about honor," he says, spreading his legs wide in deliberate dominance. "Let me tell you about honor, principessa."

His dark eyes fix on mine.

"Honor is understanding your place. Honor is accepting that some people are born to rule. Others are born to serve."

"That's not honor," I snap back. "That's tyranny."

"Is it?" He leans forward. "Or is it reality? You Americans believe in fairy tales. You think everyone is equal. You think the world should be fair."

His voice takes on a conversational tone that somehow makes him more terrifying.

"But the world isn't fair, cara mia. The world is exactly what we make it. And men like me? We make it serve our purposes."

"Men like you destroy everything you touch," I shoot back, my hands clenching into fists.

"Do we?" His smile is sharp as a blade. "My great-great-grandfather built this empire with his bare hands. My grandfather expanded it through two world wars. My father consolidated it through chaos."

He gestures around the room. The weapons, the portraits, centuries of legacy.

"And now it's my turn to decide who rises and who falls. To choose who lives..."

His eyes lock with mine.

"And who dies."

The words hang in the air like a death sentence.

"Now," he continues, his voice taking on absolute command. "We're going to have a conversation about respect. About understanding one's place."

He settles back in his chair. He spreads his legs wider in casual dominance.

"Kneel, piccola."

The command hits me like a physical blow.

"What?"

"You heard me." His voice never changes tone. "Kneel."

"I won't..."

"If you can prove that you remember how to please your padrone," he continues as if I hadn't spoken, "I'll consider giving you a chance to walk out of this room alive."

Padrone. Master.

Just like Antonio used to call himself.

No. Don't think about that. Don't let him see the fear.

But it's too late. Marco's always been able to read me. His lips curve into something that might be called a smile.

"Ah, there it is," he murmurs, satisfaction dripping from every word. "For a moment, you almost had me convinced that three years with Antonio had made you brave."

His eyes travel over my body with casual assessment.

"But you're still the same frightened little girl who used to tremble when I touched her. Still the same woman who used to beg so prettily when she wanted something."

"You're wrong," I whisper. Even I can hear how weak my voice sounds.

"Am I?" He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a specimen under glass. "Then prove it. Show me this new strength you think you've found."

His voice drops to a deadly whisper.

"Kneel, Isabella. Kneel, and perhaps I'll be merciful enough to make your death quick."

The choice hangs before me like a precipice. Kneel and surrender what's left of my dignity. Or refuse and face whatever comes next.

In the silence, I can hear my own heartbeat thundering. I can feel the weight of centuries of Salvatore men watching from their frames.

And I can see the truth in Marco's eyes. No matter what I choose, this isn't about mercy.

This is about power. And in this room, surrounded by the tools of three generations of violence, there's only one person who holds it.

"I'm waiting, principessa," he says, his voice carrying the patience of a predator who knows his prey has nowhere left to run. "And my patience has limits."