Chapter 70

Chapter 70
Vito’s POV
The silence in the auction hall was deafening. I watched Isabella freeze on the small stage, her face pale under the gallery's harsh spotlights as Maria's pointed question hung in the air like a loaded gun.
What period is this piece from, Mrs. Romano?
Even from my position in the back row, I could see Isabella's hands trembling slightly as she stared at the Renaissance painting. The crowd was waiting, expectant faces turned toward my wife like vultures circling wounded prey.
Without hesitation, I raised my hand.
Damn it. Even with everything that felt off about her lately, even with the nagging suspicion that she was hiding something from me, my protective instincts kicked in immediately. Whatever secrets Isabella might be keeping, I wouldn't let anyone humiliate her in public.
The memory of Maria's visit three days ago rushed back as I watched Isabella struggle to find her footing.

"Vito, there's something wrong with Isabella," Maria had said, her voice soft with concern as she stood in my study. "She's been... different. I can't put my finger on what exactly, but something has changed."
I'd kept my expression neutral, even as something cold settled in my stomach. "Different how?"
"Little things. The way she carries herself, the things she says. Even the way she looks at you sometimes." Maria's brow furrowed with worry. "It's like she's performing a role rather than just being herself."
I'd forced myself to lean back in my chair, projecting an air of disinterest even as my mind raced. "Isabella is my wife, Maria. No one gets to speculate about her."
The words had come out sharper than I'd intended, and I watched Maria's face crumble slightly. Her eyes filled with tears, and suddenly she looked exactly like the broken little girl I'd found bleeding in that warehouse twenty years ago.
"Wife?" she whispered, and there was so much pain in her voice that I felt it like a physical blow. "Vito, have you forgotten what you promised me when we were children?"
Had I forgotten? The honest answer was that I wasn't sure anymore. Somewhere along the way, without me fully realizing it, Isabella had become synonymous with Mrs. Romano in my mind. Even knowing that Maria was right—even sensing that something was off about Isabella's behavior—I found myself unwilling to believe it.
Maria's tears started falling in earnest then, and she looked so fragile, so utterly vulnerable. "I don't expect to be your wife," she said, her voice breaking. "I just want to stay by your side. Please don't abandon me."
"I won't abandon you," I'd promised, because what else could I say? A man with honor doesn't abandon a woman who saved his life, who sacrificed everything to help him survive.
But even as I'd said the words, I'd felt the weight of obligation rather than affection. Whatever I felt for Maria, it was gratitude, not love. The realization had been both liberating and terrifying.
She was still crying, and I couldn't bear to see her in pain. I'd reached out to brush the tears from her cheeks, trying to offer what comfort I could.
"I'll show you who truly cares for you and who's deceiving you," she'd said, her voice fierce despite the tears. "When the time comes, you'll thank me."
Now, watching Maria's calculated attack on Isabella at this charity auction, I understood exactly what she'd meant.
This was Maria's test. Her way of exposing whatever she thought Isabella was hiding from me.
But instead of anger, all I felt was the fierce need to protect the woman on that stage.
The entire ballroom had gone quiet, waiting for someone to break the tension. I could see Isabella's chest rising and falling rapidly, could practically feel her panic from across the room.
Not on my watch.
"Isabella has been focusing her attention on the family's charitable endeavors and Alfonso's recovery program lately," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the silent auction hall. "Her research into art history has admittedly taken a backseat to more pressing matters. However, her dedication to philanthropy is worth more than any artwork."
The words hung in the air for a moment before the crowd began to murmur approvingly. A few people even nodded, clearly impressed by what they saw as a wife prioritizing family over personal interests.
I'd given Isabella an out, a graceful explanation for her knowledge gap that actually painted her in a favorable light.
Relief flooded her face as she looked down at me, and something in her expression made my chest tighten. There was gratitude there, yes, but also something deeper. Something that looked almost like...
Love.
The thought hit me like a lightning bolt. When had Isabella started looking at me like that? When had her carefully controlled expressions given way to something so raw and genuine?
I gestured for her to step down from the stage, and she moved quickly, gracefully descending the steps as the auctioneer smoothly moved on to the next lot. When she reached my wheelchair, I held out my hand to her.
"Sit beside me," I said quietly, indicating the empty chair that had been reserved for her.
She sank into the seat with obvious relief, and I could see the slight tremor in her hands as she smoothed her dress. The ivory silk fabric brought out the golden highlights in her hair, and I found myself studying her profile as the auction continued around us.
Beautiful. She'd always been beautiful, but lately there was something different about her. Something that drew me in ways I couldn't quite explain.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice so low only I could hear it.
I leaned closer, close enough to catch the subtle scent of her perfume. "Don't worry," I said, letting my voice carry just enough possessive edge to remind anyone watching exactly who she belonged to. "As long as I'm here, you'll always be the most respected Mrs. Romano."
The words were partly for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, but they were also a promise.
Isabella turned to look at me, and something in her dark eyes made my breath catch. There was surprise there, but also something warmer. Something that looked suspiciously like trust.
When did that happen? I wondered. When had she stopped looking at me with fear and started looking at me like I was someone she could depend on?
The realization unsettled me more than I cared to admit. I'd married Isabella for duty, for the family's expectations and the need for an heir. Somewhere along the way, though, the lines had blurred.
The auction continued around us, but I found my attention drifting to the woman beside me. She was trying to appear composed, but I could see the subtle signs of her lingering anxiety. The way she kept smoothing her dress, the careful control of her breathing, the slight tension in her shoulders.
Without really thinking about it, I reached over and placed my hand over hers where it rested on her lap.
She startled slightly at the contact, her eyes flying to mine with surprise.
"Relax," I said quietly. "It's over."
Her fingers relaxed under mine, and I felt some of the tension leave her body. It was such a small gesture, but something about the way she responded to my touch sent warmth spreading through my chest.
Possessive. That's what this feeling was. Pure, undiluted possessiveness.
Isabella was mine. My wife, my responsibility, my choice. And I'd be damned if I let anyone make her doubt that again.
The auction wrapped up an hour later with a successful total that would fund several family charitable initiatives. As people began to mingle and head toward the reception area, I noticed several society wives approaching our table with bright, calculated smiles.
"Mrs. Romano," Mrs. Whitfield gushed, "your husband's support of your charitable work is simply inspiring. So many men don't appreciate their wives' philanthropic efforts."
Isabella smiled graciously, falling easily into the social role expected of her. "The Romano family has always believed in giving back to the community. I'm grateful to have Vito's support in these endeavors."
I watched her work the crowd with growing admiration. Whatever nervousness she'd shown on the stage was completely gone now, replaced by the polished confidence of a woman comfortable in her position as my wife.
Mrs. Romano. The title suited her in ways I was only beginning to understand.