Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Isabella's POV
I stood before the mahogany armoire, selecting a deep navy Valentino dress. The fabric was soft beneath my fingertips—elegant without being ostentatious. Perfect for whatever Marco had planned this afternoon.
"Ready for your little reunion, bella?"
Sigrid's voice cut through my thoughts. She leaned against the doorframe in a cream Chanel suit, blue eyes glittering with malice. I was surprised to see her—she'd stormed out of the villa this morning after the breakfast incident.
"You came back," I observed, removing the dress from its hanger.
"Of course I came back." Her Swedish accent made each word sound defensive. "This is my home too."
"Is it?" I stepped behind the privacy screen. "I thought you were leaving Villa Salvatore forever."
"I had some time to think." She moved closer, her heels clicking against the marble. "Realized I wasn't going to let some Brooklyn nobody drive me away from what's mine."
I changed into the Valentino, the servant's dress falling to the floor. "And what exactly is yours, Sigrid?"
"Marco," she said immediately. "This house. This life. Everything you think you can steal from me."
"I'm not stealing anything." I stepped out from behind the screen. "I'm just surviving."
"Surviving?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You think you're so clever, getting Marco to make me serve you this morning. But you're still just a temporary convenience."
I moved to the dressing table and sat down. "I need help with the zipper. It's stuck."
Sigrid's mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"
"The zipper," I repeated matter-of-factly. "Please fix it."
"You want me to—" She sputtered. "I am not your servant!"
"Aren't you?" I met her eyes in the mirror. "Marco made it quite clear this morning what your role in this house is."
Her hands clenched into fists. "That was a misunderstanding—"
"Was it?" I kept my voice calm. "Because if you refuse, I'll call Marco and ask him to clarify."
For a moment, I thought she might storm out again. Then she stepped forward, her fingers finding the zipper with unnecessary force. She yanked it upward, her nails deliberately scraping against my skin.
"There," she hissed. "Happy now?"
"Thank you." I replied with perfect politeness.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor. Marco appeared in the doorway, his dark eyes taking in my appearance. The transformation was instantaneous—surprise, then appreciation, then something deeper that made my breath catch.
"Bella," he breathed, stepping into the room. His charcoal Armani suit was perfectly tailored. "You look... stunning."
"Is this appropriate for the occasion?"
"More than appropriate." He moved closer, his gaze never leaving my face. "We have an event to attend tonight," Marco said, watching my reaction carefully. "A charity gala at the Plaza Hotel. Important people will be there—people who need to see that the Salvatore family is strong and united."
"What about my father?"
"After the gala," he said simply. "Late tonight."
I wanted to argue, but the look in his eyes warned me against it. Whatever this gala was, it was more important to him than my desperate need to see Papa.
"Fine," I whispered.
Marco reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a heavy silver chain. An antique Sicilian cross hung from it, the metalwork intricate and obviously ancient.
"This belonged to my great-grandmother," he said quietly. "It's been passed down through four generations of Salvatore women."
The weight of what he was offering hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't just jewelry—it was a symbol, a claim of ownership that everyone at the gala would recognize.
"I can't accept that."
"You can and you will." His voice carried absolute authority. "Tonight, you'll be introduced as my donna. You need to look the part."
His donna. The words sent ice through my veins. Not his prisoner, not his victim—his woman. The mother of his heir.
"Marco—"
"If you refuse, there will be no visit with your father. Not tomorrow, not ever."
My breath caught. He knew exactly which threats would work, exactly how to manipulate my desperation to see Papa.
"Fine," I whispered.
Marco moved behind me, his fingers brushing my neck as he fastened the chain. The cross was heavy against my collarbone, its weight both comforting and terrifying. In the mirror, I could see Sigrid's face twisting with jealous fury.
"Perfect," Marco murmured against my ear. "Now you look like you belong to me."
"I belong to myself," I said quietly, but the words felt hollow with that cross hanging around my neck.
"Do you?" His hands rested on my shoulders, possessive and warm. "We'll see."
Sigrid cleared her throat loudly. "I'll just get ready for the gala as well."
"You're staying home tonight," Marco said without turning around.
"What?" Her voice cracked with disbelief. "Marco, this is exactly the kind of event where I should be at your side. People expect to see us together."
"People will see what I want them to see." He finally turned, his dark eyes cold. "Tonight is about business. About showing strength."
"And I'm not part of that strength?" Desperation bled into her voice. "I'm your fiancée!"
"You're a complication I don't need tonight." His words were brutal in their honesty. "Stay home, Sigrid. Read a book. Take a bath. I don't care what you do, as long as you're not at the Plaza."
"You can't be serious—"
"I'm completely serious." He took my arm with gentle but firm pressure. "Come, Isabella. We need to leave soon."
As we moved toward the door, I could feel Sigrid's furious gaze burning into my back. Her carefully constructed world was crumbling, and we both knew it.
"This isn't over," she called after us, her voice shaking with rage and something that sounded like panic.
Marco paused in the doorway. "No, it isn't. But tonight, you're irrelevant."

The marble foyer echoed with our footsteps as we descended the grand staircase. Two soldatos stood by the front door—Giuseppe and another man I didn't recognize. Connor was nowhere to be seen.
"The car is ready, Don Marco," Giuseppe said formally.
"Good." Marco's hand remained at the small of my back, possessive and warm. "We'll return late. Make sure the house is secure."
"Of course, sir."
As Marco guided me toward the waiting Mercedes, I touched the cross at my throat. The weight of it reminded me of everything at stake—my father's safety, my unborn child's future, and the dangerous game I was playing.
"Are you ready for this?" Marco asked as Giuseppe opened the car door.
I looked back at Villa Salvatore one last time—at its imposing facade, its barred windows, its beautiful prison walls.
"Yes," I said quietly. "I'm ready."
Tonight, I see Papa, I thought as the Mercedes pulled away from the villa.
And if everything goes according to plan, I'll never have to come back to this prison again.