Chapter 34
Isabella's POV
Marco set down his empty whiskey glass and straightened his tie. "I have business to handle," he said curtly. "Don't wander off."
He walked away toward a group of men in expensive suits, leaving me alone by the champagne fountain. Twenty minutes had passed since he'd finished his drink—the sedative Connor arranged should be taking effect soon.
Everything's going according to plan.
I picked up a champagne flute from the fountain, more for something to hold than any intention of drinking.
"Well, well. Look what my brother dragged out of storage."
Tony Salvatore materialized beside me, his charcoal suit hanging wrong on his frame. The fabric was expensive, but it couldn't disguise the crude violence beneath.
"Tony," I said flatly. "Shouldn't you be somewhere else?"
"Somewhere else?" His laugh drew curious glances from nearby socialites. "This is my city too, principessa. The Salvatore name opens every door."
"What do you want?"
"Straight to the point. I like that." He stepped closer, invading my space.
I took a half-step back. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"My brother is really quite obsessed with you, isn't he, little princess?" Tony's eyes gleamed with something predatory. "Bringing you here tonight, showing you off like some kind of trophy."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, but I think you do." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I know what Marco did to you."
My champagne glass trembled in my grip. "Stop."
"I know he sold you to the Benedetti family." His words were like ice water in my veins. "I know about those basement rooms, about what they made you do down there."
The ballroom seemed to tilt around me. "How do you—"
"I know about the drugs," he continued relentlessly. "About the auctions. About how they broke you down piece by piece until there was nothing left but survival."
"Stop talking." My voice came out strangled.
"The Colombian pure they pumped into your veins every day. The way they paraded you in front of buyers like livestock." Tony's smile was cruel. "Should I go on?"
"You're sick."
"I'm informed." He straightened, adjusting his ill-fitting jacket. "Marco thinks he owns you now, thinks dragging you back to his golden cage makes him some kind of savior."
"He doesn't own me."
"Doesn't he?" Tony's chuckle was poison. "Then why are you here, wearing his family's cross, playing the perfect little accessory?"
I touched the heavy silver at my throat instinctively. "I'm just an insignificant former prisoner. Marco doesn't care about me."
"Wrong." Tony's grin widened, showing too many teeth. "You're so very wrong about that, bella."
"What do you mean?"
"Look around this room." He gestured at the opulent ballroom filled with Manhattan's elite. "See all these beautiful women? Senators' daughters, oil heiresses, fashion models who'd kill for five minutes of Marco's attention?"
I glanced around despite myself. He was right—every woman in the room seemed to gravitate toward wherever Marco stood.
"He's never brought a woman to one of these events. Not once." Tony's voice carried absolute certainty. "The great Marco Salvatore, who keeps his personal life locked away tighter than his family's secrets."
"So?"
"So here you are, wearing his great-grandmother's cross." He pointed at the antique silver. "That's been in our family for four generations. Our nonna wore it on her wedding day. Our mother wore it. Every Salvatore donna for over a century."
My breath caught. I hadn't realized the significance.
"You know what that means?" Tony's eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction. "It means you're not just some random woman he's keeping around for entertainment."
"It means nothing."
"It means you're important to him. Important enough that he's willing to let all of New York see you. Important enough to risk his carefully constructed image."
The weight of the cross seemed to increase against my skin.
"When was the last time Marco Salvatore made himself vulnerable for anyone?" Tony pressed. "When was the last time he cared enough about something to risk showing weakness?"
Movement across the room caught my attention. Marco was extracting himself from conversation, his dark eyes fixed on us with laser focus. Even at this distance, I could see the dangerous tension in his shoulders.
"He's coming," I warned.
"I see him." Tony didn't seem concerned. "Think about it, Isabella. Join me. Help me take him down from the inside."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because I can give you something Marco never will." His voice became urgent. "Real revenge. Real justice for what he put you through."
"I don't want revenge."
"Don't you?" Tony's laugh was bitter. "Three years in hell because of his pride and paranoia. Three years of degradation and torture because he couldn't see past his own grief."
"That's not—"
"I can make him pay for every single day you spent in that basement." Tony leaned closer. "Every needle they put in your arm. Every man who touched you. Every moment of terror."
Marco was halfway across the room now, cutting through the crowd with predatory grace.
"Think about my offer," Tony whispered urgently. "When you're ready to stop being a victim and start being a survivor, you know where to find me."
He was already melting into the crowd when Marco reached us, his perfectly tailored form radiating barely controlled violence.
"What did he want?" Marco's voice was deadly calm, each word precisely enunciated.
"That's none of your business."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, then something that might have been hurt.
"Everything that happens to you is my business," he said quietly, stepping closer. "Especially when it involves my brother."
"Is it?" I lifted my chin, letting him see the anger building in my eyes. "Because last I checked, I was just property you dragged along for show."
Several nearby conversations stopped. The cream of New York society lived for this kind of scandal.
"We'll discuss this later."
"No, we'll discuss it now." My voice rose slightly, carrying across the immediate area. "I've been your perfect accessory all evening, wearing your family jewelry, smiling at your business associates, playing the role of grateful rescued prisoner."
"Isabella—"
"I want to see my father. Now." The words came out flat and final. "You promised me two hours with him after this circus. I'm ready to collect."
The silence around us was deafening. Marco's jaw worked as he processed my public defiance. In his world, respect and submission were everything.
"Two hours," he said finally, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Then we return home and finish our conversation."
Home. As if Villa Salvatore could ever be anything but a prison.
"Fine. Let's go to Little Italy. I've had enough of this performance for one evening."
Marco's dark eyes held mine for a long moment, and I saw something unreadable flickering in their depths.
"Giuseppe," he called quietly. His driver appeared as if from thin air. "Bring the car around. We're leaving."
As we moved toward the ballroom's exit, I could feel the weight of whispered conversations following in our wake. Tomorrow's society pages would be full of speculation.
In a few minutes, I'll see Papa. After that, everything changes.