Chapter 35

Chapter 35
Isabella's POV
The back room of Nonna's Kitchen reeked of stale wine and broken dreams. Marco's hand pressed against my lower back as we stepped inside.
And there he was.
Papa sat slumped in a threadbare chair, empty Chianti bottles scattered around his feet like fallen soldiers. His once-handsome Italian face was now gaunt and unshaven, hollow cheeks shadowed with days of stubble.
This wasn't my father.
Where was the man who used to swing me up onto his shoulders when I came home from school? Where was the papa who would sit by my bed every night, reading stories about brave princesses and faraway kingdoms?
"Papa?" I whispered.
Leonardo's bloodshot eyes struggled to focus on my face. When recognition finally dawned, he tried to straighten in his chair but swayed dangerously.
"Isabella... mia bambina..." His voice was thick with wine and regret.
I remembered him teaching me to ride my bicycle in Prospect Park, his strong hands steady on my back as I pedaled shakily forward. "Don't worry, principessa," he'd called out. "Papa's got you. Papa will always catch you if you fall."
But Papa hadn't caught me this time.
"Leonardo is like this because of you," Marco said coldly from behind me.
The words hit like a physical blow. I turned to stare at him, but his dark eyes held no mercy.
"Don't," I whispered.
"The truth hurts, doesn't it? Look at what your choices cost him."
I looked back at Papa—really looked at him. His hands shook as he reached for another bottle. The expensive watch Mama had given him for their anniversary was gone, probably sold or gambled away. His wedding ring remained, but it hung loose on his finger now, his body wasted from alcohol and grief.
After Mama died in that car accident, Papa's spirit had already started breaking. He'd sit in his chair for hours, staring at her photograph, tears streaming down his face. But he'd still tried to be strong for me. Still called me his "piccola principessa." Still tucked me in at night and promised everything would be okay.
"Your mama is watching over us from heaven," he'd whisper, kissing my forehead. "She wants us to take care of each other. You and me against the world, principessa."
But then the accusation came. The media reports. The police investigation. Everyone—everyone—believed I had killed Lucia Salvatore.
Papa's face when they led me away in handcuffs. The confusion, the shame, the desperate denial that slowly crumbled into horrified acceptance. "Not my daughter," he'd screamed at the reporters. "Not my Isabella. She's a good girl. She would never..."
But the evidence was overwhelming. The witnesses. The security footage. My fingerprints on the murder weapon.
Even Papa had to accept what everyone else already knew: his precious principessa was a killer.
From that moment, his decline had been swift and merciless. The construction business collapsed—who would hire the father of a murderer? The debts piled up. The drinking started as a way to numb the pain and shame.
Then came the gambling, chasing impossible odds in dive bars and underground poker games, always believing the next hand would change everything. Always losing more than he could afford.
This was my legacy. This broken man drowning in wine and regret.
I watched Papa's trembling hands struggle with the bottle cap, and my heart shattered completely. These were the same hands that used to braid my hair before school. The same hands that taught me to make pasta from scratch every Sunday after mass.
"The secret ingredient is love, principessa," he'd say, flour dusting his dark hair as we worked side by side in Mama's kitchen. "Everything we do for family, we do with love."
What love had I given him in return? Three years of shame and social exile. Three years of whispers and pointing fingers. Three years of being known as "the murderer's father."
"Quite a reunion," Marco observed, his voice cutting through my memories like broken glass.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The weight of what I'd done—what everyone believed I'd done—pressed down on my chest like concrete.
This is what happens when you destroy a family's honor. This is what happens when you bring violence and death into innocent lives.
Papa finally managed to open the bottle, taking a long pull directly from the neck. Red wine dribbled down his chin, staining his wrinkled shirt.
"My little girl," he mumbled, not quite looking at me. "My beautiful little girl..."
The same words he'd whispered when I graduated college with honors. The same words when I got engaged to Marco, when our future looked golden and bright. When he thought I was going to give him grandchildren and carry on the Romano name with pride.
Instead, I'd given him nothing but grief.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken accusations and irreparable damage. Marco's presence behind me felt like a judgment, a reminder of all the lives I'd destroyed with my supposed crime.
If I really was innocent—if someone had truly framed me—then this destruction was for nothing. Papa's broken spirit, his ruined life, his descent into alcoholism and gambling addiction... all of it meaningless suffering.
But if I was guilty... if I really had killed Lucia in some moment of madness I couldn't remember... then Papa's current state was exactly what I deserved to live with.
Either way, I was the cause. The poison that had infected everything good in my family's life.
Looking at Papa now—this hollow shell of the proud Italian patriarch who used to command respect on every construction site in Brooklyn—I finally understood the true cost of violence.
It doesn't just destroy the victim. It destroys everyone who loves them. It ripples outward like blood in water, staining everything it touches.
And I was the stone that had caused all these ripples.
But I knew now wasn't the time to drown in guilt. I needed to talk to Papa alone. I needed to tell him about my escape plan.
I took a deep breath and turned toward Marco.
"I want to speak with my father privately."