Chapter 36

Chapter 36
Isabella's POV
Marco's dark eyes studied my face, then nodded curtly.
"Ten minutes," he said. "No more."
He led us to a private dining room in the back—burgundy leather banquettes, dim lighting.
"I'll be right outside. Remember our agreement."
The door closed with a soft click, but I could see his shadow through the frosted glass.
The moment we were alone, something shifted. Papa, who had been slouching like a broken man, suddenly straightened. His bloodshot eyes focused with startling clarity.
"Puttana ingrata!" Leonardo snarled, hurling his empty Chianti bottle against the wall. Glass exploded across the floor, wine staining the brick.
"Ungrateful little whore! You're living in some Long Island mansion while I'm dodging loan sharks in Bensonhurst!"
"Papa, please—Marco is keeping me prisoner—"
"Basta! Stop lying to me!" His hand cut through the air. "Three years I've been paying for your sins! You know what it's like being 'the murderer's father'?"
The transformation was complete and terrifying. This wasn't the broken alcoholic from moments before.
"My construction business collapsed overnight. Nobody wants to hire the father of Lucia Salvatore's killer. The Romano name is poison now."
"Papa, I don't have freedom, I don't have choices—"
"Don't you?" His eyes locked onto the silver cross at my throat. "That's the Salvatore cross. Four generations of their women wore that thing."
His weathered fingers reached out, grasping the chain. "Madonna mia, this must be worth hundreds of thousands."
His pupils were dilated—not from alcohol, but from greed.
Without warning, he pushed me back onto the leather banquette, leaning over me.
"Now we're going to have an honest conversation," he said quietly. "Dimmi la verità—tell me about what's growing in your belly."
My blood froze. "Cosa?"
"Don't play stupid. I know what a pregnant woman looks like. Your mother had the same glow."
He knows. Sweet Jesus, he knows.
"I've been watching you since you walked in. The way you move, how you keep touching your stomach. How far along? Three months? Four?"
My hands had instinctively moved to my abdomen, confirming his suspicions.
"Whose is it? That Irish boy? Or did Salvatore already get his hooks into you?"
"There's no time for this," I said desperately, reaching into my purse. I pulled out a first-class ticket to Las Vegas and an envelope of cash.
"Take these. Go to JFK Airport. Gate B12. Wait for me there."
Leonardo stared at the ticket. "Vegas? What the hell is in Vegas?"
"Freedom. A chance to start over. Away from the debts, away from all of this."
"You want me to run?" There was contempt in his voice. "Just abandon everything?"
"What everything? Your gambling debts? The construction business that doesn't exist anymore?"
His jaw worked furiously—I'd hit home.
"Once we get to Nevada, Connor has connections. People who can help us disappear."
"You think that Irish boy can protect you?" Leonardo's laugh was bitter. "Connor O'Brien is a dead man walking the moment Marco finds out about your little romance."
He flipped through the cash. "Ten thousand dollars. Not bad for a start."
His eyes gleamed with something calculating as he studied the ticket and money. A slow smile spread across his face—not warmth, but the look of a man who'd just realized he held valuable cards.
"Molto interessante," he murmured to himself, tucking both items into his jacket. "This could bring me... many things."
"Papa, you'll use the ticket, right? You'll meet me there?"
"We'll see, bambina. We'll see what the night brings."
The way he said it made my stomach turn, but I had no choice. I had to believe he would choose his daughter over whatever schemes were forming behind those calculating eyes.

The walk back to the main dining room felt like a funeral march. Each step carried the weight of another relationship destroyed.
Marco was waiting, but something was wrong. His posture had a slight slump, his dark eyes glazed.
The sedative. Connor's plan is working.
"Come stai?" he asked, words slightly slurred. "You look pale."
"I'm fine. Maybe we should head home."
"Sì, you need rest. The baby..."
He caught himself, jaw tightening. The drugs were making him loose-tongued.
Giuseppe appeared with our coats, and I helped Marco into his jacket—something that would have been unthinkable under normal circumstances.

The Mercedes glided through traffic toward Long Island. Marco's head rested against the leather headrest, his breathing deep and regular.
The sedative was taking stronger effect now. Occasionally he would murmur fragments in his sleep: "bella," "mia," "perdono."
Beautiful. Mine. Forgiveness.
At Villa Salvatore, I had to help Marco from the car, his weight heavier than usual as he leaned against me.
"Take me to the sitting room," he managed to say, though his voice was thick with drowsiness. "I need to... think clearly."
The formal sitting room was all dark wood and burgundy leather, oil paintings of dead Salvatore patriarchs watching from gilded frames. I guided Marco to the Italian leather sofa, helping him settle against the cushions.
His tie was loosened, dark hair falling across his forehead.
"Isabella," he said softly, reaching up to touch the cross at my throat. "This suits you perfectly. You were meant to wear it."
"Marco, you should rest—"
"Do you know that I had this blessed at St. Patrick's before I put it on you? Four generations of Salvatore women have worn this."
"And you're the most beautiful of them all."
"The wine is making you say things you don't mean."
"No. The wine is making me say things I've always meant but never had the courage to voice."
I started to pull away, but his hand moved to my wrist—not grabbing, just touching.
"Stay. Just for a moment. Let me pretend this is real."
The vulnerability in his voice was devastating. I leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
"Sleep now. Everything will be clearer in the morning."
His eyes drifted closed, breathing deepening into unconsciousness. Within minutes, the sedative had claimed him completely.
For several moments, I stood there watching him sleep. His face was peaceful—the hard lines of control softened by unconsciousness.
"Isabella..." he murmured. "Non lasciarmi... don't leave..."
Even unconscious, he was calling for me.
This is goodbye, Marco.
I moved quietly to my room and retrieved the small bag I'd hidden—the one Connor had helped me prepare. Just essentials.
Just get to Grand Central. The midnight train to Chicago, then Las Vegas.
I made my way back downstairs. The villa was quiet except for distant sounds of soldatos making rounds. I slipped back into the sitting room where I'd left Marco.
He was exactly as I'd positioned him, still unconscious on the leather sofa. His breathing was deep and regular, one arm hanging over the side.
He looks so peaceful. Almost innocent.
I started toward the door, ready to find Connor and begin our escape to freedom.
But just as I reached the threshold, something stopped me. Not a sound—a sensation. The feeling of being watched.
I turned back toward the sofa, expecting to see Marco still sleeping.
Instead, his hand shot out with lightning speed, fingers closing around my wrist like a steel manacle.