What Kind Of Family

What Kind Of Family
Isabella’s POV

The next morning arrived in a whirlwind.

I woke before the sun had fully risen, the mansion already stirring with the low hum of anticipation. Giovanni’s side of the bed was cold again—he’d slipped out early, probably before dawn. No note. No goodbye. Just the faint indent of his body on the sheets and the lingering warmth of his kiss on my lips from yesterday, a memory that made my heart flutter and ache all at once.

I pushed it down. Buried it deep. Today wasn’t about us. Today was about survival.

The familia would descend by evening—cars rolling up the drive, voices booming through the halls, eyes sharp and judging. I had to be ready. The house had to be perfect.

I dressed quickly—simple gray slacks and a soft white blouse, hair pinned back in a neat chignon. Armor, again. Downstairs, the staff was already in motion: polishing banisters until they gleamed, arranging massive bouquets of white orchids and deep red roses in every corner, laying out crystal decanters of aged grappa and Scotch in the drawing room.

Maria found me in the foyer, directing two footmen on the placement of a massive antique rug that had just been unrolled.

“Buongiorno, signora,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’re up with the birds.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I admitted, adjusting a vase that was a fraction off-center. “Everything needs to be flawless.”

She nodded approvingly. “It will be. But don’t wear yourself out before they even arrive.”

We worked side by side for hours. I lost myself in the rhythm—fluffing cushions in the grand salon, checking the guest rooms one last time, overseeing the kitchen as trays of antipasti were prepared: prosciutto-wrapped figs, fresh burrata drizzled with balsamic, platters of olives and artisanal cheeses. The smells filled the air—garlic, basil, lemon zest—and for brief moments, I could almost pretend this was normal. A big family gathering. Not a den of wolves circling.

By midday, my feet ached and my bandaged hand throbbed faintly under the gauze Giovanni had wrapped so carefully. I kept moving. Kept busy. Because if I stopped, the thoughts crept in—his gentle touch, his kiss, his promise to stand by my side. Did he mean it? Or was it just another pretty lie to keep me in line?

At last, around three o’clock, the house gleamed like a jewel. Every surface sparkled. Every detail attended to. Maria finally shooed me away.

“Go,” she insisted, hands on my shoulders. “Take a break before you collapse. The garden’s quiet this time of day.”

I didn’t argue. I slipped out the side door into the sprawling gardens behind the mansion.

The air was crisp, carrying the salt of the distant sea and the heavy perfume of late-blooming jasmine. Gravel crunched softly under my shoes as I wandered the winding paths, past manicured hedges and marble fountains that trickled like whispered secrets. Lemon trees heavy with fruit lined one walkway, their leaves glossy and bright. I trailed my uninjured fingers over the rough bark, breathing deep.

For the first time all day, I let myself sit—on a stone bench beneath an ancient olive tree, its gnarled branches twisting overhead like protective arms. The sun filtered through the leaves in dappled patterns, warming my face. I closed my eyes, tilting my head back, trying to quiet the storm inside.

Giovanni’s words from yesterday echoed anyway. I would burn the world down just to make sure you’re okay. His kiss—long, soft, heart-stopping. The way he’d bandaged my hand like I was made of glass.

Did he care? Really care?

Or was I still just the arranged bride playing her part?

A soft footstep on gravel pulled me from my thoughts.

Maria approached, carrying a small tray with a steaming cup and a plate of lemon biscotti. Her gray hair was pulled into its usual neat bun, apron still tied, but her expression was gentle. Motherly.

“I thought you could use this,” she said, setting the tray on the bench beside me. “Ginger tea. Calms the nerves. My nonna swore by it before every big family event.”

I managed a small smile—the first genuine one all day. “Thank you, Maria. Really.”

She sat beside me without asking, folding her hands in her lap. For a moment, we just listened to the fountain and the distant call of gulls.

“You’ve done wonders with the house today,” she said quietly. “They’ll have nothing to complain about.”

“They’ll find something anyway,” I murmured.

Maria chuckled softly. “Always do. But you—you’ve held this place together these past months. More than anyone gives you credit for.”

I sipped the tea. It was warm, spicy, soothing as it slid down my throat. “I don’t feel like I’m holding anything together.”

She studied me for a long moment. “You’re stronger than you think, signora.”

I set the cup down, tracing the rim with my finger. Curiosity—long buried—rose up. “Maria… what are they like? Giovanni’s family, I mean. The ones coming today.”

She sighed, leaning back against the bench. “Complicated. Like all old families. But the Donatelli… they’ve always been at war with themselves.”

I turned to face her fully. “How so?”

Maria gazed out over the garden, eyes distant. “They have more power than most—money, connections, territory. More than the Moretti clan ever dreamed. But power means nothing when there’s no love holding it together. A house divided against itself cannot stand—that’s what the old priests used to say, and they were right.”

She paused, picking at a loose thread on her apron.

“Giovanni… he grew up in the middle of it all. Illegitimate son, you know. Born to a mistress his father kept for years. Vincenzo never acknowledged him publicly until he had no choice. Raised him hard—cold. No softness. No real family.”

My heart twisted. I’d known pieces, but hearing it laid bare like this…

“And his half-brother,” Maria continued. “Andriano. Legitimate. The one who was supposed to inherit everything. But Giovanni… he was sharper. Ruthless when he needed to be, but fair. The capos saw it. When the time came, they voted him in as Don. Not Andriano.”

I swallowed. “And they hated him for it.”

Maria nodded. “Vincenzo saw him as a mistake—a living reminder of his weakness. Never loved the boy. Barely tolerated him. And Andriano… he loathes Giovanni. Always has. Sees him as the thief who stole his birthright.”

The words settled heavy in my chest. Alone. Giovanni had always been alone.

I stared at my bandaged hand, remembering his careful touch. The pain in his eyes when I’d said he was the only one who’d hurt me.

Maria’s voice softened further. “He’s never been loved, signora. Not truly. Not until…”

She trailed off, but her eyes flicked to me meaningfully.

My breath caught.

She smiled gently. “I see the way you two look at each other when you think no one’s watching. The way he softens around you. The way you light up when he enters a room, even when you’re angry.”

Heat rose in my cheeks. “Maria—”

“It’s plain as day,” she said kindly. “You love him, don’t you?”

The question hung in the air between us—simple, devastating.

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Did I?

After everything—the cold words, the secrets, the arranged marriage—did I still love him?

The ginger tea cooled untouched in my cup.

I didn’t answer.