Blood At The Table

Blood At The Table
Isabella’s POV

The words left Andriano’s mouth like poison dripping from a blade.

“Isabella, won’t you dance for us?”

The dining room froze. Forks paused halfway to mouths. Wine glasses hovered. Even the cigar smoke seemed to hang motionless in the air.

I felt every pair of eyes turn to me—curious, amused, predatory. My skin prickled. The midnight silk dress that had felt like armor an hour ago now felt like a spotlight.

Across the table, Giovanni went rigid beside me. His hand, resting lightly on my thigh under the tablecloth, clenched into a fist.

Andriano leaned back in his chair, swirling his grappa with lazy elegance, that slick, manic smile stretching across his face. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Giovanni’s voice cut through the silence—low, lethal. “Don’t disrespect my wife.”

The warning rumbled like thunder on the horizon. Heads turned. Vincenzo, at the head of the table, lowered his glass slowly, eyes narrowing.

Andriano’s smile only widened. “Disrespect? Why, brother, I’m simply asking for a little entertainment. Isn’t it tradition?” He glanced around the table, playing to the audience. “Women connected to you have always been… generous with their talents.”

A few uncomfortable chuckles rippled from the younger capos. My stomach twisted.

Giovanni’s chair scraped back an inch. “Watch your mouth.”

But Andriano wasn’t done. He leaned forward, elbows on the priceless linen, voice silky. “Didn’t your mother dance for Father once? In this very house, if the stories are true. Seduced him right out of his doubts, didn’t she? Became the mistress who gave him his bastard heir.”

The hall stilled completely.

The insult landed like a bomb.

I didn’t even have time to process the weight of it—the cruelty, the exposure of Giovanni’s origins in front of everyone—before Giovanni moved.

He exploded from his chair, vaulting over the corner of the table in a blur of black suit and fury. Glasses shattered. Plates crashed. He was on Andriano in a heartbeat, fist slamming into his brother’s face with a sickening crack.

Andriano’s head snapped back, blood spraying from his lip. But he laughed—manic, wild—as he surged up, tackling Giovanni around the waist. They hit the floor hard, chairs toppling, men shouting and jumping back.

“Giovanni!” I gasped, half-standing.

Fists flew. Giovanni landed another punch—solid, to the jaw. Andriano answered with a vicious elbow to the ribs. They rolled, grappling, suits tearing, blood smearing the white tablecloth that had fallen with them.

“Enough!” one uncle bellowed.

Men rushed in—capos, cousins—pulling at arms, shoulders. It took four of them to haul Giovanni off. He fought like a caged animal, chest heaving, eyes wild with rage.

Andriano staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his split lip, still grinning like a madman. “Touched a nerve, did I?”

Rizz—Giovanni’s right-hand man, broad and unflinching—stepped between them, voice like gravel. “Have some respect, Andriano. The Don’s wife won’t be dancing for anyone’s entertainment.” His gaze swept the table coldly. “There are plenty of whores in the city who’d gladly take your money if that’s what you’re after.”

The room shifted—some men nodding, others looking away. Rizz’s loyalty was ironclad, and no one dared challenge him directly.

Andriano’s manic smile didn’t falter. It only sharpened as his eyes—dark, knowing—landed on me.

I sat frozen, hands clenched in my lap, heart hammering against my ribs.

“Is she that innocent?” he asked the room, but his stare pinned me in place. “I don’t think so.”

A shiver crawled down my spine. There was something in his tone—something too certain. Did he know? About Ricardo? About my secrets?

He licked blood from his lip, savoring it. “Why don’t we let her dance, and we’ll all be the judge of—”

The words weren’t even fully out before Giovanni broke free of the men holding him.

He lunged again, fist connecting square with Andriano’s jaw in a brutal, bone-crunching punch. Andriano’s head whipped sideways, spittle and blood flying. He stumbled but stayed on his feet, laughing again—that unhinged, chilling sound.

Chaos erupted.

More men surged forward. Fists. Shoving. Shouts in rapid Sicilian. A glass shattered against the wall. Someone’s chair toppled backward.

Giovanni fought like a demon—shoulders straining against the hands restraining him, eyes locked on his brother with murderous intent. Andriano wiped his mouth, eyes gleaming with triumph even as blood poured from his nose.

I couldn’t breathe. The tension was palpable—thick, electric, ready to ignite the whole room. My prayer was simple, desperate: Please, let me disappear. Let the floor open and swallow me.

Then a voice boomed—old, authoritative, cutting through everything like a blade.

“BASTA!”

Vincenzo stood at the head of the table, both palms slammed down on the wood. His face was stone, eyes blazing.

The room fell silent instantly. Men froze. Even Giovanni and Andriano stopped struggling.

“I am ashamed,” Vincenzo said, voice low and furious, “to see my sons bicker like street boys in my house.”

No one dared speak.

He looked from Giovanni—chest heaving, knuckles bloodied—to Andriano, whose manic grin had finally slipped into something uglier. Pissed.

“You are both banned from the casino until I say otherwise. Go cool your heads.”

Andriano’s eyes flashed—real anger now. The casino was his playground, his source of side income, his pride. The punishment stung.

Giovanni, though, looked unbothered. His breathing slowed. He shook off the hands holding him with deliberate calm, straightened his torn jacket, and wiped blood from his knuckles onto his sleeve.

Without a word, he walked around the table to me.

I was still sitting, hands trembling in my lap, the room’s eyes heavy on us.

He held out his hand.

I took it.

His grip was warm, steady, unyielding. He pulled me up gently, tucked my arm through his, and led me from the room.

No one spoke as we left.

The tension followed us down the hall like a living thing—thick, suffocating. My legs felt numb. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst.

We didn’t stop until we reached the staircase. Only then did he pause, turning to me under the chandelier’s soft light.

His knuckles were split. A cut above his eyebrow trickled blood. His shirt was torn at the collar.

But his eyes—when they met mine—were soft.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

I swallowed. Nodded. Couldn’t find words.

He brushed a thumb across my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said.

I shook my head. “You defended me.”

“I’ll always defend you.”

The words were simple. Fierce.

He took my hand again and led me upstairs—away from the wolves, away from the blood and the cruelty.

Behind us, the dining room doors closed with a heavy thud.

But Andriano’s knowing smile lingered in my mind like a shadow.

He suspected something.