“Get out of my house. You and that filthy little brat.”

Isabella Romano paced across the plush antique rug of the guest suite, her breath coming in ragged, furious gasps.

She hurled a crystal perfume bottle against the marble mantelpiece. It shattered with a violent crack, sending shards of glass and expensive floral scent splashing across the fireplace.

“Insolent bastard!” she hissed through gritted teeth. “He humiliated me. In front of the staff! In front of the guards!”

Her phone buzzed on the mahogany nightstand. She snatched it up, pressing it to her ear before the second ring finished.

“Papa,” she spat, not waiting for a greeting.

“Isabella?” The heavy, rasping voice of Vincent Romano answered from Chicago. “Why are you using the unencrypted line? What happened?”

“Alessandro humiliated me,” she snapped, her knuckles turning white around the phone. “He took the side of a filthy maid and her brat over me! He ordered me to my room like a disobedient dog in front of the entire household!”

On the other end of the line, silence stretched for three agonizing seconds. When Vincent spoke again, his voice was dangerously measured.

“A maid? Why would Moretti care about a domestic worker?”

“Because she’s got some little leech clinging to her skirt!” Isabella sneered, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson River. “The brat dropped a button in the hallway. I told them to clear out, and Alessandro came down the stairs looking like he was ready to slit my throat. He knelt in front of that dirty little girl, Papa. He picked up the button and gave it back to her.”

Vincent hummed thoughtfully, the sound low and calculating. “Alessandro Moretti does not kneel for anyone. Not for the Commission, not for the police, and certainly not for servants. Describe the child.”

Isabella rolled her eyes. “What does it matter? She’s three, maybe four. Dark hair, skinny, big dark eyes—”

She froze.

Her own words seemed to catch in her throat. The image of the little girl flashed across her mind—the shape of her jaw, the eerie composure she had displayed when screamed at, and those haunting, dark obsidian eyes that looked almost identical to the oil painting of Alessandro’s late mother hanging in the private gallery.

“No…” Isabella whispered, her voice losing its venom, replaced by cold dread. “No, that’s impossible.”

“What is it, Isabella?” Vincent demanded sharply.

“The girl,” she breathed. “Papa… the girl looks like him. She looks like an Elena Moretti portrait come to life.”

A harsh laugh erupted from Vincent’s throat, cold and humorless. “Well, well. It seems our arrogant Don has a secret weakness tucked away in the pantry. A bastard child.”

“What do we do?” Isabella asked, her panic rising. “If Alessandro fathers an heir with a servant, where does that leave our marriage? Where does that leave our claim to the New York shipping routes?”

“Calm down, Isabella,” Vincent commanded coldly. “A stray child changes nothing about the contract, but it changes everything about our leverage. If Moretti loves that child, she isn’t a threat to us. She is an insurance policy.”

“You don’t understand, Papa!” Isabella’s voice rose hysterically. “He looked at me with hatred today! Real hatred! If he cancels the wedding—”

“He cannot cancel the wedding,” Vincent growled. “The truce is signed in blood. If he breaks the betrothal without just cause, the Commission will turn against him. But you need to be smart, Isabella. Stop throwing tantrums. Watch them. Confirm the girl’s bloodline. If she truly is his daughter, we will use her to bring Alessandro Moretti to his knees.”

Before Isabella could reply, the heavy oak doors of the bedroom swung open without a knock.

Alessandro stepped into the room.

He didn't rush. He closed the door behind him with a gentle, terrifying click. He had changed into a tailored charcoal suit, his hands resting easily in his pockets, but the sheer presence of the man swallowed all the air in the room.

Isabella quickly lowered her phone, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Papa, I’ll call you back,” she whispered, disconnecting the call.

She forced a tremulous smile onto her face, smoothing down the lapels of her silk robe. “Alessandro… darling. Look, I’m sorry about earlier. My nerves have been frayed with all the wedding planning, and that child startled me. I shouldn't have yelled at the staff. You know how stressful this transition has been for me.”

Alessandro walked across the room, stopping three feet from her. His expression was completely blank—a mask of stone that gave away nothing.

“Pack your bags, Isabella,” he said evenly.

The fake smile vanished from her face. “What?”

“You have three hours,” Alessandro continued, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. “My men will load your luggage into a private jet. You are returning to Chicago today.”

“You can’t be serious!” Isabella shrieked, her facade crumbling instantly. “We have an agreement! Our families have a treaty! You cannot simply throw me out because I raised my voice at a maid!”

“You didn't just raise your voice,” Alessandro replied, his eyes narrowing slightly, cold and deadly. “You threatened my family under my own roof.”

Isabella stared at him, stunned, before a bitter, mocking laugh escaped her lips. “Your *family*? So it’s true, then? That dirty little gutter rat is your daughter?”

The air in the room instantly dropped below freezing.

Before Isabella could blink, Alessandro took a single step forward. He didn't touch her, but the sheer predatory menace radiating from his frame forced her back until her spine hit the brick of the fireplace.

“Choose your next words with extreme care, Isabella,” Alessandro whispered, each syllable heavy with promise. “Because if another insult regarding my daughter crosses your lips, your father will receive your engagement ring back in a box—along with the finger it was sitting on.”

Isabella swallowed hard, her chest heaving with sheer terror. She had grown up around violent men her entire life, but Vincent Romano was a brawler; Alessandro Moretti was an executioner.

“My father will not let this stand,” she rasped, trying to salvage a shred of defiance. “This means war, Alessandro. The Great Lakes routes, the docks—everything will burn.”

Alessandro leaned in slightly, his gaze piercing straight through her soul.