Chapter 7
Isabella POV
The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the Matriarch's Suite, catching the sparkle of the diamonds Eleonore Moretti had sent. I sat at the vanity, watching Maria, an older maid who had served my birth mother, carefully fold the Parisian couture gowns.
Maria hesitated, her hands lingering on the silver 'Starlight' dress. "Signorina Isabella," she murmured, her voice trembling slightly. "Perhaps... perhaps it would be wise to offer one of these to Signora Beatrice? Just as a gesture of peace. She is the lady of the house, and making an enemy of her..."
I stopped brushing my hair and met Maria's worried eyes in the mirror. She meant well. She was a survivor of the old guard, terrified of Beatrice's petty wrath. But I needed absolute *lealtà* (loyalty), and loyalty could not coexist with naive illusions.
"A gesture of peace, Maria?" I asked, my voice calm but cold enough to make her flinch. I turned to face her. "If Beatrice truly saw me as a daughter, why did she leave me to rot in Switzerland for three years after I took a bullet for this family? Why did she try to force me into a servant's room the moment I returned?"
Maria paled, her hands dropping to her sides.
"She doesn't hate me because I am difficult," I continued, stepping closer, letting the harsh truth strip away the polite veneer of this house. "She fears me. She is an outsider from New Jersey who knows that my trueborn blood threatens everything she has stolen for her bastard children. Any kindness she shows is merely a performance. This isn't a family disagreement, Maria. It is a war for survival."
Maria stared at me, the color draining completely from her face. The horrifying realization of Beatrice's true nature finally shattered her lifelong habit of submission. She swallowed hard, her eyes filling with a new, hardened resolve. "I understand, Signorina. My eyes are open."
With Maria firmly secured as my eyes and ears, I braced for Beatrice's retaliation. Since she couldn't attack me openly without insulting the Morettis, she resorted to a campaign of petty sabotage.
Over the next few days, my suite became a silent battlefield. My morning coffee arrived tasting of burnt ash. My dinners were served lukewarm. The luxurious silk sheets on my bed were quietly replaced with coarse, scratchy cotton. It was a calculated attempt to break my composure, to make me run to my father complaining like a spoiled, hysterical child.
I gave her nothing. I drank the bitter coffee without a grimace. I slept on the rough cotton without a word. My absolute indifference infuriated Beatrice more than any screaming match ever could. It proved that her childish games were useless against me.
But Beatrice's frustration bled into her golden boy, Angelo. And Angelo, unlike his mother, lacked the cunning to hide his rage.
It happened on a bitter morning in mid-December. I was walking past the central fountain in the estate garden. The water had been shut off for the winter, and a thin layer of white ice coated the marble basins. The air was biting, smelling of frost and dead leaves.
"Think you're untouchable now, don't you?"
I stopped. Angelo stepped out from behind a stone pillar, blocking my path. He wore a flashy silk shirt under his coat, his narrow forehead creased with ugly fury.
"You disrespect my mother. You parade around this house like you own it, bringing *disonore* (dishonor) to our name," he spat, closing the distance between us. "You need to be taught a lesson, Izzy."
I didn't back away. I knew exactly what was about to happen. I had lived this moment before. In my past life, he had shoved me into the freezing water, sparking a fever that nearly killed me. But this time, I had already sent Maria to fetch my father under the guise of a "pressing estate matter."
"Are you going to teach me, Angelo?" I asked, my voice dripping with quiet mockery.
His face twisted in rage. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. The cheap metal clicked open, the blade gleaming in the pale morning light. "I'll carve that arrogant look right off your face," he snarled, lunging forward to slash the flat of the blade against my cheek.
He was slow. Sloppy.
Before the blade could even graze my skin, I flicked my wrist. The leather *frusta* (whip) I kept concealed up my coat sleeve snapped out like a striking viper. The weighted tip coiled tightly around Angelo's wrist. I yanked hard.
Angelo yelped in pain. The switchblade clattered onto the icy cobblestones with a sharp, metallic ring.
"What in the name of God is going on here?!"
The thunderous roar echoed across the garden. I released the whip, letting it slide seamlessly back into my sleeve, and turned to see my father, Luca, storming down the pathway. His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying fury. He had seen everything—his supposed heir pulling a street thug's weapon on his own sister, only to be effortlessly disarmed by a seventeen-year-old girl.
Angelo froze, his eyes darting from the dropped knife to our father. "Papa, she—"
"Shut your mouth!" Luca bellowed, closing the distance in seconds. He didn't look at me; his blazing eyes were fixed entirely on the pathetic, trembling figure of his son. "You pull a blade on family? And you let a girl disarm you? You are useless!"
Without another word, Luca planted his heavy boot squarely into Angelo's chest.
With a pathetic cry, Angelo flew backward, crashing over the marble edge and plunging directly into the freezing, ice-crusted water of the fountain.
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