The Mafia Boss's Estranged Bride

The studio was quiet except the sound of Isabella Romano's brush moving lightly over the cracked surface of the old canvas. The lamp light bathed the painting in a warm glow as she leaned in close, her steady hand guiding the fine bristles over faded paint. The piece stretched across her wooden table, delicate and tired; centuries old and showing every year of it.

"Almost there," she whispered.

Restoration work was never easy because patience wasn't just helpful, it was essential. Isabella had learned that the hard way because every crack, every shadow, every worn-out color demanded a gentle touch, any slip, and years of history would vanish in a single careless swipe.

Sometimes, it felt a lot like life itself because there were some damages you could fix by bringing it back bit by bit. But other scars? You just had to learn how to cover them up.

She sat back and studied her progress. The dull yellow varnish was starting to lift, and in its place, a soft golden light peeked through.

Beautiful, she thought. And forgotten, too, just waiting for a second chance. A faint smile touched her lips.

"You're so lucky because not everyone gets to come back," she told the painting.

Her phone buzzed on the table. She ignored it, picking it up after the second buzz. It was Sofia, her best friend calling.

Isabella balanced the phone between her shoulder and cheek, dabbing her hands clean with a cloth.

"Normal people sleep at this hour, Sofia."

"Did you check your email?" Sofia replied as she never bothered with small talk.

Isabella let out a quiet laugh. "Is that how we're saying hello now?"

"Bella."

"I saw it."

"And?"

"I haven't decided."

Sofia groaned loud enough for Isabella to hold the phone away from her ears "That job could change everything for you!"

Isabella walked to the window, glancing out at the sleepy Milan street and the freshly washed pavement gleamed under the streetlights. She spotted a couple wandering by, their laughter echoing softly against the stone.

"I have what I need, Sof." Her voice was calm.

"What the heck do you mean by that Bella? You work in a studio the size of a broom closet."

Isabella shrugged. "It's a very charming closet."

"You deserve more."

It was an old argument. Isabella had heard it a hundred times, but it always missed the point. Peace isn't cheap, that she knew too well because she'd paid for every ounce she had.

"So what's so special about this one?" She asked, though she already knew.

Sofia's sigh carried across the line. "It's the De Luca Foundation Gala."

Isabella's hand tightened on the phone. She stared out the window, saw her own reflection, her dark hair was pulled back in messy tangle with sharp eyes that spoke about five years of change.

"You're quiet," Sofia said.

"I'm thinking."

"You know who's hosting the gala, right?"

A faint, wry smile tugged at Isabella's lips. "I do."

"Then you