Chapter 8
Isabella Harrison POV
The black armored Cadillac rolled to a smooth stop before the towering wrought-iron gates of the Harrison estate. The heavy metal 'H' crest loomed above, a reminder of the world I had briefly escaped. I braced myself, fully expecting to face the firing squad alone. Kyle had made it abundantly clear that playing the dutiful husband was beneath him.
Before the valet could even reach for the handle, my car door was yanked open. Karly stood there, a venomous, triumphant smile twisting her pretty face.
"Oh, sister, just you?" she projected, her voice dripping with faux sympathy, loud enough for the guards to hear. "I thought the Gallos would show at least the basic respect of an escort."
I stepped out, smoothing the skirt of my dress. "Kyle had important business to attend to."
Karly's smile widened into a sneer. "Business? I heard his real 'business' is in an apartment on the South Side, isn't it?"
I didn't flinch. Instead, I took a step closer, my voice low but sharp enough to cut through the crisp autumn air. "Karly, are you trying to let all of Chicago know that a Harrison daughter spreads rumors that could incite a family war? If those words reach Don Gallo's ears, do you want our entire family to pay the price for your tongue?"
The smugness vanished from Karly's eyes, replaced by a flicker of genuine panic.
"Shut your reckless mouth!"
Grandmother Elia materialized from the shadows of the portico, her face a mask of absolute frost. She seized my arm, pulling me protectively behind her, and fixed Karly with a lethal glare. "On my territory, no one starts a war."
As she led me up the stone steps, Elia didn't spare Karly a backward glance, her voice dripping with disdain. "You are just like your mother—you never learn your place. Do you think that poor Irish boy, Barrett Bradshaw, can bring you anything of value? Never forget your bloodline, and never forget who allows you to stand here."
Karly paled, tears of humiliation welling in her eyes, but she didn't dare speak another word.
The formal dining room was suffocating. We had barely taken our seats beneath the stern portraits of our ancestors when the unmistakable, throaty roar of a Duesenberg engine shattered the midday quiet. Footsteps echoed in the marble hall. The heavy oak doors swung open, and Kyle Gallo strolled in.
He wore an impeccably tailored suit and a smirk that promised violence.
Karly shot up from her chair, her face pale with shock. "What are you doing here?!" she blurted out.
Kyle's smirk vanished. His eyes, cold and dead, locked onto her. "Thank God the Gallo family married the sister with actual manners," he sneered. He stepped further into the room, the air growing heavy with his presence. "I am here to accompany my wife on her visit to her family. It is my duty. Or do you believe I shouldn't be here? Are you questioning the alliance between our families?"
Karly sank back into her chair, trembling and speechless. Elia quickly smoothed over the tension, gesturing for Kyle to take the empty seat beside me.
For the rest of the meal, Kyle waged a war of suffocating affection. He served my plate. He used his linen napkin to gently dab the corner of my mouth. When a draft swept through the room, he didn't hesitate to strip off his expensive suit jacket and drape it over my shoulders. His arm rested on the back of my chair, his fingers occasionally brushing my spine—a blatant, territorial claim.
Elia watched with deep satisfaction, seeing only a powerful husband honoring her granddaughter. Karly gripped her butter knife so tightly her knuckles turned white, consumed by a jealous rage.
But beneath the heavy wool of Kyle's jacket, my skin crawled. Every tender touch was a calculated lie, leaving me hyper-aware of the dangerous, unpredictable stranger sitting beside me.
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