Chapter 2

When I returned to the penthouse, Luca was already there.

The air was thick with the scent of leather and tobacco, his cologne layered over it, spreading like a warning.

I stepped through the door and found him in the living room, flanked by two Moretti soldiers. They stood with their hands clasped in front of them, eyes forward, faces blank. The universal posture of men paid to hurt people.

"Isabella." Luca rose from the couch, his voice silk over steel. "You shouldn't have left New York without telling me."

No Where were you. No Are you okay.

Just that cold, proprietary tone. Like I was a shipment that had gone missing.

"I wanted to surprise you," I said. The lie tasted like ash. "For Christmas."

He crossed the room in three strides. His hand caught my chin—not gentle, not rough. Possessive. The way he used to touch me in the early days, when I still believed it meant something.

"Until we're married, your safety is my responsibility." His thumb traced my jaw. Once, that touch would have made me melt. Now I fought the urge to bite it off. "The Morettis protect what belongs to them."

What belongs to them.

Not who. What.

I understood then, with perfect clarity, what I was to him. Not a fiancée. Not even a future wife.

A hostage.

"I understand," I whispered. "It won't happen again."

His grip softened. He leaned down and kissed my forehead—a reward for obedience. His lips lingered a second too long, and I felt his breath warm against my skin.

"Good girl." His voice dropped low, intimate. "Now go change. You know I need you in white."

I retreated to the bedroom and stripped off my traveling clothes. In the closet, rows of white hung like ghosts—blouses, dresses, coats—all chosen by him. All designed to make me visible. Identifiable.

Controllable.

I pulled on a cream cashmere sweater and white wool pants. The costume of a compliant bride.

That night, I lay beside him in the dark, listening to his breathing slow into sleep.

He slept like a man without conscience—deep, untroubled, certain of his place in the world.

I waited two hours. Then I slipped out of bed.

His study was at the end of the hall. The door was always locked—"family business," he'd said, as if I didn't know exactly what kind of business the Morettis ran.

The keypad glowed faint blue in the darkness. I tried our wedding date. Denied. His birthday. Denied. His mother's maiden name. Denied.

Then, on impulse, I typed in my birthday.

Access granted.

The irony nearly made me laugh. He'd used my birthday—probably thought I'd never be bold enough to try.

His laptop sat open on the desk. I woke the screen—no password.

Arrogance, thy name is Luca Moretti.

He truly believed I was too stupid, too docile, to ever look.

I navigated through folders. Financial records. Property deeds. Shell company documents.

Then I found it. A folder labeled "B."

Bianca.

Photos first. Dozens of them. Luca and the woman in red—on a yacht, in a restaurant, tangled in hotel sheets. Date stamps going back two years. Long before his "accident." Long before the face blindness lie.

My chest tightened, but I kept clicking.

Video files. I plugged in earbuds and pressed play.

The footage was from a restaurant—surveillance quality, grainy but clear enough. Luca sat across from a man I recognized: Dante Lazzari. Underboss of the Lazzari family. Our enemies.

"The routes are confirmed," Luca was saying. "My father's next shipment comes through the Costa port on the fifteenth. Your men can intercept."

Dante smiled. "And after the wedding?"

"After the wedding, I'll have full access to Costa operations. Their ports, their contacts, their books." Luca leaned back, swirling his wine. "Give me a year. The old man's getting careless—accidents happen. I take his seat. Then we split the territory. Morettis and Lazzaris. Equal partners."

"What about your bride?"

Luca's laugh made my blood freeze. "Isabella? She's a Costa princess who's never gotten her hands dirty. She'll give me an heir, sign whatever I put in front of her, and stay out of my way." He raised his glass. "The perfect wife."

I stopped the video.

My hands were trembling—not from heartbreak, but from rage so cold it burned.

He wasn't just a cheater. He was planning to kill his own father. Sell out my family. Use me as a blank check and a womb.

Bianca wasn't just a mistress. She was a Lazzari plant.

And Luca thought he was the smartest man in the room.

I pulled a drive from my pocket and copied everything. Every photo. Every video. Every file that would bury him.

Then I wiped the access logs, closed the laptop, and left the study exactly as I'd found it.

Back in the bedroom, I retrieved my mother's earring box. Beneath the velvet lining, I'd carved out a small hollow—just enough space for the drive.

The diamonds caught the moonlight as I closed the lid.

I climbed back into bed. Luca stirred, his arm reaching for me automatically, draping across my waist.

"Tesoro," he murmured into my hair. Treasure.

I stared at the ceiling, breathing slow and even.

Tomorrow I would smile. I would wear white. I would let him believe he had won.

And I would wait for the perfect moment to watch it all come crashing down.