ISA

Marco trailed behind Quinto, his blue suit a stark contrast to the blood staining his hands. The air crackled with tension. Wiping the blood from his face, Marco checked his wristwatch – the shattered glass a testament to the chaos that had just unfolded. It was already half past eight.

"Don," Quinto began hesitantly, "should I report the incident to the Godfather?"

Marco snapped, his voice laced with steel. "Don't you even breathe a word about it to anyone. I'll change. Tell Enrico to meet me there."

Quinto reminded him, "Your Godfather mentioned you earlier at the restaurant. He sounded urgent."

"Forget it," Marco dismissed. "I'll speak with him later."

As Marco walked away, Quinto called after him, "Marco, do you feel anything for that woman…"

The question hung heavy in the air. Marco paused, his gaze distant. "That's not the same woman she was seven years ago," he finally muttered before disappearing down the hall.

Marco's palatial suite offered a stark contrast to the violence he left behind. Two bodyguards stood guard at the entrance. Luciano, the first to notice his boss's disheveled state, inquired about the blood in a hushed tone.

Marco, his eyes flickering to the door, issued a curt command in Italian, emphasizing his need for privacy. Luciano, understanding the weight of the Don's unspoken request, retreated.

Marco entered his room with a weary stride. The discarded suit on the armchair confirmed the maid's absence. He poured himself a glass of Italian wine, the rich aroma filling the air.

As he sank onto the couch, his thoughts swirled around Alessia. How could she keep his son from him? Even if their relationship had soured, his son deserved a place in his life. The image of Alessia flashed in his mind, her beauty as captivating as ever, but a coldness lurked in her eyes now.

A self-deprecating scoff escaped his lips. Had he been so focused on portraying strength that he'd become oblivious to her vulnerability? He was the Don of the Salvadors, a man who commanded respect, not the other way around.

His train of thought was interrupted by his mother's raised voice from outside the door.

"I can't see my son? I'm his mother, for God's sake!"

He winced at the commotion, recognizing the familiar arguments with his two bodyguards. The sound of shattering glass sent a jolt through him.

"Marco!" his mother's voice boomed, laced with fury. "Why did you have your men stop me from coming in?"

The door creaked open, revealing a flustered Luciano. "Don, am sorry, she forced her way through…"

Marco cut him off with a dismissive wave. His gaze fell on his mother, her face etched with concern.

"What is it, Mother?" he sighed.

Mrs. Salvador, taken aback by her son's bloodstained clothes, gasped and averted her eyes. "Marco, where have you been?"

A humorless chuckle escaped Marco's lips. "Mother, you've been married to a mafia boss all your life. A little blood shouldn't faze you now."

She chided him gently, "You should be used to it by now, but it still worries me. Just like your brother's wife's constant fretting."

Marco smirked. His mother and Enrico's pregnant wife – two peas in a pod – always fussing but undeniably devoted to their mafia husbands.

"Get changed and come downstairs," his mother instructed. "We have guests."

"This late?"

"Why do you have a phone if you don't use it?" she countered, her voice laced with playful exasperation. "Didn't you see your father's message?"

Marco shrugged, pulling off his bloodstained sleeves and tossing them aside. "Give me a minute. And why hasn't the maid cleaned my suit?"

"Seems Quinto cut them out," his mother revealed with a sly smile.

"Come downstairs quickly and get cleaned up," she urged.

Marco retreated to the bathroom, the strong scent of blood and gunpowder filling the air – a familiar cloying reminder of his life. As the heir to the Salvadori family, Italy's most powerful mafia clan, he'd shouldered the burden of leadership from a young age.

The 'Devil,' as he was known in the underworld, had been groomed for this ruthless world since he was sixteen. The scar on his waist, a constant reminder of his first kill, was a stark testament to that reality.

His life had been devoid of warmth until Alessia's arriva...but she had become his entire world. His father, the old Don, had warned him against outsiders – no love, no attachments, just business. But Alessia had defied all logic, worming her way under his hardened exterior.

Now, as he emerged from the bathroom, a fresh wave of irritation washed over him. He donned a simple, yet elegant black shirt with a silver chain, the glint of his ever-present lip ring catching the light. Tucking a gun discreetly into his waistband, he checked his phone, scrolling through messages.

A maid greeted him with a polite bow. "Good evening, Don Marco. The Godfather and the family are awaiting you in the living room."

Marco nodded curtly, a steely glint in his eyes. "See to my suit. Have it cleaned and pressed."

The maid, her arm marked with a discreet tattoo – a sign of her loyalty to the family – bowed once more and scurried away.

Marco straightened his shirt and entered the living room, his gaze immediately drawn to the Morreti family. A smirk played on his lips as he noticed the hunger in Isabella's eyes – a hunger he knew all too well.

"Good evening, Padre," he greeted his father with a customary hug. Turning to Don Roberto Morretti, he offered a nod of respect. "Don Roberto."

"Pleasure, Don Marco," the elder Morretti replied, his voice dripping with a thick Italian accent.

Marco made his way around the room, exchanging greetings. He apologized for his tardiness, but Mr. Morretti, with a knowing smile, brushed it off, acknowledging that not every day was a good day in their line of work.

As they settled in, Marco's father announced their longstanding partnership with the Morrettis, a bond forged in the fires of the underworld. Mrs. Salvador, predictably, shot a quick glance at Fred, a silent exchange passing between them. Marco, however, couldn't tear his eyes away from Isabella. The way she was adorned, the calculated elegance – it was a display, a strategy.

He also couldn't help but notice the imposing figure beside her – a handsome redhead named Miguel, whom he'd seen lurking around Isabella during her visits. The intensity of Miguel's gaze suggested something more than a bodyguard's watchful eye.

After pleasantries were exchanged, Mr. Salvador gestured to Don Morretti, who cleared his throat and spoke. He emphasized the importance of family, of loyalty, and how marriage was the ultimate way to solidify these bonds. Isabella, beside him, offered a dazzling smile, her red lips curving into a practiced expression.

Don Morretti continued, revealing that he and Eduardo (Marco's father) had decided to unite their families through marriage. Mrs. Salvador beamed, her approval evident. She turned to Marco, her eyes twinkling with anticipation.

"What do you think, Marco?" she inquired. "Don Morretti is right. Family isMarco couldn't help but scoff internally at his mother's naivety. This "family union" was as transparent as a thin veil. He maintained a neutral expression, though, turning his gaze to Don Morretti.

"Indeed," Marco replied smoothly, "uniting families strengthens our position. However," he continued, his voice taking on a pointed edge, "I would only agree on one condition: Isabella relinquishes her modeling career."

A collective gasp filled the room, shattering the fragile veneer of pleasantries. Isabella's smile faltered, replaced by a flash of defiance. Even his father shot him a surprised look.

"But Marco," Don Morreti sputtered, his accent thickening with irritation, "a wife should support her husband, not abandon her profession!"

Marco held the Don's gaze unwavering. "In our world, Don Morreti, discretion is paramount. My wife will not be cavorting around half-naked on billboards or flaunting our family business on magazine covers."

"That's ridiculous!" Isabella finally exploded, her voice tight with anger. "Who are you to dictate my life choices?"

Don Morretti turned to her, his face darkening. "Isabella! You will not speak to Don Marco in that tone!"

Marco, however, seemed unfazed by the outburst. A predator toying with his prey, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Perhaps this is a deal breaker for you, Isabella. In that case-"

"I was willing to consider it," Isabella interrupted, her voice trembling slightly but her chin held high, "but not if it means giving up my career. My work is a part of who I am."

A tense silence descended upon the room. Marco's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flickering within. He saw not defiance, but a challenge – a challenge that ignited a spark of something unexpected witThe room crackled with tension as Isabella's voice echoed in the suffocating silence. Mrs. Salvador's smile had vanished, replaced by a pinched expression. Even Fred and his wife seemed to shrink under the weight of the unspoken threat hanging in the air.

Mr. Salvador cleared his throat, his voice strained. "Marco, perhaps you should…"

But before he could finish, Isabella cut him off, her voice laced with a dangerous calmness. "No, Don Salvador. I will not be bullied into submission. If your son believes a wife is nothing but a trophy to be locked away, then perhaps this union is not meant to be."

Her words struck a nerve. Don Morretti's face flushed crimson, his hand clenching into a fist. "Unreasonable!" he boomed, his voice thick with fury. "You will apologize to Don Marco for your insolence, Isabella!"

Isabella's chin remained high. "I apologize for nothing. I deserve respect, not some archaic notion of a wife's place."

Don Morretti's outrage reached a fever pitch. "Get out of my sight, you disobedient child!" He roared, gesturing towards the door. "And don't come back until you've learned some manners!"

Shame burned in Isabella's eyes, but her voice remained steady. "As you wish, Father." With a final defiant look at Marco, she turned and marched out of the room, her head held high despite the tremor in her chin.

Miguel, ever the loyal shadow, excused himself with a curt nod to the Salvador family and followed swiftly after Isabella. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.

Marco watched her go, a strange mix of emotions swirling within him. There was a flicker of unexpected respect for her defiance, but it was quickly overshadowed by a simmering anger. He had been challenged, and no one challenged the Devil of the Salvadors and got away wMiguel called after her, "Isabella!" but she kept walking, her anger a palpable storm cloud around her. As he reached her side, she spun around and delivered a stinging slap across his face.

He flinched momentarily, but schooled his features into a mask of stoicism. "Isabella," he said evenly, "I'm not the boss of you. I'll go get the car."

Without another word, Miguel turned and left her standing there. Shame washed over Isabella again, hot on the heels of her anger. She shouldn't have hit him, he was just trying to help. She kicked a stray pebble on the ground, frustration tightening her throat.

Moments later, the car pulled up and she slid into the passenger seat. Miguel remained silent, the engine growling as they sped away from the Salvador estate. Isabella's mind churned with a cocktail of emotions – fury at her father, humiliation over the scene, and a strange mix of defiance and intrigue regarding Marco.

The silence stretched between them, finally broken by Miguel's question. "Where are we goinThe silence stretched between them, finally broken by Miguel's question. "Where are we going?"

Isabella pulled out her phone, scrolling through messages with a forced indifference. "I don't know, take me anywhere but home."

Miguel glanced at her through the rearview mirror, his gaze lingering on the way the moonlight highlighted the anger etched on her face. He swallowed hard, his own frustration simmering.

"Isa, where are we really going? You don't plan to get changed in the car, do you?"

Ignoring his question, Isabella yanked her hair into a high ponytail, her movements sharp and clipped. "Take me to Padre's club, I want to get wasted tonight."

Miguel scoffed. "You know your father would have my head if I took you out for that, and that too at his clubhouse. I can take you to a nicer place."

But Isabella was in no mood for reason. "I don't want to argue with you, Miguel. Take me where I want right now or stop here so I can get a taxi."

Left with no choice, Miguel conceded with a grumbled curse and followed her directions.

The club was a throbbing hive of activity as they pulled up. The pulsing bass vibrated through the car windows, promising a night of reckless abandon. Miguel escorted Isabella through the throng of people, her beauty turning heads as they made their way to the VIP sThe air inside the club was thick with the smell of expensive cologne, cigarette smoke, and spilled drinks. Strobe lights cast the room in a dizzying array of colors, and the deafening music vibrated through the floor. On the stage, scantily clad dancers gyrated to the rhythm, their movements lost on Isabella as she scanned the room with a defiant glint in her eyes.

Miguel, ever the vigilant guardian, followed her every move. He knew this environment was dangerous, especially for someone as intoxicatingly beautiful as Isabella. Her fiery red dress, the one she usually reserved for exclusive galas, seemed even more provocative under the club's pulsating lights. He watched as men shamelessly leered at her, their gazes lingering a beat too long.

"Miguel, I want to have fun here!" she declared, her voice barely audible over the pounding music. She tugged playfully at his arm, a hint of a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

Miguel knew she wasn't in the mood for reason, but his duty as her protector wouldn't allow him to simply let her loose. "Isa, it was a bad idea to bring you here," he admitted, his voice a low rumble. "But I can't let you run wild. It's not safe."

Isabella rolled her eyes, her defiance quickly morphing into playful exasperation. "Come on, Miguel," she countered. "Don't be such a stick in the mud. I can handle myself."

Just then, a large, imposing man with a shaved head approached them. He sported a thick gold chain around his neck and a diamond-encrusted pinky ring that glittered under the strobes. He greeted Miguel with a curt nod, addressing him as "capo" – a term of respect used for someone in a position of leadership.

Miguel tensed, his posture radiating a silent warning. He explained curtly that Isabella was with him. The way he said it, a hint of possessiveness lacing his tone, made Isabella's heart skip a beat. Was he just being fiercely protective, or was there something more simmering beneath the surface?

The man's gaze flickered to Isabella, his eyes lingering for a moment too long. Miguel's possessiveness seemed to shift into a subtle threat, and the unwelcome visitor slunk away, muttering something under his breath.

As the man disappeared into the crowd, Isabella reached out and touched Miguel's hand, her voice softening. "I can take care of myself," she insisted, her earlier defiance replaced by a flicker of vulnerability.

Miguel let out a short chuckle, the sound warm and unexpected in the cacophony of the club. "Really, Isa?" he replied, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

With a playful tap on his chest, she declared, "Alright, Hercules," she teased, using a nickname reserved for her closest friends. "I'll be by the bar. Watch me from there."

He watched her go, a wry smile playing on his lips. Isabella sashayed towards the bar, her every move designed to turn heads. Her red dress shimmered under the strobes, the tight fit accentuating her curves. Men watched her with open admiration, but she seemed oblivious, her focus solely on the Isabella perched on a barstool, her back ramrod straight despite the growing buzz in her head. She ordered a potent cocktail, something fruity and deceptively sweet, that went down far too easily. The burn of the alcohol was a welcome distraction from the simmering anger towards her father and the unexpected turmoil brewing inside her.

Miguel, stationed discreetly a few stools away, kept a watchful eye. He couldn't help but admire the way she held herself, even in this hostile environment. Her fiery red dress seemed to draw strength from her defiance, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he'd glimpsed earlier.

As the music thumped and the drinks flowed, Isabella steadily chipped away at her inhibitions. She engaged in conversation with the bartender, a young man with a shy smile and an even shyer demeanor. Miguel watched, a knot of worry tightening in his stomach as she laughed a little too loudly, leaned in a little too close.

Her eyes, usually a captivating emerald green, were beginning to lose focus. The carefully constructed facade of confidence was slowly cracking, revealing a simmering hurt beneath. Miguel knew he couldn't leave her like this, not with the vultures circling.

He waited for a lull in the conversation, then excused himself from the bartender with a curt nod. Making his way towards Isabella, he noticed a group of men eyeing her with predatory interest. He moved closer, his shadow falling across her like a protective shield.

"Another round?" Miguel asked, his voice a low rumble.

Isabella turned, her smile a little wobbly. "Just one more, Hercules," she slurred, the nickname slipping out a little too easily. "Then I think it's time for Cinderella to go home."

Miguel's lips twitched. He knew she was far from any damsel in distress, but there was no denying her vulnerability. "Alright," he conceded, "one more. But then we're leaThe last drink hit Isabella harder than the previous ones. The music seemed to blur into a distorted drone, and the lights pulsed with an unsettling rhythm. As Miguel reached for her hand, she swayed slightly, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

"Whoa there, Isa," Miguel said gently, steering her towards the exit. He hailed a cab, and Isabella practically collapsed into the backseat. The short ride to the hotel was a blur. Miguel paid the fare, then carefully helped Isabella out of the taxi.

Suddenly, as they stood on the sidewalk, Isabella gripped his arm, her voice slurred but firm. "Miguel, take me to The Crimson Orchid."

Miguel frowned. "The Crimson Orchid? Are you sure, Isa?" It was a notoriously expensive hotel, frequented by celebrities and high rollers.

Isabella let out a shaky breath. "I can't face one more lecture from my father tonight, Miguel. I just... I can't."

Seeing her distress, Miguel decided against arguing. "Alright, Isa," he conceded. He flagged down another cab, and within minutes they were pulling up to the opulent entrance of The Crimson Orchid.

The lobby was a marvel of polished marble and sparkling chandeliers. Miguel helped Isabella through the revolving doors, her high heels clicking against the expensive marble floor.

Ignoring the concierge's surprised look, Miguel guided Isabella to the check-in desk. Isabella, despite her tipsiness, managed to book a single room with a credit card.

Miguel watched, a knot of concern tightening in his stomach. "Are you sure about this, Isa?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Isabella turned to him, her eyes glassy but defiant. "Please, Miguel," she pleaded, swaying slightly. "Just get me to my room." Her voice was laced with a vulnerability that tugged at his heartstrings.

The receptionist, clearly impressed by Isabella's expensive credit card, handed her a key with a dazzling smile. Miguel took the key from her, guiding a swaying Isabella towards the elevator. He pressed the button for the top floor, hoping for a room furthest away from prying eyes.

The elevator doors opened onto a plush hallway. Miguel unlocked the door and switched on the lights, revealing a luxurious suite with a breathtaking view of the city skyline. He helped Isabella onto the plush bed, her crimson dress a stark contrast against the white sheets.

As he turned to leave, his hand on the doorknob, Isabella reached out. "Miguel," she slurred, her voice thick with intoxication. She grabbed his hand, a surprising strength lingering despite her drunkenness.

Before Miguel could ask what she wanted, she yanked him towards her with unexpected force. He stumbled, landing on top of her unintentionally. A gasp escaped his lips as he tried to push himself off, but Isabella held him firm, her body warm and soft beneath him.

"You're drunk, Isa," he said, concern lacing his voice. But as he looked into her eyes, he saw something beyond the haze of alcohol – a raw vulnerability and a silent plea.

"Do you also think I'm not worth it?" she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Not good enough... not your type of woman?"

Miguel's heart hammered against his ribs. He knew she was under the influence, yet her words awakened a raw emotion within him, an emotion he'd kept tightly suppressed.

"You're drunk," he repeated, his voice hoarse.

Isabella just laughed, a light, breathless sound. "Kiss me," she murmured, "and see if I'm sober."

His gaze held hers, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She was his boss's daughter, forbidden fruit, yet she was also undeniably beautiful and his deepest desire. He could resist no longer.

With a growl that surprised even him, Miguel leaned down and captured her lips in a fierce, possessive kiss. The alcohol fueled a passion he hadn't expected, a fire that burned through his years of stoic control. He ignored the voice of reason, the danger of the situation, lost in the intoxicating haze of their kiss.