The war room smelled of gun oil, smoke, and challenge.
Every man in that chamber had once answered only to Damian Moretti.
Now, they stared at Isabella Roman,not Isabella Moretti, the daughter of their enemy, sitting in the chair Damian used to command from.
Her fingers rested on the table's edge, calm, graceful, deliberate.
But her eyes were sharp as glass.
"Let's begin," she said quietly.
A low murmur swept through the room.
Luca leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching. His expression was unreadable, but the flicker of unease in his gaze betrayed his thoughts that the men wouldn't make this easy.
At the table's end, Matteo, one of Damian's older captains, snorted.
"With all due respect, signorina, we take orders from blood, not sentiment.
Damian's not here. You're not one of us."
A few others nodded, muttering their agreement.
Isabella's lips curved slightly.
Not in anger but something colder.
