Isabella's POV
Morning came with the sound of bells.
They rang from the harbor, chiming over the waves as if Naples itself celebrated with us. From my balcony, I watched sunlight spill across the city's rooftops, the bay glittering as ships unfurled their sails. Inside the villa, the halls echoed with footsteps and hurried voices, servants rushing with platters, gowns, garlands of roses. The Romano name carried weight, and today, every detail had to prove it.
My twenty-third birthday
I was supposed to smile. To accept the adoration and gifts of Naples' most powerful families. Should be easy enough. Instead, every jeweled hairpin and satin ribbon pressed me deeper to a life I didn't choose.
A maid tightened the last clasp of my emerald silk gown just as a knock came and Papa steps into the room. Don Romano moves through the world the way storms move through towns—slow to arrive, inevitable, leaving a kind of tidy ruin behind. He studies me the way one inspects his most prized possession. There is pride in his eyes but also calculation.
"Perfetta," he murmured at last, satisfaction softening the steel in his voice. "You look like your mamma."
The words should have warmed me. Instead, they twisted in my chest.
"Tonight you step into the future of this famiglia. Be proud," he tells me with the deranged calm of a man who thinks he is doing a kindness.
The future. His future. Not mine.
I forced the smile I was raised on, the obedient princess, and nod. When he leaves, I let the mask fall and close my eyes, allowing myself a breath that is not for anyone else as my hand closes around the silver locket at my neck, my secret anchor.
I remember Mamma's words urging me not to lose myself. Non arrenderti mai, Isabella. Never surrender who you are. I would need to hold on to them because who knows what would happen tonight.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My dark hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders. My lips are painted the faintest rose, my lashes darkened to frame the storm in my eyes. I look every bit the part: Don Romano's daughter, la bella Isabella. Desired, envied, untouchable.
And yet all I can think about is how much I long to run barefoot through the narrow streets below, to taste freedom on my tongue like the salt of the sea.
We walk together down the grand staircase, our steps echoing against marble, and I feel every pair of eyes turn toward us as we descend. The villa is alive with light—crystal chandeliers glowing, gilded mirrors reflecting back endless splendor.
The ballroom glittered with gold and crystal, chandeliers blazing over marble floors. Guests moved like predators cloaked in elegance, their laughter sharp-edged, their smiles masks.
These were men who traded lives like coin, women who measured worth in whispered alliances. I walk between them on the arm of my father and feel each gaze measure me.
Perfume wraps the room—amber, rose, tobacco–a heady cloud that made me feel as though I were drowning. The music swelled, violins intertwining with piano.
They look at me with open admiration and calculation, as though I am not a woman but a prize to be won, a jewel to be appraised. I wanted to shrink from their stares, but I could not. A Romano does not flinch.
At the head of the table Father lifts his glass. The crowd hushed instantly.
"Tonight," he announces, "we celebrate my daughter—bella, forte, la luce della nostra famiglia."
Applause swelled around me. I inclined my head, the perfect picture of humility. But his next words strike through me like glass.
"And also," he continues, "we celebrate new beginnings. The future of Naples depends not only on strength, but on unity. For that reason, I am honored to announce the alliance of our house with the Bianchi family of Rome."
The words slice me open.
Alliance. Unity. In our world those words can only mean our thing.
Marriage.
Of course, this explains the weeks of obsessing over napkins and tables. How blind I had been. He had been rehearsing my spectacle because today is not a birthday; it is a transaction.
My gaze scans the room automatically and finds him.
Damiano Bianchi.
He is everything the rumors promised—imposing, beautiful in a way that doesn't invite you in but commands you to look. Raven-black hair, the kind of cheekbones that cut, and eyes that pinned me in place: cold, glacial blue like crushed ice.
When he regards me, there is no warmth—only the neat, clinical assessment of a man who calculates worth and moves on.
The applause thundered, but all I heard was my own pulse hammering in my ears.
Father's hand pressed lightly to my back, guiding me. "Vieni, it is time," he said.
"Signore Bianchi," Father intoned, "allow me to present my daughter, Isabella. Isabella, this is Damiano Bianchi, heir of Rome."
The man himself stepped forward, every inch the picture of controlled elegance. He bowed slightly, just enough to honor tradition but not enough to suggest humility.
Damiano's grip closed around mine—firm, unyielding. "It is lovely to make your acquaintance, Signorina Romano," he said, his voice smooth as polished marble.
A ripple of approval stirred through the room. Guests smiled, eyes bright with satisfaction, as if the whole of Naples had been holding its breath for this very moment. The beginning of a dynasty.
But his eyes betrayed him.
They were too cold, too precise, watching me not like a man greeting his betrothed but like a general inspecting a battlefield. He could have fooled anyone else—perhaps he did fool everyone else—but not me.
The perfect gentleman's mask meant to charm the crowd only made him seem more dangerous.
I dipped my head in return, playing my role as expected, though inside my pulse drummed a warning I could not quiet.
Father beamed, satisfied, and released me only once Damiano let go.
As the night wore on, I endured the greetings and congratulations. Women kissed my cheeks, their compliments edged with envy. Men bowed, pressing my hand with lips that smelled of cigars and wine.
"Che fortuna, Isabella," one matron crooned, her rings glinting in the candlelight. "To be tied to Rome itself. The Bianchis are powerful men."
Several times I feel his eyes. Watching, assessing even as he goes through the same barrage of small talk, congratulating him on his betrothal.
When I dared to meet his eyes, something flickered there. Not admiration. Not desire. Calculation sharpening into something I can't explain.
I turned away quickly, refusing to let him see my fear.
When at last the guests drifted away, I escaped to my balcony. The balcony Mamma loved so much. She would stand here with her hair loose, telling me that Naples was a city made for dreamers. "Ma ricorda, Isabella," she once whispered, "dreams can be both a gift and a curse."
The sea stretched beyond the gardens, dark and endless, whispering of freedom I could never touch.
I think about the weeks of preparation and see them anew—the flowers, the rehearsed speeches. No wonder Father had obsessed over every small thing.
But in the stillness, I felt something shift deep in my chest. A memory surfaced: the Costas, once our closest allies, now bitter enemies. Betrayal whispered about in hushed tones. Names forbidden to be spoken. A rift carved in blood and a promise I dare not speak of.
Naples is a kingdom built on blood, and tonight they have sewn me into its next seam. I hold onto my locket and make a promise I have whispered in my head a thousand times but never believed.
I will decide what kind of life I want.
For now I am a guest at my own ceremony, smiling and fulfilling my duties as the daughter of a powerful don.
But I am my mother's daughter. The fire in her that made women like her dangerous lives in me still and I will choose.
I do not know how I will do it. I only know that I will.
And this time, I meant it.