Vito's POV
I could practically hear her heart hammering from here, could sense the way her breath caught in her throat as the full scope of her situation crashed down on her.
How absolutely delicious.
I leaned back in my wheelchair, savoring the moment. Twenty minutes of listening to this woman describe me as a violent, unhinged monster, and now I discover she's my intended bride. The universe, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.
Here was Isabella Cohen—the woman my grandfather had chosen to bear my children, to carry on the Romano bloodline—and she'd just spent the better part of an hour explaining to a stranger why marrying me would be a death sentence.
What a charming way to meet one's future wife.
Emily was looking between us with growing concern, her protective instincts clearly warring with her loyalty to me. I could see her calculating, trying to figure out how to defuse a situation that was rapidly spiraling toward dangerous territory.
But I wasn't interested in defusing anything. Not yet.
"The eldest Cohen daughter, correct?" I asked smoothly, letting my voice carry just enough authority.
She hesitated for a long moment, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper: "Yes."
Perfect. Isabella Cohen, in the flesh. Though she was quite different from what I'd expected based on my grandfather's descriptions. He'd spoken of a confident, polished society princess—someone who would fit seamlessly into our world of power and violence.
This trembling creature before me seemed more like a terrified lamb than a mafia wife.
Perhaps that's not entirely a bad thing.
Women in our world usually fell into two categories: those who were completely naive about the reality of our business, or those who were so hungry for power they'd step over corpses to get it. Neither type had ever particularly appealed to me.
But this one... there was something almost refreshing about her genuine terror. At least she wasn't pretending to be excited about the arrangement, wasn't putting on some performance about how honored she was to marry into the Romano family.
"Isabella," I said.
Her face went from pale to ghostly white, all the blood draining from her features until I thought she might actually faint. Her hands were trembling so violently she had to grip the edge of the table to steady herself.
Christ, she really thinks I'm going to kill her.
The thought was both amusing and oddly touching. Here was a woman who genuinely believed I was capable of murdering her in a public café over some harsh words, and yet she wasn't running. She wasn't screaming for help or making a scene. She was standing there, terrified but determined to face whatever consequences her words had earned her.
Brave little thing.
"Luigi," I called softly to my bodyguard, who'd been hovering near the entrance to the VIP section. "Come push me closer to our guest. I'd like to get better acquainted with my future bride."
The effect was immediate. Isabella's eyes went wide with terror, and she actually took a step backward, bumping into her chair hard enough to make it rock. Emily reached out as if to steady her, but she was too frozen with fear to notice.
As Luigi wheeled me closer, I could see every detail of her reaction. The way her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths. The pulse hammering visibly in her throat. The way her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, as if she couldn't decide whether to flee or fight.
When I was close enough to reach out and touch her, I stopped.
"Do you know what I find most interesting about our conversation, Isabella?" I asked conversationally, as if we were discussing the weather rather than her apparent death sentence.
She shook her head mutely, apparently not trusting her voice.
"You spoke about me with such... passion. Such detailed knowledge of my supposed crimes and character flaws. Tell me, where exactly did you acquire all this fascinating information?"
"I... I heard stories. At the hospital. People talk."
"People talk," I repeated slowly. "And what exactly do people say about me at the hospital?"
Her mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to whisper, "That you're dangerous."
"Dangerous." I savored the word. "And what else?"
"That the accident... changed you. Made you..." She swallowed hard. "Made you violent. Unpredictable."
"Violent and unpredictable," I mused. "How fascinating. And here I thought I was being remarkably well-behaved since my... setback."
I leaned forward slightly in my wheelchair, bringing us close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her body. She smelled of something light and floral—jasmine, perhaps, with an undertone of vanilla. Not the heavy, expensive perfumes that most women in our social circle doused themselves in.
"And do you believe these stories, little one?"
"I... I don't know what to believe," she whispered.
Honest answer. I appreciated that more than I probably should have.
"Well then," I said quietly, "perhaps it's time you formed your own opinion."
Slowly, deliberately, I raised my hand. She went rigid, every muscle in her body tensing as if preparing for a blow. Her breathing became even more ragged, and I could see tears starting to form in her eyes.
She genuinely thinks I'm about to hurt her.
My fingers found her hair first, threading through the silky strands. She made a small, choked sound but didn't pull away—whether from bravery or sheer terror, I couldn't tell.
I traced my hand down the side of her face, feeling the delicate bone structure beneath skin that was soft as silk. Her neck was elegant, graceful, the kind of neck that would look beautiful wrapped in diamonds.
Or wrapped in my hands, a treacherous part of my mind suggested.
She was thinking the same thing—I could see it in her eyes. She was waiting for me to wrap my fingers around her throat, to squeeze until that fluttering pulse stopped forever.
Instead, I continued my exploration, my thumb brushing across her cheek, her jaw, finally coming to rest at the corner of her mouth.
There was a small smudge there—chocolate from her hot drink, barely visible but sweet-smelling. I rubbed it away with gentle pressure, feeling her lips part slightly under my touch.
"You look nervous," I murmured, my voice deliberately soft and intimate. "There's no need to be afraid... my future wife."