Six Months Contract With The Mafia God

It wasn’t a request.

Isabella nodded and followed Margot through the main foyer....all soaring ceilings and marble floors that echoed with every footstep. They climbed the curved staircase to the second floor and walked down the hallway to her mother’s wing.

Her mother’s sitting room was beautiful. Afternoon light poured through the windows, illuminating dust motes that hung in the air like tiny diamonds. The furniture was all antique and expensive. There were fresh flowers on every surface....white roses and gardenias that made the entire room smell like a funeral.

Her mother sat at her dressing table, her back to the door.

Isabella closed the door behind her. ”Mother, I’m back.”

Her mother didn’t turn around. Just continued brushing her hair with long, methodical strokes. She was sixty-two but looked younger....the kind of aging that came from money and good skincare and the kind of control that only came from marrying power.

”Four months,” her mother said quietly. Her voice was like ice. ”You have been back in Rome for four months and instead of coming home to this house, to your family, you chose to hide in that apartment like some kind of... kept woman.”

Isabella’s face flushed. She wanted to argue, wanted to explain that she needed space, that she couldn’t face the disappointment in everyone’s eyes. But she’d learned a long time ago that arguments didn’t work with her mother.

Her mother set down the brush and stood up slowly. She was wearing a white silk robe, her dark hair....the same dark hair Isabella had inherited....falling down her back.

She moved toward Isabella with the kind of grace that came from never questioning her own power in a room.

When she reached her daughter, she reached out and touched Isabella’s face. Her fingers traced Isabella’s jawline, almost gentle.

”When you face your father,” she said softly, ”do not show any weakness. You agree to whatever he asks you to do, and you say yes. Do you understand me?”

”Mother, I....”

”Do you understand me, Isabella?”

”Yes,” Isabella whispered.

Her mother’s hand tightened slightly on her jaw. ”You have disappointed this family enough. First, you lost your fiancé to an American whore and nearly got yourself killed in the process. And now this... this whatever this is that you’ve been doing...”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to. The implication hung in the air between them....that Isabella had been doing something shameful, something unforgivable, something that had dragged the family name through mud.

A knock came at the door.

Her mother’s personal maid opened it and stepped aside. Standing in the doorway was her father’s second-in-command....a man named Ricco who’d worked for her father for longer than Isabella had been alive.

He bowed slightly to Isabella’s mother. Then he turned to Isabella.

”The don wants to see Isabella,” he said. His voice was respectful but carried an undertone that made Isabella’s stomach tighten. This wasn’t a request either.

Isabella’s mother looked at her and nodded, a small gesture that said: go. Do what he asks. Don’t disappoint him the way you’ve disappointed us.

Isabella turned and walked out of her mother’s room, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.

The walk from her mother’s room to her father’s office felt like it took forever and no time at all. Ricco led her down hallways she’d walked a thousand times, past portraits of family members long dead, past windows that looked out onto gardens she’d played in as a child.

Everything in this house was familiar. And everything felt like a trap.

She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. Could feel the sweat starting to form on her palms. Her anxiety medication was wearing off, and the reality of what was about to happen was starting to sink in.

Her father knew. About Dante. About everything.

The question was: what was he going to do about it?

Ricco stopped at a heavy wooden door. He didn’t knock. Just opened it and gestured for her to enter.

The office was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the grounds, and the late afternoon light was turning everything golden. The desk was positioned to catch the light perfectly....a power move. Whoever sat behind that desk had complete control of the room.

Her father sat behind it like he’d been born there.

Lorenzo Russo at sixty-five was still a formidable man. His dark hair had silver threads running through it now, and his face was lined with years of making decisions that cost lives. He wore an expensive suit....charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, the kind of fabric that cost more than most people’s monthly salary.

When he looked up at Isabella’s entrance, his expression was completely neutral. Cold. The expression of a man examining something he’d once valued and now found disappointing.

He didn’t stand. Didn’t offer her a chair. Just gestured for Ricco to close the door.

The lock clicked into place.

Isabella’s mouth went dry.

Isabella didn’t sit down. Didn’t take the chair positioned in front of his desk like she was some kind of penitent in confession. She remained standing, her hands clasped in front of her, her black sunglasses still covering her eyes.

For a long moment, Lorenzo just looked at her. Really looked at her. His dark eyes....eyes that were so similar to her own....traced over her face, her clothes, her posture.

Then he stood up.

He was a tall man, broad-shouldered in a way that came from genetics and power. He moved around the desk slowly, deliberately, the kind of movement designed to intimidate.

”Take off the sunglasses,” he said.

Isabella reached up and removed them. Without the barrier, her face was completely exposed. And her eyes were red...from crying, from lack of sleep, from three days of staring at her phone waiting for a man to call.

Her father saw all of it.

”You look like a whore,” he said conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather and not insulting his own daughter. ”That outfit. That attitude. That look in your eyes like you’ve been fucked by a man and are still waiting for him to come back and do it again.”