Page 74 of Shattered Engagement

When I kiss her, it is not a claiming or a conquest. It’s a beginning.

Our beginning.

Three weeks after that bloody night when I was shot, the Giancarlo estate buzzes with new energy. Not the tight, strained vigilance that followed his death, but something sharper and more focused.

Rebirth.

I move a little slower than I used to, the healing wound on my back tugging with every step, but it doesn't matter. Pain reminds me I'm alive. It reminds everyone in this room that I survived what should have killed me.

As I take my place at the head of the long table in the estate’s conference room. My men—Vittorio, Matteo, Rocco, and others—rise to their feet as I enter, a show of respect that is no longer just about tradition. It’s about loyalty. It's about the fact that they believe in me.

I lower myself carefully into the chair, waving them to sit. Vittorio remains standing at my right, a silent, immovable force.

"Status," I say, my voice low but steady.

Matteo leans forward first. "The remaining loyalists have pledged fealty. We had to make examples of a few... but the message is clear."

"And the territories?" I ask.

"Secured," Rocco says. "We've absorbed Giancarlo’s strongholds. The few who thought they could challenge us have been... corrected."

I nod, absorbing the information. It’s everything we fought for, everything we bled for. And now it’s ours. No shadows of Giancarlo. No threats clawing at our foundation.

"Good," I say, letting the approval color my tone. "We rebuild stronger. Smarter. No greed. No weakness."

Around the table, heads nod in agreement.

My gaze sweeps the room, settling on each man in turn. "We do not forget the cost. We do not forget who we are."

When the meeting finally adjourns, I rise carefully, Vittorio hovering just in case. I wave him off with a faint smirk.

"I’m fine," I mutter.

He grunts, unconvinced, but leaves me be.

As the others filter out, Isadora slips in, her presence like a balm against the lingering weight of leadership. She crosses the room with quiet confidence, her bright eyes and smile just for me.

"You’re pushing yourself," she says, stopping in front of me.

27

Isadora

Blood has a way of staining everything it touches. Not just clothes or marble floors, but souls. Lives. Legacies.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring out of the open window as the night air brushes against my skin. The breeze carries the faint scent of jasmine and something cooler beneath it—like the ghosts of all we’ve survived.

The room is dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft golden glow of a single lamp on the bedside table. My dress, simple and loose, clings to my knees. My hands rest idly in my lap, and the promise ring Stefano gave me catches the light every time I shift.

It’s been three weeks. Three weeks since the blood dried, since the gunfire stopped, since the ground beneath our feet stopped shaking. Three weeks since I almost lost him.

I should feel nothing but happiness.

And I do. Mostly.

But happiness, I’ve learned, doesn’t erase grief. It doesn’t unmake the girl who once believed she would always be her father’s little princess, untouched by the ugliness of the world. It doesn’t undo the ache that sometimes blooms in the quiet moments, when no one is watching.

I miss it.

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