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Chapter 7 - Chapter 6

Valentini Estate — One Week Later

Leonardo had recovered enough to stand without pain.

Enough to speak without rasping.

Enough to face his entire family without flinching.

He called the meeting himself.

And he made her stand beside him.

Not behind.

Not across.

Beside.

The room was filled with Valentini men—his brothers, uncles, capos.

Weapons on the table. Espresso and tension in the air.

And her.

Isabella, in black slacks and one of Leo's shirts tucked into a belt.

Hair tied back. No makeup. No apology.

She looked every man in that room in the eye.

Not as a Moretti.

But as his woman.

---

Leonardo spoke first.

> "She stays."

Someone murmured.

Another cleared his throat.

One of his cousins said, "Leo, if she stays, we go to war."

> "Then so be it," he said.

> "She's Moretti blood—"

> "She's mine. And if you can't handle that, then take off your ring and leave the family now."

Silence.

Then the Don—his father—stood.

Marco Valentini was not a man of long speeches.

But he looked at the girl standing beside his son, and he saw her.

Saw her bruises.

Saw her strength.

Saw her fire.

And said:

> "Then make it official.

Get her off the market.

Put Valentini ink on her name.

Before someone else tries to rip her away."

---

Later That Night

Outside the estate — Gravel path, moonlight

She didn't expect to see Luca.

Her cousin.

The only one who'd ever protected her when she was a child.

The one she used to call brother.

He stood outside the wall in plain clothes. No guards. No gun drawn.

She slipped away for air. Found him. Froze.

> "Lucas…?"

He looked older. Sadder.

> "You made a mistake, Bella."

> "Don't call me that."

> "He's not one of us."

> "Neither are you if you're standing here trying to drag me back like a dog."

His voice cracked.

> "Papa wants you home. Before this goes too far."

> "It's already gone too far. I'm not property. And I'm not coming back."

> "He'll kill him."

She stepped forward.

> "He can try."

---

Lucas grabbed her wrist. Hard.

She didn't flinch.

She just pulled the knife from her boot and held it to his throat.

> "Touch me again," she said softly, "and you'll bleed before he does."

Lucas backed away, eyes wide.

And in the distance, Leonardo stepped into the light—

Shirt open. Gun in hand.

> "Walk away, cousin," he said coldly. "Before I forget you ever shared her blood."

Lucas fled.

The Next Morning — Valentini Chapel, Sealed Behind Iron Gates

It wasn't a church wedding.

No white dress.

No flowers.

Just a registrar, a forged name, a bottle of blood-red wine, and a document that declared:

> "Isabella Moretti is now Isabella Valentini."

She signed it with steady hands.

Leonardo pressed his lips to her inked name.

And Don Marco raised a glass:

> "Now she's not just family.

She's untouchable."

---

She kissed him in front of them all.

No veil.

No hesitation.

And every man who watched—enemy or friend—understood:

This was not about alliance.

This was not about power.

This was about two people

who would rather burn the world

than live without each other.

Moretti Villa — 7:03 a.m. — The Morning After

The news arrived with the morning mist.

A single envelope.

Unmarked. Delivered by hand.

Inside it:

A wedding photo.

No smiles.

Just Isabella, in a black silk slip dress, signing her name beside the Valentini heir.

Below it, scrawled in Leonardo's hand:

> "You can stop looking. She's mine now."

---

The silence in the study was thick enough to choke on.

Don Moretti stood there, trembling.

Not in grief.

Not in heartbreak.

But in pure, unfiltered rage.

He crushed the photograph in one hand.

Flipped the entire glass table with the other.

The butler outside ran. The guard by the door paled.

> "You think she's safe now?!" he screamed to no one. "You think she's won?!"

His voice shook the walls.

> "I'll raze Florence. I'll tear every Valentini limb from limb. I'll burn their f***ing name from the record of history!"

---

Then a voice cut through.

Not loud.

But final.

> "ENOUGH."

It was his father.

The Moretti patriarch.

The man even politicians feared.

He stood at the top of the stairs, cane in hand, black suit like shadow.

> "You've embarrassed this family long enough."

> "Papa—"

> "You beat your daughter. You sold her. You treated her like cattle, not blood. You call that strength?"

Don Moretti stepped forward.

> "I was protecting the family—"

SLAP.

Hard. Open-handed. Across the face.

A sound like thunder.

Everyone froze.

The Don staggered. His cheek bloomed red.

It was the first time he had ever been struck.

And it shattered him.

> "You've brought shame on us all," the old man said. "And you lost her. Not to death. Not to war. You lost her because she finally saw what you are."

---

Then came his wife.

Usually silent. Always poised.

Hair in a bun. Eyes unreadable.

But now she walked down the steps with tears burning through decades of silence.

She stopped in front of her husband. Looked him dead in the eye.

> "Are you even human anymore?"

He flinched.

> "She begged you to listen. She loved you once. And you—

you broke her."

> "I did what I had to do—"

> "No. You did what fed your ego. You turned our daughter into property. And now she's gone."

Her voice shook.

> "And I don't think she'll ever call you Father again."

---

He dropped into the nearest chair.

Not furious now.

Not shouting.

Just quiet.

Crushed.

Because even in all his fury—

he'd never imagined the day would come

when his whole bloodline would look at him

like he was already dead.

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