Crimson 1

The warm rays of the Italian sun caressed my skin as I walked through the gardens, the vibrant blooms swaying gently in the breeze. To anyone else, this might have been paradise—a private villa on the outskirts of Milan, sprawling gardens that seemed to stretch forever, and the undeniable luxury of a life untouched by struggle. But to me, it was a cage. A beautiful, gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless.

I stopped near the edge of the fountain, the sound of trickling water mingling with the distant chirping of birds. It was peaceful here, but peace was something I had never truly felt. There was always the weight of expectations pressing down on me, a suffocating reminder that no matter how far I wandered in this vast estate, I could never escape the invisible chains that bound me to my family’s name.

I reached down to touch a rose, its petals soft against my fingertips. Even flowers like these seemed freer than I was. They could bloom without anyone watching their every move, without someone telling them where they belonged or who they were meant to be. But me? I was the daughter of Giovanni Moretti, head of the Moretti clan, one of the most powerful families in the Italian mafia.

People whispered about my father with reverence and fear. To the world outside these gates, he was a legend, a man who commanded loyalty and instilled terror in equal measure. To me, he was simply Papà. A man who loved me in his own way but who saw me as something to protect, to hide, to control.

I sighed and turned away from the fountain, the heaviness in my chest growing with every step I took. The villa was bustling with activity today, as it always was. Staff moved about, cleaning, preparing meals, and tending to every corner of the estate. Armed guards stood at their posts, their expressions cold and vigilant. Their presence was meant to make me feel safe, but it only served as a reminder of the dangers lurking outside these walls—and the dangers within.

"Signorina Isabella," one of the maids called out as I passed through the garden gates. She carried a tray of freshly baked pastries, her smile kind but cautious. Everyone in this house was cautious around me, as if they feared stepping out of line would earn them my father’s wrath.

I offered her a polite nod before continuing inside, the cool air of the villa brushing against my skin as I entered. The interior was just as grand as the gardens—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and ornate furniture that seemed too delicate to sit on. It was a house meant to impress, to intimidate. And it did, even to me.

“Isabella!” My younger brother, Luca, called from the sitting room. I peeked inside to find him sprawled on the couch, a controller in his hands as he focused intently on a video game. At sixteen, he was still young enough to enjoy the small freedoms our father allowed him. I envied him for it.

“Shouldn’t you be studying?” I teased, leaning against the doorframe.

He smirked without looking up. “Shouldn’t you be out in the garden pretending to enjoy your life?”

I rolled my eyes, but his words struck a chord. Luca had always been perceptive, even if he hid it behind his boyish charm. He knew how much I hated being cooped up here, how much I longed for something more.

“I’ll leave you to your games,” I said, turning to leave.

“Don’t forget,” he called after me, “dinner’s mandatory tonight. Papà’s orders.”

I paused, my stomach tightening. Mandatory dinners usually meant something important—or unpleasant. Either way, I wasn’t looking forward to it.

---

Later that evening, I stood in front of my mirror, adjusting the delicate chain of pearls around my neck. My reflection stared back at me, poised and polished, the perfect image of an obedient mafia princess. But beneath the flawless makeup and elegant dress, I was restless. Angry.

Why did I have to play this role? Why couldn’t I just be me—Isabella, not Moretti? I glanced at the window, the horizon beyond the villa barely visible in the fading light. Somewhere out there was the life I wanted, a life where I wasn’t defined by my family’s name or the rules they imposed on me.

The sound of heels clicking on marble pulled me from my thoughts. It was time.

When I entered the dining room, my father was already seated at the head of the table, his presence commanding as always. Giovanni Moretti was a man who could silence a room with a single glance, and tonight was no different. His sharp features were softened slightly by the smile he gave me, but his eyes were as calculating as ever.

“Isabella,” he greeted, gesturing for me to sit beside him. “You look beautiful.”

“Grazie, Papà,” I replied, taking my seat.

The rest of the family filtered in—my mother, elegant and quiet as always; Luca, still in his usual rebellious mood; and a handful of my father’s trusted advisors. The air was thick with formality, the kind that made my skin crawl.

Dinner began, the conversation dominated by discussions of territory disputes and business deals. I tuned most of it out, focusing instead on the plate in front of me. But then my father’s tone shifted, drawing my attention back to him.

“We must secure our position, now more than ever,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the table. “The threats we face are growing, and alliances are more important than ever.”

I stiffened, sensing where this was going.

“As such,” he continued, “I’ve been in talks with the Volkov family.”

The name sent a chill down my spine. The Volkovs were the Russian Bratva, known for their ruthlessness and power. They were our rivals—no, our enemies.

“What kind of talks?” I asked, my voice steady despite the unease swirling inside me.

Giovanni’s gaze landed on me, his expression unreadable. “A marriage alliance.”

The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing.

“You can’t be serious,” I said, my voice rising slightly.

“I am,” he replied firmly. “This is what’s best for our family. For you.”

“For me?” I repeated, my disbelief turning to anger. “Or for you?”

Giovanni’s expression hardened. “Watch your tone, Isabella. You may not see it now, but this is necessary. The Volkovs are powerful allies, and this marriage will secure our future.”

I pushed my chair back, the scrape of wood against marble echoing through the room. “I won’t be a pawn in your games, Papà. I won’t do it.”

Before he could respond, I turned and left the room, my heart pounding.

---

Later, I stood on the balcony outside my room, the cool night air brushing against my skin. My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions—anger, frustration, and an ache I couldn’t quite name.

Was this all my life would ever be? A series of decisions made for me, without my input, without my consent? I looked out at the horizon, the city lights twinkling in the distance. Somewhere out there was the freedom I craved, the life I wanted.

But as long as I was Isabella Moretti, I knew it would always be just out of reach.