Crimson 2

The dining room was breathtaking, as it always was during these gatherings. The chandelier hanging above the long, polished table sparkled like stars, casting its golden glow across plates of meticulously arranged food. Crystal glasses caught the light, reflecting it back like diamonds. It was a picture of elegance and wealth, but for me, it might as well have been a stage.

I sat beside my father, just as I was supposed to, my back straight and my hands folded neatly in my lap. My dress was perfect, my makeup flawless, and my smile faint but polite—everything expected of the daughter of Giovanni Moretti. I was the picture of control, but inside, I felt completely out of place.

Around the table sat some of the most powerful men in the Italian mafia, all engrossed in conversations about territory disputes, smuggling routes, and alliances. They spoke in low, serious tones, their words dripping with power and tension. Occasionally, they would glance my way, offering a polite nod or a half-smile.

I hated it.

I hated the way they looked at me like I was some sort of ornament, a symbol of my father’s power. I hated the way they spoke as if the world was theirs to manipulate, as if lives were just chess pieces on their board. And most of all, I hated the way I was expected to sit there and say nothing, like a good little daughter who didn’t have a mind of her own.

“Isabella,” my father said suddenly, pulling me out of my thoughts. His voice was steady, authoritative, but there was a warmth to it when he spoke to me. “You haven’t touched your food.”

I forced a smile and picked up my fork. “I’m not very hungry, Papà.”

He frowned, but he didn’t press me. Instead, he turned back to the man seated across from him—a high-ranking associate named Emilio. The conversation shifted to alliances, and I tried to tune it out, focusing instead on the flickering candle at the center of the table.

But then, my father’s tone changed.

“We must secure our position,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “The threats we face are growing, and we need to act decisively. Alliances are more important now than ever.”

I stiffened, my stomach twisting with unease. I knew that tone. It was the one he used when he was working toward something big, something he thought would change everything.

“As such,” he continued, his gaze sweeping the table, “I’ve been in talks with a few… potential allies.”

My hands tightened around my fork.

“The Volkov family has expressed interest in working with us,” he said, his words calm but heavy. “Their resources could be invaluable, and I believe this could be the start of something mutually beneficial.”

The Volkov family. The Russian Bratva. Even I knew their reputation—ruthless, powerful, and unyielding. They were everything we were supposed to hate. The idea of aligning with them felt like a betrayal of everything I’d grown up hearing.

But it was what he said next that sent my heart plummeting.

“And of course,” my father added, his eyes briefly meeting mine, “a marriage alliance is on the table.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. My fork clattered against the plate, drawing the attention of everyone at the table. I quickly composed myself, lowering my eyes as my father’s gaze lingered on me.

“Isabella,” he said softly, his tone almost reproachful.

“I’m fine,” I murmured, forcing myself to sit still even as my thoughts raced.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur. I barely registered the conversations around me, my mind consumed by his words. A marriage alliance. Was he really considering it? Would he really trade me away like some piece of property, just to secure an alliance?

By the time the meal ended, I was boiling with frustration. My father kissed my cheek as we left the dining room, his expression unreadable.

“Good night, Isabella,” he said.

I didn’t reply.

---

I found him in his study later that evening, seated behind his massive oak desk. Papers and ledgers were scattered in front of him, and a glass of whiskey sat untouched at the edge. He looked up as I entered, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Isabella,” he said, setting down his pen. “What are you doing up?”

“I need to talk to you,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

He leaned back in his chair, his expression calm but guarded. “Go on.”

I hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words, but my emotions got the better of me.

“Are you really planning to marry me off to the Volkov family?” I demanded.

His eyes darkened slightly. “Isabella—”

“Don’t ‘Isabella’ me,” I interrupted, stepping closer to the desk. “You can’t just decide something like this without talking to me. I’m not a child, Papà.”

“You’re my daughter,” he said firmly. “And as my daughter, you have a responsibility to this family.”

“A responsibility?” I repeated, my voice rising. “To what? To be some pawn in your political games? To give up my life so you can make an alliance?”

“This is not a game,” he snapped, his tone sharper now. “This is about survival. Do you think I enjoy the idea of marrying you off to a family like the Volkovs? Do you think I would do this if there was any other way?”

“Then don’t do it,” I said, my voice breaking. “Let me choose my own path. Please, Papà.”

For a moment, his expression softened, and I thought maybe—just maybe—he would listen to me. But then he shook his head.

“You don’t understand,” he said quietly. “This is bigger than you, Isabella. Bigger than me. The Volkovs are dangerous, yes, but they are also powerful. If we don’t secure this alliance, it could mean the end of our family.”

I stared at him, my chest heaving with frustration. “What about what I want?”

He didn’t answer.

“I’m not a piece of property,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’m your daughter. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“It means everything to me,” he said, his voice heavy. “Which is why I’m doing this. You may not see it now, but one day, you’ll understand.”

I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. “I’ll never understand this.”

Without another word, I turned and stormed out of the study, my heart pounding in my chest.

---

Back in my room, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. My eyes were red, my cheeks flushed, but I still looked every bit the perfect daughter. The pearls around my neck, the silk dress clinging to my frame—it was all a facade.

Who was I, really?

For the first time, I let myself imagine a life beyond these walls, beyond the rules and expectations. I imagined running my own business, traveling to places no one in my family had ever been, meeting people who saw me for who I was—not what I represented.

But those dreams felt so far away, so unattainable.

I clenched my fists, determination rising in my chest. If my father wouldn’t give me the freedom I wanted, I would find a way to take it. No matter what it cost.

As I looked out the window at the dark horizon, I made a silent vow to myself. I would find a way to live my life on my own terms.

Even if it meant defying Giovanni Moretti.