The Rules of the Cage

For the next three days, Isla was confined to the master suite of the Lake Forest estate.

Every luxury was provided: silk robes, hot marble baths scented with jasmine oil, and silver trays of Tuscan delicacies delivered by Nonna Maria, Lorenzo's sixty-five-year-old aunt who ruled the estate’s kitchen with a wooden spoon and sharp black eyes.

"Eat, child," Nonna Maria had commanded, placing a bowl of handmade pasta and braised veal before Isla on the first morning. "You look like a starved alley cat. Lorenzo doesn't like his women looking fragile."

"I am not his woman," Isla had hissed back, refusing to touch the fork.

Nonna Maria had merely chuckled, shaking her head. "That's what they all say, cara. Until the fire takes them."

On the fourth evening, the double doors clicked open. Lorenzo entered, wearing a fresh tailored black suit, his tie loosened at the throat. He held a leather document folio under his arm.

Behind him stood Marco, his lethal lieutenant and consigliere—a cold-eyed man with a scar running from his ear to his collarbone.

"Leave us, Marco," Lorenzo instructed without looking back.

Marco nodded curtly, pulling the double doors shut behind him, leaving Lorenzo and Isla in the heavy silence.

Isla stood by the terrace glass, wearing a long emerald silk robe that hugged the curves of her hips and fell to her bare feet. She turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Have you come to give me my execution date, Falcone?" she asked coldly.

Lorenzo walked to the center of the room, setting the folio on the marble table. "I have come to give you your marriage contract."

Isla scoffed, letting out a bitter laugh. "A marriage contract? You're insane. Why would the supreme Capo of Chicago marry the daughter of his enemy?"

"Because your family still controls twenty percent of the West Side docks," Lorenzo replied, stepping toward her with slow, predatory confidence. "The Commission will not allow me to seize the territory through bloodshed without sparking a citywide war with New York. But an alliance through blood and marriage? The Commission has already given its blessing."

He stopped an arm's length away. His gray eyes tracked the delicate curve of her throat, the flushed heat rising on her cheeks, and the fierce, defiant pride burning in her gaze.

"Three rules, Isla," Lorenzo said, his baritone low and uncompromising. "First: you do not step foot outside this estate without an armed escort commanded by me. Second: you do not attempt to contact your father or any syndicate associates. Third: on Saturday evening, you will wear white, stand at the altar of Holy Name Cathedral, and take my name."

Isla stepped forward until her chest was inches from his. "And if I refuse?"

Lorenzo reached out, catching a strand of her dark hair between his calloused fingers, twisting it gently until her head tilted back, exposing her throat to his gaze.

"If you refuse, Isla," Lorenzo murmured, his thumb brushing across her trembling lips with dangerous tenderness, "I will hunt down every Moretti soldier in this city and feed them to the fishes. Your father’s empire will burn to the ground. Your compliance saves lives. Your rebellion ends them."

Isla stared into the merciless gray of his eyes. She felt the terrifying truth of his words vibrating through his touch. He was not making an idle threat; he was stating an inevitable fact.

"I will marry you, Lorenzo," Isla whispered, her voice dripping with venom. "I will take your vows. But I will never give you my heart. And the moment you turn your back, I will make you bleed."

Lorenzo smiled—a devastating, dangerous smile that took her breath away.

"I don't want your heart, Isla," he whispered back, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I want your fire."