THE WAY WE WERE BEFORE

ISABELLA'S POV

The ballroom is bathed in golden light, the crystal chandeliers casting shimmering reflections across the polished marble floor. Mafia families mingle in forced civility, their polite smiles as hollow as the greetings exchanged. Their guards linger in the shadows, ever watchful-a constant reminder of the danger that hung in the air like perfume.

I walk into the gala beside my family, the fabric of my black gown brushing against the floor with every step. The dress clings perfectly to my figure, and I can feel the weight of dozens of eyes turning toward me. I've grown used to it-being watched, assessed, judged. My father always told me that was the price of our name. Still, I keep my chin high and my expression calm, concealing the wariness bubbling beneath the surface.

Scanning the room, I exchange polite nods with a few familiar faces. The crowd is a mix of allies, rivals, and those I wouldn't trust to hold an empty glass, let alone a conversation. A subtle power struggle is always at play in these gatherings, masked by glittering gowns and expensive suits.

At the bar, I notice two men. The first one leans casually, a teasing smile on his lips as he speaks to the other. The second, taller and more imposing, has a drink in hand and a detached, almost bored expression. His sharp suit accentuates his broad shoulders, and even from across the room, I can sense the authority he exudes. His dark blue eyes sweep the ballroom, cold and calculating, as though cataloging everyone in attendance.

Vincenzo Romano.

I've heard of him, of course. Everyone has. The youngest Don in Italy's history, known for his ruthless efficiency and unyielding demeanor. His reputation precedes him, casting a shadow so vast it's almost tangible. Beside him, his younger brother Matteo leans against the bar, animatedly gesturing as he speaks. Whatever he's saying, it's ignored; Vincenzo doesn't even glance his way.

My gaze shifts back to my father, who is engaged in conversation with Nicolo Romano. I recognize him immediately. Even with his back partially turned, his stiff posture and commanding aura are unmistakable. My father catches my eye and gestures for us to join him, while Nicolo does the same to his sons.

I move through the crowd like it's second nature, offering polite smiles and graceful nods as I pass. A woman from the Marcello family pauses to make a comment, her lips curling into a thin smile. "That gown is quite bold, don't you think?"

I return her smile sweetly, tilting my head just so. "I'd rather not fade into the wallpaper." My words are sugar-coated, but the edge underneath isn't lost on her. Her expression hardens, and she steps aside with a slight sniff.

When I reach my father's side, he's already shaking hands with Vincenzo. "Ah, Vincenzo, I'd like for you to meet my daughter."

My father's words send a ripple of unease through me, but I step forward with a poised smile, extending my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Vincenzo," I say, my tone warm and cordial.

He barely spares me a glance before shaking my hand briefly and releasing it, his grip impersonal. "I'm sure it is." he replies, turning back to his drink without another word.

The slight is like a slap, but I refuse to let it show. "The gala is breathtaking, don't you think?" I ask, studying him closely, trying to understand the man behind the icy demeanor.

He shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. "It serves its purpose."

I force a tight smile, murmuring under my breath. "Quite the conversationalist."

Before I can step back, Vincenzo's brother Matteo approaches, his demeanor an immediate contrast to Vincenzo's. He offers a warm smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "So, how was your first impression of my brother?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I can't help but laugh softly, despite my annoyance. "If I had to guess, I'd say he's allergic to conversation."

Matteo chuckles, the sound light and carefree. "Yeah, well, he's not much for small talk. But that's what makes him Vincenzo Romano, I suppose. Always serious, always calculating." He shakes his head in mock disappointment. "Too bad he's not as charming as me."

I arch a brow, the corner of my mouth lifting slightly. "That's one way to put it."

Matteo shrugs nonchalantly. "I like to think I'm a bit more approachable. But that's probably why I'm the one who gets to enjoy these events while Vincenzo broods in the corner." He leans in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "No need to worry about him. He's all business, always has been."

Before I can respond, Matteo spots someone across the room and gives me a playful salute. "Duty calls. But don't worry, I'll be around if you need more entertaining company."

As he walks away, I find myself chuckling softly. Matteo is undeniably charming, but my mind drifts back to Vincenzo. He hasn't moved, hasn't looked my way again. His cold dismissal lingers in my mind like an echo.

I glance at him one more time, his stoic presence commanding attention even as he ignores me entirely. Deciding then and there, I grit my teeth. Vincenzo Romano is not someone I'll ever get along with.

The rest of the evening unfolds in the same calculated chaos these galas always bring. Waiters weave through the crowd with trays of champagne, the soft hum of a string quartet providing an elegant backdrop to the low murmur of voices.

I mingle when necessary, exchanging pleasantries with allies and rivals alike. Every conversation feels like a chess game, each word carefully chosen to avoid offending the wrong person.

At one point, I find myself speaking with a wealthy arms dealer's wife, who spends ten minutes extolling the virtues of her new villa in Lake Como. I nod politely, pretending to care, while my mind drifts back to Vincenzo.

He remains at the bar, a stoic figure in the periphery of my vision. I can feel his presence even when I'm not looking, a constant reminder of his earlier dismissal.

Later in the evening, Matteo crosses my path again, offering a wink and a quick quip about the absurdity of the Marcello family's outfits. His humor is a welcome reprieve, and for a brief moment, I find myself genuinely smiling.

The night feels endless, a blur of conversations and strategic glances. By the time my family is preparing to leave, I'm exhausted, both physically and emotionally. As I walk toward the exit, I steal one last glance at Vincenzo. He's still at the bar, his drink untouched now, his gaze distant.

He doesn't look at me.

And I don't care. Or at least, that's what I tell myself.