Chapter 6 - The Eve of the Execution
Thursday arrived with a torrential downpour that washed over New York City, turning the streets into slick, black ribbons of light. It was the night before the wedding. The grand ballroom at the Plaza Hotel was already being filled with thousands of white orchids; the caterers were pre-heating the industrial kitchens; the elite of the city were ironing their tuxedos.
At the Moretti townhouse, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken finality. Isabella sat at the vanity in their bedroom, brushing her long hair in front of the large oval mirror. Aleandro stood behind her, watching her reflection. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders, his thumbs tracing her collarbone.
"You look beautiful tonight, Isabella," he said softly.
She caught his eye in the mirror, her hand freezing for a split second with the brush. "Thank you, Aleandro. You’ve been so distant this week. I feel like you're already miles away."
"Just securing our future, my love," he leaned down, pressing his lips to the side of her neck, right over the pulsing artery. He felt her flinch—a subtle, involuntary surge of adrenaline. "Tonight is the last night of the old ways. After tomorrow, everything changes. No more midnight calls, no more dock disputes. Just you and me."
A single tear welled in the corner of her eye, but she blinked it away quickly, turning around to face him. She reached up, her hands framing his face, her gaze searching his eyes with a desperate, heartbreaking intensity.
"Do you love me, Aleandro?" she whispered, her voice cracking slightly, breaking through her carefully constructed operational persona. "Really love me? Beyond the family name, beyond the politics?"
Aleandro looked deep into the eyes of the woman who had spent three years calculating his destruction. And for the first time since he pulled the wire from the oil painting, he spoke the absolute truth.
"I loved the woman I thought you were with every fiber of my being, Isabella," he said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant rumble. "I would have burned this city to the ground to keep her safe."
Isabella’s breath hitched, her eyes widening as if she had just felt the phantom edge of a blade press against her throat. She didn't understand the past tense in his words, but the gravity of his tone terrified her. Before she could speak, his phone buzzed in his pocket—the private line.
He pulled it out, looking at the screen. Marco. One word: Time.
May you like
"I have to go down to the office for one final meeting, darling," Aleandro said, his face smoothing instantly back into the unreadable mask of the Don. He let his hands fall from her shoulders. "Stay here. Don't go outside tonight. The rain is dangerous."
He turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the long hallway, leaving her alone in the dim light of the vanity mirror, clutching her silver brush like a weapon.
