Isabella's POV:

The tension in the room was suffocating, a thick fog of unease settling over the conference hall in my father's estate. He sat at the head of the long oak table, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the men gathered around him. My father, Giovanni Russo, commanded respect with every glance, every measured word, and the men before him listened intently, hanging on his every syllable.

But I couldn't listen—not to this.

The past few months had been a rollercoaster of emotions: heartbreak, anger, self-discovery. I had tried to leave Antonio behind, tried to rebuild myself in the world I had left a year ago. But no matter how far I ran, the memories of him lingered. And now, my father's obsession with reclaiming his dominance was threatening to drag me back into a war I wanted no part of.

"This is not a negotiation," my father said firmly, his voice slicing through the murmurs of agreement from the men. "Antonio Bianchi has overstepped his bounds. His expansion is a direct threat to our operations. If we do not act now, he will undermine us at every turn."

I sat silently at the far end of the table, my hands folded in my lap as I tried to keep my emotions in check. But inside, I was boiling. This wasn't about business or survival—it was about pride, about power. My father and Antonio had been circling each other like predators, and now, he was finally ready to strike.

"Papa," I said, cutting through the din of voices. "This doesn't have to happen. We don't have to escalate this."

All eyes turned to me, surprise flickering across the faces of the men. My father's gaze hardened, but he didn't speak immediately. Instead, he gestured for the room to quiet, his expression unreadable.

"And what would you suggest, Isabella?" he asked after a moment, his tone measured but laced with warning. "That we do nothing? That we sit idly by while Antonio strengthens his hold on this region?"

I met his gaze, refusing to back down. "I'm saying that war isn't the answer. Antonio has his business, and we have ours. There's no reason we can't coexist."

A murmur of dissent rippled through the room, and I could feel the weight of their judgment pressing down on me. To them, I was just Giovanni's daughter—a woman who had no place questioning the decisions of men who lived and breathed this world.

My father leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he studied me. "You're naive if you think Antonio Bianchi has any intention of coexisting. He's expanding aggressively, encroaching on territories that have been under our control for decades. He's testing us, Isabella, and if we don't respond, we'll lose everything."

I shook my head, anger rising in my chest. "This isn't about territories or expansion. It's about you and Antonio. This feud has always been personal, and you're willing to risk everything—lives, alliances—just to settle a score."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. My father's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he stood to his full height.

"You think this is personal?" he said, his voice low and dangerous. "This is about survival. Antonio has made it clear that he sees us as a threat, and in this world, threats must be eliminated."

I stood as well, my fists clenched at my sides. "And what about me, Papa? Do I get a say in this? Or am I just another piece in your game, another pawn you're willing to sacrifice?"

His eyes softened for a brief moment, but the flicker of emotion was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "You are my daughter," he said firmly. "And your loyalty belongs to this family. You don't have to understand my decisions, but you will respect them."

I turned away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. The weight of his words pressed down on me, a crushing reminder of the expectations that came with being a Russo. I had spent my entire life trying to carve out my own identity, to escape the shadow of my father's empire. And yet, here I was, being pulled back into it.

"Papa," I said quietly, my voice trembling with emotion. "Please. Don't do this. Call it off before it's too late."

He walked to the window, his back to me as he gazed out at the sprawling estate. "The plans are already in motion, Isabella," he said. "I've given the orders. There's no turning back now."

My breath hitched, panic rising in my chest. "Then stop them! You have the power to end this. You don't have to go to war."

He turned back to face me, his expression cold and unyielding. "Antonio is a threat to everything we've built. If you can't see that, then perhaps you've spent too much time in his world to remember where your loyalties lie."

His words cut deep, but I refused to let him see how much they hurt. I took a step closer, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "I haven't forgotten where I come from. But this isn't about loyalty—it's about doing what's right. And what you're doing... it's not right."

A heavy silence settled between us, the weight of our argument hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

Finally, my father sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You're too much like your mother," he said softly, almost to himself. "Always questioning, always challenging."

I flinched at the mention of her, but I held my ground. "She wouldn't want this, Papa. She wouldn't want you to risk everything for revenge."

He shook his head, his expression hardening once more. "This isn't revenge. This is strategy. And you may not agree with it, but one day, you'll understand."

I opened my mouth to argue, but the door to the conference room opened, one of my father's men stepping inside. He nodded respectfully before addressing my father. "The preparations are complete. We're ready to proceed."

My stomach dropped, a cold wave of dread washing over me. This was really happening. My father was going to war with Antonio, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I left the room without another word, my heart heavy as I walked through the halls of the estate. The once-familiar surroundings felt suffocating now, the weight of my father's decision pressing down on me like a vice.

I stepped out into the garden, the cool night air biting at my skin as I sank onto a bench. The stars above seemed distant, cold, as though they too were indifferent to the chaos unfolding in my world.

I buried my face in my hands, tears slipping down my cheeks as I whispered into the darkness. "What do I do now?"

I had tried to leave Antonio behind, to rebuild my life without him. But now, with my father's plans threatening to destroy everything, I realized that letting go wasn't as simple as I had thought.

No matter how much I wanted to move on, Antonio was still a part of me. And the thought of losing him—truly losing him—was more than I could bear.

But what could I do?

The storm was already brewing, and I was caught in the middle, powerless to stop it.