Bella

Lying next to Marco in the serene quiet of our bedroom, the sudden ringing of my phone shattered the peace. I answered it, my voice tinged with confusion. "Bellini," I said, not recognizing the number.

"Good Evening, Ms. Romano or as I hear it will be Mrs. Santos really soon," the caller's voice was smooth, almost rehearsed. I stiffened, the use of my future married name catching me off guard.

"Is there a reason you are calling?" I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.

"Your father has been taking out a lot of territory in Italy that I have built relationships with. It's causing a decline in business. The families have talked—we prefer you back at the helm of the Romano name," he stated bluntly. The directness of his demand sent a chill down my spine.

"My father has exiled me from Italy. I am marrying into the Mexican cartel, I am carrying his child. I am in no shape to overthrow him," I responded, my voice betraying a hint of the vulnerability I felt. Pregnancy had softened some of my sharp edges, making me question my capacity to lead under current circumstances.

"We understand your position and... we don't care. Never in my 20 years had I ever made such a profit until you carried the crown. Talk to your man; having him on your side will only make it better. I will call you tomorrow with your decision," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument before abruptly hanging up.

I sat up in bed, the phone still in my hand, feeling the weight of his words. Marco stirred beside me, sensing the change in my demeanor.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice groggy with sleep but laced with concern.

"It was a call from one of the Italian families. They want me back in charge instead of my father. They're not happy with how he's managing things," I explained, the reality of the situation settling in. The call wasn't just a request; it was a summons.

Marco sat up, his brow furrowed as he processed the information. "What are you going to do?" His question was simple, but it echoed loudly in the quiet room.

"I don't know," I admitted, feeling torn. "This isn't just about me anymore. We have a baby on the way, and whatever decision I make affects you and our child."

Marco took my hand, his grasp firm and reassuring. "We'll figure this out together. Whatever you decide, I'm with you. If you think returning to Italy is the right move, then I'll support you. If not, we'll find another way to handle this."

His support was a balm to my frayed nerves. "Thank you," I whispered, leaning into him. His presence, his unconditional backing, gave me the strength I needed to face whatever came our way. Together, we would navigate this complicated path, united in our commitment to each other and to our future family.

Marco

As Bella outlined her plans for retaking control in Italy, a sinking feeling settled over me. Her strategy was bold, decisive, and completely excluded me. "Where do I come in on this plan?" I found myself asking, a hint of concern threading my voice.

"You don't," she replied matter-of-factly. "If I get caught up, I need you ready to send an army to retrieve me."

"If you're still alive, you mean," I added, unable to mask the worry that crept into my tone. The stakes were too high, and now, they were not just about her but about our future family.

"You know my aim is better than anyone you know," she tried to lighten the mood with a joke.

"Not with my child," I countered, the thought of her in danger and carrying our child tightening a knot in my stomach. The idea was unbearable.

She approached me then, her presence a calming force. She took my hand and drew close. "I'm going to be okay. I need you to say it aloud and believe in my skills," she urged, her eyes searching mine for trust.

"I believe we are stronger together," I confessed, my voice laden with the weight of my fears and hopes. Her kiss then was a temporary balm, soothing and distracting, her familiar way of easing my concerns.

She had a way of comforting me, making the edge of danger she walked seem less perilous. That night, as I took her to bed, I held her close, hoping somehow to sway her mind, to keep her safe with me instead of facing the dangers that awaited in Italy.

When I awoke the next morning, the other side of the bed was cold, a note left in her place:

Marco,

You are my rock, my king, and my love. I promise to come back to you safe. I never break promises and I don't plan on starting today. I love you.

-Bella

The note was a stark reminder of her resolve. Though her words were meant to comfort, they echoed in the empty room, amplifying my solitude and the reality of the risk she faced. Holding the note, I resolved to believe in her—not just her skills, but her promise to return to me, to us. That belief would have to anchor me through the waiting.

Bella

Touching down in Italy felt surreal, a blend of apprehension and resolve churning inside me as the plane's wheels hit the tarmac. The drive to Bellini's home was quiet, reflective, punctuated only by the unexpected kick from my unborn child. It felt like a sign, a little nudge of encouragement, and I whispered to myself with a determined smile, "I will."

Arriving at Bellini's grand estate, the atmosphere was charged with a palpable tension. I was greeted by representatives from ten of the thirteen influential families, each stepping forward to affirm their support for my leadership. Their solemn nods and firm handshakes bolstered my confidence, but the true test of loyalty was still ahead. Two families withheld their pledge, making it clear that their allegiance hinged on my success in removing my father from power.

The room was heavy with anticipation and strategy when the unexpected happened—my uncle walked in. His presence was a shock, his face a mix of regret and resolve. "Bella," he greeted, his voice thick with emotion.

I rushed to him, the familial bond momentarily overriding the coup's gravity. His hug was tight, a silent apology for his initial inaction. "I'm sorry. I didn't know he planned what he planned," he murmured into my shoulder.

"It's okay," I replied, pulling back to look at him. The past couldn't be changed, but his support now was invaluable. We joined the others, and together, we meticulously reviewed the plan. Tomorrow night would be decisive; instead of the usual familial gathering, my father would be confronted by his daughter.

As the details were confirmed, a weight settled over me. Planning a strategic takeover was one thing, but planning an action against my own father stirred a tumult of emotions within me. My hands trembled slightly as I considered the implications, both personal and political.

The room's air thickened with each passing moment as the gravity of the situation sank in. My uncle's supportive hand on my shoulder was a reminder of the stakes at play—not just for my future but for the future of our family and our legacy.

As I excused myself to step outside for a moment of solitude, the cool Italian breeze felt like a small comfort against the turmoil inside. I stood, looking out over the lush gardens, allowing myself a moment to gather strength. Tomorrow, I would face one of the hardest decisions of my life. For now, I drew a deep breath, steadying myself for the confrontation that awaited. My resolve hardened; this was necessary, not just for my child or myself, but for Italy. The time for change had come, and I was at its helm.

Showdown

The warehouse was cavernous and dimly lit, the only light coming from a few sparse bulbs hanging from the high ceiling. The air was thick with the smell of oil and metal, and tarps covered mysterious shapes in the corners of the space. I walked through the vast, shadowy room, my footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent expanse.

As the last of the associates filed out, the heavy metal doors clanged shut with a resounding finality. It was just him and me now—my father, standing across the room, a false confidence etched onto his face as he tried to mask his surprise at the turn of events.

"Isabella," he began, his voice carrying across the cold space. He tried to sound casual, unaffected. "To what do I owe this dramatic flair? You always did have a flair for the theatrical, just like your mother."

I remained silent, my eyes locked on his, as I stepped closer. The distance closed between us, each step deliberate and unyielding. He chuckled, a hollow sound that failed to hide the underlying tension.

"Come now, Bella. Are you going to sulk like a little girl, or are we going to talk like adults?" he taunted, his words laced with a venomous disdain designed to belittle.

I stopped a few feet away from him, my expression impassive, betraying none of the storm raging inside me. Slowly, methodically, I removed my gun from its holster, the metallic click of the chamber breaking the silence as I loaded it. His eyes flickered to the weapon, a flash of genuine fear passing over his features before he could recompose his facade.

"Bella, you don't want to do this," he said, his voice taking on a pleading tone, the arrogance slipping as the reality of the situation dawned on him. "Think about what you're doing. You're my daughter, my blood. You won't shoot your own father."

I raised the gun, aiming it directly at his heart. The weight of the weapon was familiar and grounding in my hand. "This isn't just for me," I said quietly, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. "It's for our family, for Italy. For a future without your corruption and greed."

His bravado shattered, he stepped back, his back hitting a tarp-covered stack behind him. "Isabella, please," he begged, his voice breaking. "I'm your father. We can fix this, together. Don't throw your life away on this."

I shook my head slightly, my resolve firm. "You threw it all away a long time ago." The room was silent but for the pounding of my heart in my ears. I took a deep breath, steadying my aim.

His last plea hung in the air, desperate and hollow. I pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed off the walls, a stark final note to our family's legacy of betrayal. As he fell, the weight of my actions settled over me, but so did a sense of grim resolution. I knew this was only the beginning of a long road to redemption for the Romano name, but it was one I was now ready to walk.