What followed was chaos. Tristan grabbed a heavy decorative cane, striking me before I could react. Pain flared through my side. My mother-in-law slapped me, calling me names. I crumpled to the floor, hands clutching my arms, silently begging for someone to intervene. But no one did.
That night, alone and bleeding, I locked myself in the guest room. My hands trembled as I dialed a number I had not used in years , a number that still carried the weight of power and fear.
A calm, commanding voice answered. “Isabella?”
“Papa… they hurt me,” I whispered.
There was a long pause. Then his voice cut through like steel, soft yet terrifying: “No one harms my daughter. Understand that.”
My father, Dominic Romano, had once commanded fear across Naples. I had escaped that world, longing for a quiet life in America, but now I needed him more than ever.
Two days later, Elliot returned home. He found me silent, bruised, and shaking. My in-laws lied effortlessly, blaming accidents and clumsiness, but Elliot knew me too well. When he saw the missed call from Naples, his face went pale.
“You called your father?” he asked quietly.
I nodded.