Page 49 of Beauty and the Daddy

"Five families. Their wives, their lieutenants." He straightens his cufflinks like he's preparing for battle. "About thirty people."

My stomach drops to my shoes. "Thirty people are going to judge whether I'm good enough for you?"

"Thirty people are going to see that you already are." His hand finds the small of my back, fingers spreading wide. "You're not livestock, Belle. You're the woman I chose."

The heat of his palm bleeds through silk, and instead of calming me down, it just reminds me how his touch can undo me completely.

Not helpful when I need to appear composed.

Soon enough, we're being ushered inside by men who look like they eat nails for breakfast.

Walking into Don Fiorello's mansion feels less like stepping into a home and more like being dropped inside a damn museum.

Marble floors so shiny I can see my nerves reflected back at me. Crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like they're auditioning for The Great Gatsby.

And big, moody, oil paintings that deserve bodyguards of their own.

The air hits me next. Lemon polish and something heavier underneath… old money.

The kind that seeps into the walls and clings to your skin.

We're led into a massive living room where people are already gathered.

Every head turns when we walk in.

Heat crawls up my neck. My pulse jackhammers.

It's like stepping onto a stage without a script, every spotlight aimed right at me.

Smile. Don't choke. Don't trip.

Run.

The word flashes through me, sharp as glass.

But Luca's hand brushes my back, a quiet reminder that I'm not walking in alone.

That doesn't mean I don't want to bolt.

"Luca!"

The voice booms, rough with age but sharp enough to cut glass.

A man breaks from the pack, moving like he's the king of the jungle here.

Silver hair slicked back, suit pressed within an inch of its life, gold rings flashing as he spreads his arms.

"Finally, you grace us with your presence."

The way he says it, half welcome, half warning, makes my stomach knot.

"Don Fiorello." Luca inclines his head respectfully. "May I present my fiancée, Isabelle Donovan."

My stomach drops. Oh God. This is him. The man.

The one whose word will weigh heavier than all the others.

Every eye in the room feels like a spotlight, but his lands like a gavel.