DON SALVADOR 2

The mahogany door swung open silently, revealing a spacious office dominated by a large oak desk. Mr. Moretti, a man whose stern features mirrored Isabella's own, sat behind the desk engrossed in a phone call. He looked every part the powerful head of a vast empire, his bearing a testament to years of wielding control.

Unfazed by his presence, Isabella sauntered in, her red heels clicking a sharp counterpoint to the plush carpet. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she tossed her purse onto a nearby chair before settling herself into a plush armchair opposite her father's desk. Crossing her legs, she struck a pose that exuded both confidence and a hint of impatience.

Mr. Moretti, mid-sentence on his call, glanced up at his daughter's arrival. A flicker of surprise crossed his features, but it was quickly replaced by a stoic mask. With a curt nod to the person on the other end, he ended the call. "Isabella," he acknowledged, his voice deep and gravelly. "What brings you to my office unannounced?"

"Just wanted to see my dear old dad," Isabella replied, a playful smile gracing her lips. "Heard you closed a big deal recently. Congratulations!"

A hint of surprise flickered across Mr. Moretti's face, a subtle acknowledgement of her praise. However, he quickly schooled his expression. "Indeed," he said curtly. "So, how is your modeling career faring?"

"Going well," Isabella answered, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her eyes as she stole a glance at Miguel, who was barely stifling a smirk by the door.

Mr. Moretti let out a sardonic scoff. "Going well, is it? From what I hear, you've caused quite a stir lately. Loud arguments with photographers, refusing to wear certain clothes..." His voice trailed off, but the disapproval in his tone was clear.

Isabella winced internally, a flicker of guilt battling with her rebellious streak. "Look, Dad, I—"

"Enough, Isabella," Mr. Moretti cut her off, his voice firm. "We've been over this before. Being a model for Torre Enterprises was never part of the plan. It brings unwanted attention, and that's the last thing this family needs."

Isabella squirmed in her seat, the playful facade faltering. She knew her father was right. The Moretti family operated in the shadows, their power derived from discretion. A high-profile model daughter flaunting herself in the spotlight was a contradiction to everything they stood for.

"I know, Dad," she mumbled, a hint of defeat creeping into her voice.

Mr. Moretti softened slightly, a flicker of paternal concern crossing his features. "There are other ways you can contribute to the family business, Isabella. You're a smart girl, you have a sharp mind. We could use your talents in a way that benefits the family and keeps you safe."

The offer was tempting. Isabella had always known this life was expected of her, a role she had stubbornly resisted. But the thought of using her skills in a way that truly mattered, that wasn't just about flaunting her looks, was an intriguing prospect.

"What kind of things are you thinking of?" she asked, a spark of curiosity replacing the earlier defiance.

A ghost of a smile played on Mr. Moretti's lips. "We'll discuss that later. But for now, there's a more pressing matter at hand." He gestured towards Miguel, who was leaning nonchalantly against the wall. "Explain to me why my most trusted bodyguard seems to find amusement in your little charades, Isabella."

Isabella forced a laugh, the sound strained even to her own ears. "Just Miguel being Miguel, Dad. You know how he loves to tease."

Mr. Moretti's gaze narrowed, skepticism etched on his face. "Perhaps," he conceded, his voice heavy. "But that doesn't change the fact that there are more important matters at hand. Now, tell me about Don Marco Salvador."

A jolt of unease shot through Isabella. The mention of his name sent a shiver down her spine. "There's nothing to tell, Dad," she said quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. "We don't have anything to do with each other."

Her father's eyes gleamed with a steely glint. "That's not what I hear, Isabella. Rumors have been swirling about the Don taking a keen interest in my daughter. Now, I won't tolerate any foolishness that could jeopardize the family's safety or reputation."

A furious scowl contorted Mr. Moretti's face. "Womanly body? You could be using your assets for the family's benefit, Isabella! Flaunting yourself online like some cheap social media star accomplishes nothing. Get in with Salvador, get close to him, and secure his loyalty through a strategic alliance – a child, perhaps!"

Isabella recoiled, nausea churning in her stomach. Her father's words reduced her to a mere object, a bargaining chip in a ruthless game of power. Miguel, ever the silent observer in the corner, remained impassive, but a flicker of something unreadable crossed his features.

"That's exactly what I tried to do, Dad!" she exclaimed, her voice laced with a mixture of anger and despair. "Two years ago, he took everything from me. My innocence, my trust... twice! But he doesn't want me. I'm a pawn in his game, nothing more. And why should I have to stoop to such tactics? I'm your daughter, the daughter of a powerful family!"

Her father's face thundered. "Then act like it, Isabella! You are a Moretti, and Morettis don't crumble in the face of difficulty. Find another solution! This family's reputation depends on it!"

Standing was an ordeal, her legs trembling with a mix of fury and humiliation. With a choked sob, she muttered a goodbye in Italian and stumbled out of the office.

Before Miguel could follow, Mr. Moretti's voice cut through the air, sharp and laced with barely concealed worry. "Miguel," he barked. "Keep a close eye on my daughter. Report everything."

Miguel inclined his head in a curt nod, his expression unreadable. The weight of unspoken emotions hung heavy in the air as he turned and followed Isabella out of the office.

*******

Some place else:

Earlier.....

Clink. Crash. Scrape.

The sounds echoed through the once-elegant restaurant. Alessia winced as a vase toppled over, its contents spilling onto the pristine white tablecloth. Across the table, Marcos sat slumped in his chair, his face a mask of fury.

She crept closer, her voice laced with concern. "Marcos, what's going on?"

He didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the shattered vase. The air crackled with tension, a stark contrast to the laughter and clinking glasses that had filled the room just moments ago. The remaining patrons had been ushered out by the frantic waiters, leaving Alessia and Marcos alone with the wreckage of their evening.

Taking a deep breath, she tried again.

"We can talk about this calmly, okay?"

Marcos let out a harsh laugh, devoid of humor. "Talk? What's the point, Leonardo?"

"Marcos, please," she pleaded. "This isn't about Sonia. It's about us."

He finally looked at her, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and hurt. "Us? There never was an 'us,' was there, Alessia?"

The weight of his words crashed down on her.

"It wasn't that simple, Marcos. I—"

"Don't," he cut her off, his voice hardening.

"Don't try to justify what you did. You walked away. You left me with nothing but a gaping hole in my life."

Alessia reached out a hand, then quickly drew it back. "I'm so sorry, Marcos. You have to believe me—"

A metallic click silenced her. Marcos had pulled a gun from his waistband, his hand shaking slightly. Panic surged through Alessia, but she forced herself to stay calm.

"Marcos, no," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He didn't fire the gun. Instead, he slammed it onto the table, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the empty restaurant. The metallic clang resonated with the hollowness Alessia felt inside.

"Look at what you've done," he rasped, his voice raw with emotion. "Look at me."

Tears welled up in Alessia's eyes. She looked down at his hand, a dark stain spreading across his palm.

"You're bleeding," she managed, her voice choked.

He glanced at his hand, then back at her, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "Just a scratch, Alessia. Nothing compared to the wound you left on my heart."

He pushed himself to his feet, the gun clattering onto the table. "Seven years, Alessia. Seven years I wasted believing in us."

Shame gnawed at Alessia. "I never meant to hurt you," she whispered.

"But you did," he said, his voice filled with a quiet despair. "You made me love you, then disappeared when I needed you most. Were we ever even real, Alessia? Or was it all just a game to you?"

The pain in his voice mirrored her own. "No," she choked out, the tears finally spilling over. "It wasn't a game. But—"

"But what?" he roared, his voice cracking. "There are no excuses, Alessia. You made your choice, and now you have to live with it."

He turned away from her, his shoulders slumped in defeat. The fight seemed to have drained out of him, leaving behind a desolate emptiness.

Alessia stood there, the weight of his words crushing her. There were no easy answers, no justifications. All she could do was face the consequences of her actions.