When Isabella woke up in a soft ocean of comfort, the morning light was gently pouring through the sheer curtains of the floor-to-ceiling windows, tenderly filling the entire room. A faint fragrance of gardenia lingered in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She shifted her body slightly, discovering that she was wearing a champagne-colored silk pajama set with an incredibly smooth touch, every inch of the fabric like a lover's kiss, gently clinging to her skin.

The memory of last night swept through her mind like a magnificent storm. That deep blue darkness, his steady breathing, his irrefutable commands, and the soul-shaking ecstasy she experienced after relinquishing control. Aftershocks still lingered deep within her body, a satisfied soreness that came from being thoroughly possessed and redefined. It wasn't merely physical pleasure, but a complete spiritual release, as if a long-imprisoned soul had finally broken free from its shackles and experienced free-fall from the edge of a cliff.


She slowly sat up and looked around. This was a spacious, extravagantly large guest room, decorated in an understated modern luxury style. Beige-gray walls, high-quality linen carpets, and several dark wooden furniture pieces with strong design elements. On the bedside table, a silver tray held an elegant breakfast: a pot of steaming coffee, a small basket of freshly baked croissants, a bowl of Greek yogurt garnished with fresh berries, and a small bottle of bright orange freshly squeezed juice. Next to it, there was even a white rose bud about to bloom.

This all felt as beautiful as an unreal dream. Isabella picked up the coffee cup and took a sip. The rich, slightly bitter liquid slid down her throat, clearing her confused thoughts somewhat. Who was she? Isabella Thorne, a bookstore owner. Where was she? In the manor of a man named Alessandro whom she had just met last night. Why was she here? Because she had made an impulsive, crazy, but absolutely right decision.

She walked barefoot from the bed, the soft carpet silently bearing her weight. She approached the huge floor-to-ceiling window, reaching out to draw back the thin veil. However, just as her fingertips touched the edge of the curtain, she saw two figures standing on the lawn outside. They wore black suits and sunglasses, standing motionless like statues. Further away, the tall wrought-iron gates of the manor remained tightly closed.


A sinister premonition, like an icy vine, instantly wrapped around her heart.

She turned toward the door of the room, that heavy walnut door. She gently twisted the brass doorknob—the door was locked. She tried again, turning it forcefully, but the lock didn't budge at all.


Panic, delayed panic, finally engulfed her like a tide. The sense of liberation from last night formed a violent and absurd conflict with the current feeling of imprisonment. He had given her unprecedented freedom, yet deprived her of the most basic freedom.

"Hello?" she knocked on the door, her voice trembling slightly. "Is anyone there? I want to go out."

There was no response from outside. Only a deathly silence. She had been locked up. This thought hit her heart like a massive boulder. She was not a guest, but a prisoner. A prisoner in a gilded cage.

Just as she was at a loss and about to knock harder, there was a faint "click" from the lock, and the door was opened from the outside.

A strange man stood at the doorway. He was about forty-something, with a serious expression and meticulously combed silver-gray hair swept back. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit, his gaze as sharp as a freshly honed surgical knife, calmly examining her from head to toe.

"Miss Thorne," he began, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion, "I am Luca Gallo, Mr. Vitale's chief advisor."

Isabella instinctively hugged herself, the silk nightgown completely failing to provide any sense of security. She felt as if she had been stripped naked and placed on a dissection table, left to be analyzed by him.

"Where is Mr. Vitale?" she tried to make her voice sound calmer. "Why can't I leave?"

Luca's face showed no ripple of emotion, as if he hadn't heard her question. "Mr. Vitale is handling some family matters. He instructed me to ensure that you are well." His gaze swept around the room, as if checking whether an item had been properly placed. "Was the breakfast to your liking? If you need anything else, feel free to ask."

This politely evasive response sent a chill through her. "I don't need more breakfast, I need to leave this place," Isabella emphasized. "I have work, I have my own life. I cannot be kept locked up here."

"I'm afraid that's not possible, miss." Luca finally looked directly into her eyes, his gray irises containing a cold warning. "For your safety, and for Mr. Vitale's safety, you cannot leave the estate until further notice."

"My safety?" Isabella thought this was an absolute joke. "I'm least safe right here!"

"On the contrary." Luca's voice lowered a few notches, carrying an undeniable authority. "From the moment you stepped into this estate, you entered a whole new world. Here, Mr. Vitale's rules are the only law. And his current decision is to have you stay here."

He stepped forward, his imposing presence causing Isabella to instinctively take a step back.

"I don't know who you are, Miss Thorne," Luca's tone turned cold and straightforward, "nor do I know what methods you used to make Mr. Vitale break rules that haven't changed for twenty years. But I want to give you a piece of advice."

He leaned close to her, almost whispering in her ear, yet his voice pierced into her marrow like an ice pick: "Alessandro Vitale is not someone you can toy with. The burdens he carries, the position he holds, are beyond anything you could ever imagine. Everything he gives you—whether pleasure or pain—comes from his grace. Do not try to challenge him, do not try to betray him, and above all, do not try to hurt him."

Luca straightened up, coldly adjusting his cuffs. "Otherwise, you will discover that compared to the ultimate pleasure he can bring you, the pain he can inflict will be of equal magnitude—an absolute hell you cannot endure. I guarantee it."

Having said that, he didn't spare her another glance before turning and walking out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him, locking mercilessly once more. Isabella stood alone in the vast room, chilled to the bone. Luca's words echoed in her mind like a curse, repeating endlessly.

Ultimate joy... and hell of the same caliber.

————

Meanwhile, in an underground conference room of the manor's main building, the atmosphere was so oppressive it seemed to solidify the air.

At the end of the long obsidian conference table, Alessandro Vitale sat elegantly, an unlit cigar between his fingers. He wore a dark shirt with sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows, revealing his well-defined forearms and an expensive platinum wristwatch. His expression was calm and undisturbed, as if he were presiding over an ordinary board meeting.

But the seven or eight core family members present didn't dare to breathe. They all kept their heads down, afraid to look directly at their leader.

Because in the center of the conference table knelt a man with a bloodied face. His hands were tied behind his back, with two muscular bodyguards standing like iron towers behind him.

"So, Antonio," Alessandro's voice broke the deathly silence, eerily calm, "you sold my next quarter's weapons shipment routes to the Marco Family for fifty thousand euros. Is that right?"

The kneeling man began to tremble violently, stuttering his defense: "No... boss... it wasn't me... they forced me to do it! They kidnapped my daughter! I..."

"Your daughter, Emily," Alessandro interrupted him, picking up a document from the table and reading nonchalantly, "spent seventy thousand euros on Milan's luxury shopping street last week, buying a new Hermès handbag and several Chaumet necklaces. She doesn't appear to have been kidnapped."

Antonio's face instantly turned paper white.

Alessandro tossed the documents onto the table, making a slight noise that hit everyone's hearts like a heavy hammer. "I hate betrayal, Antonio. It's not only stupid but also tasteless." He stood up and slowly walked to the man, looking down at him.

"I gave you wealth, status, respect. And you traded these for the leftovers from the Marco Family." Alessandro leaned down and said in an almost gentle tone, "Tell me, was it worth it?"

"Boss, I was wrong! Please, give me one more chance! Considering I've served you for fifteen years..." Antonio sobbed uncontrollably, repeatedly kowtowing.

Alessandro straightened up, his face even showing a trace of pity, as if looking at a hopeless patient. "Chance? I already gave you one." He turned around and made a gesture to his bodyguard behind him that couldn't be simpler—he used his thumb to lightly trace across his own throat.

He didn't even look back. As Antonio's desperate, muffled gasping and the dull crack of breaking bones filled the air, Alessandro walked back to his seat, picked up the cigar cutter, and focused on cutting off the head of his cigar, as if what had just happened was nothing more than an insignificant interlude.

"Next item on the agenda." He lit the cigar with a windproof lighter, took a deep drag, exhaled swirling smoke, his stern face appearing and disappearing through the haze. "Regarding the new contract for the port of Naples."

The others in the conference room continued to keep their heads bowed low.

————

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, in a luxuriously decorated penthouse apartment, Marco Ricci was lounging comfortably on the sofa, with a curvaceous model kneeling beside him, pouring him an expensive glass of single malt whisky.

Marco was in his thirties, with a handsome yet somewhat effeminate face, his eyes always carrying a hint of mockery and calculation. He took the glass of whisky, waved for the woman to leave, then answered the phone that had just rung.

"Speak," he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

"Boss," the voice on the other end sounded excited, "our cleaning staff planted in the Vitale estate just sent back information. Alessandro Vitale brought a woman back to the estate last night and she stayed overnight."

Marco's eyebrows raised, his face showing intense interest. "Oh? Are you sure? That 'King' who stays away from women finally couldn't resist?"

"It's absolutely true. They say that this morning, the woman is still in the guest room at the estate, she hasn't left. This completely breaks his rule of never letting anyone stay overnight."

Marco's lips curled into a cruel smile. This was the best news he had heard recently. Alessandro Vitale was his biggest rival, a man like an iceberg—powerful, cold, and impeccable. His only weakness was that he had no weaknesses. He had no emotions, no attachments, like a precision killing machine.

But now, a woman had appeared.

A woman who could make him break the rules.

"A woman..." Marco repeated in a low voice, his eyes gleaming like a wolf's, "like a small window opened in an impenetrable fortress."

Whether it was love or desire, any emotion could certainly be exploited.

"Well done," Marco said into the phone. "Immediately, at any cost, find out everything about this woman. Her name, her family, her job, what she likes to eat, who her friends are, what she fears... I want to know everything about her. Every detail."

After hanging up the phone, Marco downed the whiskey in his glass in one gulp.

Alessandro Vitale's Achilles' heel had finally appeared. He could hardly wait to shoot that poison-tipped arrow into that soft, fatal spot.