Isabella's modest and compact sanctuary had always sufficed when she was a solitary dweller, never invoking a sense of claustrophobia. But now, with Emanuele perched like a raven on her bed, the room seemed unbearably confined. Clad in a black leather jacket and fingers studded with luxury brand rings, he exuded an innate dominance that seemed to suck the air out of the room.

Emanuele was indeed a towering figure, his legs stretching out extraordinarily. Her just-right bed shrunk beneath him, appearing like a mere chair. At Isabella's scream, Emanuele's brows furrowed in a mix of amusement and annoyance.

"So, you're nesting in a storage room?" Emanuele's words were as sharp as his persona. He scanned the room, the bed that resembled an office chair, the scattered belongings; everything seemed to belong in a squalid corner of the city. He couldn't fathom how she endured such a place-was she a feral cat rummaging through trash heaps?

"Mr. Lombardi, you should have sought my consent before violating my sanctuary," Isabella retorted, her voice taut with restrained irritation.

Isabella was testing Emanuele's patience. After all, no one had ever dared to question why a mafia boss would barge into their home, let alone deny him a cup of cheap, bitter coffee.

But witnessing Isabella's indignant demeanor, a strange sense of satisfaction stirred within Emanuele. "I didn't break in; I used a key," he responded, his tone laced with casual nonchalance.

She shivered at the realization that he could have access to her apartment keys. Indeed, she had underestimated Emanuele's capabilities; probably, there wasn't a single door in Chicago he couldn't unlock with a flick of his wrist. He was the puppet master of the city!

Isabella was further irked that Emanuele's scent of leather, tobacco, and even a hint of spirits were invading her sanctuary's air.

Today, Isabella donned a plain white shirt, not as refined as the previous night, yet it seemed to stir Emanuele's predatory instincts. He lazily licked his molars and commanded in his usual authoritative tone, "Come here."

Isabella remained rooted to her spot.

"I don't wish to repeat myself," Emanuele's voice held a threatening edge.

Reluctantly, Isabella drew closer, complaining, "What do you want in my tiny apartment? You must be uncomfortable here."

Emanuele's presence made her feel unsafe-not just in her apartment, but as if the entirety of Chicago was no longer a safe haven.

Without responding, Emanuele kept his gaze on Isabella and began to remove his jacket, "White suits you," he remarked, implying it was a color meant to be crumpled and tarnished.

Isabella retreated a step, alarmed. "What are you going to do?"

Emanuele glanced at her, and she found herself frozen in place. She felt cursed by a demon.

Peeling off his jacket to reveal a snug vest underneath, his muscular chest and arms were exposed. Despite his detestable character, he radiated an irresistible masculinity.

He tossed his jacket aside and advanced towards Isabella. In the confined space, he seemed even more imposing. She found herself quickly cornered, much like that ominous night.

Unable to camouflage her fear, Isabella swallowed hard, shut her eyes, and steeled herself for the worst.

Emanuele whispered into her ear, his tongue playfully teasing the edge of it, making her gasp and nearly collapse. Isabella pleaded, "Please, no..."

He chuckled. "You're not good enough to be a lover or a doctor."

Isabella's eyes snapped open in surprise. "What?!"

Emanuele revealed his bandaged arm. "It's time to change the dressing."

She noticed the bandage she had applied days before. The wound must have mostly healed.

Blushing at her own misconceptions, Isabella, conscious of her role as a medical student, reluctantly approached to assist him with the bandage, eliciting a grunt from Emanuele. She felt a perverse satisfaction-why shouldn't his hand be broken?

She questioned him about his recent activities that could potentially impede the healing process.

"That's none of your business," Emanuele snapped back.

As Isabella meticulously attended to the inflamed wound, her curiosity got the better of her, "Don't you have a personal physician? Why resort to me for such a minor injury?"

Looking up to meet his gaze, she thought she glimpsed a transient softness, but his reply shattered that illusion.

"Nobody must know about this," Emanuele declared, his hazel irises murky with a hint of sin. "Everyone privy to this is dead, except you."

Isabella stiffened, the suffocating sensation from the night he threatened to kill her for knowing too much, washing over her anew.

Emanuele found her fear amusing.

"You're my sister; I reckon I should spare you," he stated, seemingly offering solace.

Comforted slightly by his words, Isabella realized she had to express gratitude to Leo for inviting her to become Emanuele's sister, which seemingly saved her life.

Emanuele's demeanor shifted, assuming a brotherly air as he ushered her to sit beside him for a chat.

"You're nearing your college graduation, Isabella?" he inquired.

She nodded, bewildered by his sudden curiosity.

"Good. At your mother's wedding next week, do me a favor and doll yourself up," he instructed.

"Then, find someone you fancy there to tie the knot with."

"What?!" Isabella protested.

"No! What are you talking about?! Get married?"

Emanuele's features hardened as he explained the true reason for his visit. As a mafia princess, Isabella had obligations, and he was here to remind her of them.

"You have no choice but to conform, Isabella," he declared, caressing her face and leaning in close. The fear and pain were evident on her face, the light in her eyes replaced by sheer terror.

He seemed to savor the prospect of her collapse and suffering.

"You must choose: wed that old man, George, or pick someone from our wedding guests. Those are your only options."

Isabella felt suffocated, unable to utter a word, merely shaking her head in refusal. She had dreamt of escaping the mafia life post-graduation, perhaps even relocating to a different city, but Emanuele's presence shattered those plans.

To him, Isabella was merely a pawn to be married off at his convenience, a gift to someone as long as she remained of use to him.

Beholding her helpless and pallid, Emanuele sported a cruel smirk and embraced her, planting a kiss on her forehead.

"We'll get along just fine, Isabella," he whispered.

After he left, Isabella crumpled, gasping for breath, her vulnerability starkly evident. Reaching for her backpack, she pulled out estazolam, her lifeline during emotional upheavals.

After swallowing the pill and feeling its calming effects, she dared not dwell on her impending fate. The mere thought could drive her to insanity.

She had to devise a way to outmaneuver Emanuele before he could marry her off.