Chapter 2 - The Velvet Cage
The morning after the disastrous engagement dinner, the sprawling Moretti estate felt less like a home and more like a gilded prison. Sunlight streamed through towering French windows, illuminating dust motes dancing across polished hardwood floors, but inside the grand breakfast parlor, the atmosphere was frigid.
Vanessa Bellini sat at the head of the mahogany table, sipping black coffee while reviewing a stack of wedding planner portfolios. Across from her, Isabella sat with her hands rigidly pinned beneath her thighs, staring down at a bowl of fruit she had barely touched.
Vanessa did not look up from her paperwork, but her voice cut through the quiet room with razor-sharp precision. "Remember the rules we discussed last night, Isabella. If we are going to integrate into proper society, you must learn to blend in. No flailing, no frantic finger movements. A Moretti lady carries herself with composure."
Isabella didn't answer. She simply stared at the silver butter knife resting beside her plate, fighting back tears. She missed the days before Vanessa moved into the mansion—the days when her father would come home, pull off his suit jacket, and sit with her on the rug, signing stories and laughing until their hands grew tired.
Later that morning, Luca summoned Claire to his private study on the second floor. The room smelled of aged leather, pipe tobacco, and old paper. Luca sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his dark eyes shadowed with fatigue and lingering suspicion.
"Claire," Luca began, his voice deep and measured. "Last night... during the toast. When you knelt beside Isabella. What was she trying to tell you?"
Claire’s breath hitched. She thought of her mother’s rising medical bills, the rent check due at the end of the month, and the stability this job provided. For two years, she had kept her head down, serving coffee, organizing files, and minding her own business. But remembering the look of sheer terror in Isabella’s eyes made hesitation impossible.
"Mr. Moretti," Claire started carefully, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "I respect this household, and I know my place. But... there are things happening when you’re away at meetings that you need to know."
Luca leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the desk. Tattoos climbed past his collar and peeked out from beneath his cuffs—symbols of a dangerous life that men whispered about across the city. Yet, right now, he wasn't a syndicate boss; he was a desperate father. "Go on."
"Miss Bellini has been systematically discouraging Isabella from using sign language," Claire confessed, the words tumbling out before she could lose her nerve. "She tells her it’s embarrassing, that guests find it distracting, and that she needs to learn to be 'normal' before the wedding."
The silence that followed was absolute. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly, marking the seconds as Luca’s expression hardened into something terrifying. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"She told my daughter not to sign?" Luca asked, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying a lethal weight.
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"Worse than that, sir," Claire swallowed hard. "The photographer was instructed not to include Isabella in pictures if she was communicating with her hands. Miss Bellini is rewriting how your daughter exists in this family."
Luca stood up so abruptly that his heavy leather chair slid back and crashed against the bookshelf. Without a single word, he turned and strode out of the room, his long strides carrying him toward the east wing where Vanessa was waiting.
