Chapter 2 - Coffee and Cold Truths
The first week of marriage was unlike anything Isabella had envisioned.
Expectations in the Conti household had been simple: once a girl was married, she adapt to her husband's rhythm, manage his home, and prepare for motherhood. Isabella had anticipated a sudden, jarring shift in her daily existence—a constant, suffocating surveillance by her new husband.
Instead, Matteo treated her with a combination of absolute spatial freedom and quiet, distant respect.
He slept in a separate bedroom in the west wing. He was up every morning at five o'clock, drinking strong, unrefined black coffee while reviewing financial ledgers and intelligence reports at the granite island in the kitchen before running five miles around the perimeter of the thirty-acre estate, regardless of the freezing autumn rain.
Isabella quickly learned that the monster of the underworld lived an almost monastic personal life. He didn't keep expensive cars for display, he loathed wasted food, he remembered the names and birthdays of every security guard and gardener on the estate, and when he was angry, his voice became quieter, softer, and far more lethal rather than loud.
And, much to her bewilderment, his staff adored him.
On a chilly Thursday morning, eight days after the wedding, Isabella walked down the grand spiral staircase in a oversized cream sweater and jeans, intending to make tea. As she approached the kitchen, she heard raised, passionate voices.
She paused near the door frame, her heart instinctively tightening.
"You are thirty-four years old, not a mule!" a sharp, elderly female voice scolded in rapid-fire Italian. "You came home at two in the morning, you slept four hours, and now you want to eat a piece of dry toast and leave for the docks?"
"Rosa, I have four container ships clearing customs at seven," Matteo's deep voice replied, sounding exasperated yet entirely patient.
"I don't care if you have twenty ships! If you die of a heart attack, who runs the docks? Marcus? That boy can't even remember to tie his shoes!"
Isabella peeked around the corner.
Rosa Delgado, a tiny, silver-haired Italian woman in her late sixties who had served as the estate’s head housekeeper for two decades, was waving a wooden spoon at Matteo. The towering mafia boss was sitting on a high stool, holding a mug of dark coffee, meekly accepting the tongue-lashing like a scolded schoolboy.
"Eat the eggs, Matteo," Rosa demanded, slamming a plate of scrambled eggs and roasted tomatoes in front of him. "And take the vegetables to your office!"
Matteo sighed, picking up a fork. As he turned his head, he caught sight of Isabella standing near the doorway.
A faint, subtle warmth touched his eyes. "Do you see what I endure in my own house?" he asked her, gesturing toward Rosa with his fork. "The capos in Brooklyn think I rule with an iron fist. Meanwhile, I'm terrified of my own cook."
Rosa turned around, her stern expression instantly melting into a broad, radiant smile the moment she saw Isabella. "Ah, Isabella, good morning, my dear! Don't listen to him. He's dramatic, just like his father was." She immediately pulled a warm mug from the cupboard. "Tea? I have the chamomile you liked yesterday."
"Yes, please, Rosa. Thank you," Isabella said, stepping into the kitchen and taking a seat across from Matteo.
The contrast between them was stark: Isabella in her soft knit sweater, her dark hair tied in a loose knot, and Matteo in a crisp, dark charcoal suit, his silver cufflinks gleaming under the warm kitchen lights.
"You're leaving early?" Isabella asked, glancing at his plate.
"A dispute at the Port Newark terminal," Matteo said, his tone shifting into something more practical. "One of your father's union leaders is refusing to honor the new container allocations we agreed upon last week."
Isabella paused, her tea mug halfway to her lips. "Frankie 'The Hammer' Vitucci?"
Matteo looked up, surprised. "You know Frankie?"
"He's been my uncle’s right-hand man for ten years," she said smoothly. "Frankie doesn't care about container allocations, Matteo. He cares about pride. If you go down there with twenty armed men and order him to move the trucks, he'll strike out of spite just to show his men he isn't taking orders from a Rienzi."
Matteo leaned back against his stool, his amber eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he studied her. "And how would you handle Frankie?"
"Frankie has a daughter who just started at NYU," Isabella replied simply. "He's terrified she'll find out what he actually does for a living. Send him two tickets to the opera for his wife and offer to sponsor his daughter's summer internship at the port's logistics firm. Tell him it's a 'gift of respect' for his years of service. He'll have those trucks moving before noon."
The kitchen fell completely quiet.
Rosa stopped wiping the counter, looking between the two of them with hidden amusement.
Matteo didn't speak for several seconds. He simply stared at Isabella, a dark, fascinating expression growing in his eyes—a mix of surprise, profound respect, and something much deeper that made her cheeks warm.
"You're wasted in art restoration, Mrs. Rienzi," he said softly, his voice carrying a strange, heavy weight that sent a shiver down her spine.
"I like old things," she replied, trying to keep her tone light. "They're simpler than living people. They don't hide what they are."
Matteo stood up, grabbing his leather coat from the back of the chair. He walked around the island until he was standing beside her. He didn't lean down, nor did he attempt to touch her, but his presence was intoxicatingly warm.
"I don't hide what I am from you, Isabella," he said quietly, looking down into her eyes. "I'm a dangerous man who runs a violent enterprise. But I will never lie to you."
May you like
He turned to Rosa. "Pack the vegetables. Before she hits me with the spoon."
As Matteo walked out of the kitchen toward the waiting armored SUV, Isabella watched his broad back disappear through the glass doors. She felt a strange, fluttering sensation in her stomach—a quiet, dangerous realization that her husband was far more complex, and infinitely more captivating, than the monster her family had spent years describing.
