The truce was signed, but no one left the hall smiling.
Elders filed out with muttered curses tucked behind their teeth, the D'Amato brothers exchanged a look sharp enough to cut glass, and Isabella sat stiff-backed on her chair until the last rival footstep echoed away. Only then did she rise, black dress whispering against marble as she descended the steps. The chandeliers above still swayed faintly, as if the building itself knew how fragile the peace was.
Sebastian was already at her side, hands clasped behind his back, every muscle taut. He hadn't spoken during the meeting guards were shadows, not voices but his eyes had burned through every word, watching the flicker of betrayal on old faces and the cold calculation in younger ones.
Marcus lingered longer, staring at the empty table where blood had not yet been spilled but would be soon. He looked older than his forty years for a heartbeat, shoulders carrying both pride and exhaustion. But when he caught Sebastian's eye, something shifted.
"Walk with me," Marcus said, voice low. Not to Isabella, but to Sebastian.
Sebastian blinked, momentarily thrown, but inclined his head. Isabella gave Marcus a long look, but she didn't interfere. She knew her uncle well enough; when he set his sights on someone, there was purpose behind it.
The corridor outside was quieter, lined with heavy portraits of past Wilson leaders glaring down like judges. Marcus lit a cigarette, ignoring the antique No Smoking plaque, and exhaled slow. The smoke curled between them, a veil and a confession.
"You remind me of myself when I was younger," Marcus said finally, his tone carrying a weight that caught Sebastian off guard. "Too sharp, too stubborn, too loyal for your own good."
Sebastian straightened, uncomfortable. "With respect, sir, I only serve La Rosa Negra. Nothing else matters."
Marcus gave a wry smile. "Nothing else? Don't lie to yourself, boy. You watch her the way a drowning man watches the surface. Don't think I haven't noticed."
Sebastian's jaw clenched. He should have denied it should have sworn that Isabella was only his duty, his leader, his untouchable queen but the words stuck in his throat. Marcus's gaze was too piercing, too knowing.
Marcus stepped closer, clapping a firm hand on Sebastian's shoulder. "I'm not condemning you. Hell, if anyone deserves her trust, it's you. But remember this: loyalty means you stay, even when your heart is breaking. Can you do that?"
Sebastian swallowed hard, throat tight. "I already am."
Marcus's expression softened, just for a moment. The rough, dangerous uncle who had silenced elders with a snarl and torn down enemies without blinking looked almost paternal.
"Good," he said. "Because you're more to me than a guard. Don't forget that, even when you hate me."
Sebastian's chest tightened, words hovering but unsaid. Marcus didn't wait for a reply. He flicked the cigarette out, crushing the ember under his heel, and strode away as though he hadn't just branded Sebastian's soul.
Back in the training yard, Isabella vented her silence through steel.
The air cracked with the clash of blades as she disarmed one guard, spun, and slammed the flat of her sword into another's ribs. The men hit the dirt groaning, too afraid to cry out. Sweat slicked her temples, but her strikes were ruthless, merciless. The black rose was not wilting.
"Again," she ordered, voice like ice water.
No one moved. Not until Sebastian stepped forward, rolling up his sleeves. His eyes were storm-dark, his expression unreadable, but Isabella caught the flicker something raw simmered there, though it wasn't for her to question now.
"You'll break them," he said evenly.
"I'll break anyone who thinks I'm weak," Isabella shot back, sword tip gleaming in the morning light.
Sebastian drew his own blade, steel hissing free. "Then break me."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. The other men backed away, sensing danger but not daring to leave. Isabella narrowed her eyes, then lunged.
Their blades met with a metallic scream, sparks flashing. Unlike the others, Sebastian didn't yield. Every strike Isabella threw, he parried, every feint she made, he countered. Sweat beaded on their brows, boots grinding against the dirt as steel clashed over and over.
Isabella's lips curled into the faintest smirk. "Finally. Someone who won't crumble."
Sebastian's reply was a grunt, but inside, his chest was chaos. Every swing was a war: between loyalty and desire, between protecting her and proving himself. He wanted her respect but he also wanted her. And that was the sin Marcus had warned him of.
Marcus appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the duel with a mixture of pride and pain. Isabella's ferocity, Sebastian's restraint both were weapons, both were flaws. He knew then that neither would come out unscarred in the wars ahead.
That night, the Wilson mansion felt heavier. News was already trickling in: whispers of alliances shifting, minor families testing their luck in the shadows. The truce was a mask, and everyone knew it would crack.
Isabella sat in her study, pen scratching against paper as she mapped supply routes and contingency plans. Marcus poured himself whiskey, sitting opposite her, silent until the glass was half-empty.
"They'll turn on you the moment they think you've softened," Marcus said. "You have to be cruel enough to scare them, clever enough to outplay them, and human enough to make them follow you. It's a hard balance. Most fail."
"Do you think I'll fail?" Isabella asked without looking up.
Marcus studied her, his niece the young woman who had inherited a throne of blood. He thought of Sebastian, fighting her like an equal earlier, refusing to bow even when his heart begged him to. He thought of his own younger years, mistakes he buried in graves no one remembered.
"No," he said finally. "But you'll bleed for it."
Isabella didn't flinch. "Then I'll bleed."
Sebastian stood silently by the door, eyes shadowed. He had heard every word.
And though he would never admit it, he thought the same thing Marcus did: he would rather bleed himself dry than let her do it alone.