Isabella lunged for the microphone, shouting for the guards, but her own men hesitated, looking to Marello for the final word. He didn’t need to shout. He simply looked at the assembly, then at his stepmother, who was now trembling.
“You spent seven years telling me my son was dead,” Marello said, his voice deceptively calm. “You stole my life, my wife, and my child. I am not marrying Bianca. I am not honoring this alliance. I am claiming what is mine.”