Underworld Heiress: Born to Burn

The party was still in full swing when I stepped back into the grand hall. The music, the chatter, the laughter—it all grated on my nerves now. Every step felt heavier as I scanned the room for my father.

I found him by the bar counter, laughing with his business partners, a cigar in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. Marcus De Luca, the untouchable, the feared, the man who took me in and raised me like his own. Or so I thought.

I marched over, ignoring the curious glances from guests who noticed the tension radiating off me.

“Papa, I need to talk to you,” I said firmly, stopping beside him.

He barely glanced at me, too engrossed in his conversation. “Not now, Isabella,” he said dismissively, taking a sip of his drink. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“It’s important,” I insisted, my voice shaking despite my best effort to sound calm. “More important than my life.”

That got his attention. His sharp, dark eyes flicked to mine, narrowing slightly. “Gentlemen,” he said to his companions, his tone smooth and practiced. “Excuse me for a moment. My daughter seems to think the world is ending.”

They chuckled politely, and he gestured for me to follow him. We walked in silence to his study, the sound of my heels clicking against the marble floor echoing in the quiet corridor.

Once inside, he shut the door and turned to me, his expression hard. “What is it, Isabella? Speak.”

I stood my ground, even though my heart was racing. “I want to call off the engagement,” I said, my voice steady.

For a moment, he just stared at me, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Then his expression darkened.

“Are you out of your mind?” he growled.

“No, Papa,” I said, lifting my chin. “I’m finally thinking clearly. Antonio doesn’t love me, and I don’t want to marry someone who—”

He cut me off, his voice booming. “This isn’t about love! This is about loyalty, about family, about power! You think you can just walk away because you don’t feel like it?”

I took a step back, but I didn’t back down. “It’s not just that. Sofia—”

“Don’t you dare bring that woman into this,” he snapped. “Antonio is your fiancé. That’s the end of it.”

I clenched my fists, my frustration boiling over. “Why, Papa? Why are you so desperate to tie me to someone who doesn’t even respect me? I’m not your blood, remember? You’ve made that clear enough times.”

The slap came so fast I didn’t see it coming. The force of it sent me stumbling, my hand flying to my face as a sharp, metallic taste filled my mouth.

“You ungrateful little girl!” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “I gave you a life. I gave you my name. And this is how you repay me? By questioning me? By embarrassing me in front of our allies?”

Blood dripped from my nose, staining my dress, but I refused to let the tears fall. I straightened, glaring at him through the pain.

This wasn’t the first time he’d hit me. It wasn’t even the worst. I remembered being fifteen, sprinting home in the rain because I lost track of time at the library. Two minutes late. That’s all it took for him to drag me by my hair into the house and slap me until my cheek swelled.

“Time is respect,” he’d said that night, his voice calm, like he was teaching me a lesson. “And you will respect me.”

Even now, the memory made my stomach churn.

“You’re wrong,” I said quietly, my voice trembling but firm. “You didn’t give me a life. You gave me a role to play in yours. And I’m done.”

His hand twitched like he wanted to hit me again, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned away, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re not calling off the engagement!” his tone was cold and final. “If you try, you’ll regret it. Do you understand me?”

I didn’t answer.

“Do you understand me, Isabella?!”

“Y-yes, Papa,” I said, though my voice was barely above a whisper.

Satisfied, he gestured to the door. “Get out of my sight. And clean yourself up before you embarrass me further!”

I left the study without another word, my chest aching as much as my face. The party was still in full swing, the laughter and music a cruel reminder of the world I was trapped in.

As I passed by a mirror in the hallway, I caught a glimpse of myself—my swollen nose, the blood smeared across my lips, the fire still burning in my eyes.

Marcus De Luca may have raised me, but he didn’t own me.