The Italian Princess

Chapter One: The Beginning

Isabella's journal:

Monday, May 24

The air in our old dining room was thick with tension, like a stage waiting for its play to begin. As I stepped in, a tableau greeted me: my grandfather, Isaac Romano, a figure from tales whispered in hushed tones, sat regally in his white coat and with a cane that seemed more a scepter than a support. His presence turned our humble home into a court, and I, a mere child of 12, his unexpected subject.

"Hello," I ventured, my voice lost in the silence. My father's introduction cut through the stillness. "Isabella, this is your grandfather, Isaac Romano." A cigarette came to life between his fingers, its smoke swirling like the hidden truths in our family. My father hadn't smoked in years.

I reached out, my hand shaking, as my grandfather's gaze appraised me. "Isabella, you carry the beauty of your grandmother, Bella, the famed ballet dancer." His touch was light on my chin, yet it weighed heavy with unspoken stories.

"We need to talk about your future, Bella." Only my closest family called me Bella, a name now claimed by this stranger. I spoke of college, naive to the real gravity of his words. My mother, her warm brown skin now ashen, brought me water, her hands trembling. A cold fear began to seep into my bones.

The room emptied at his command, leaving us alone in the eye of a storm. "Your father is the son of a mob boss," he began, his words painting a stark picture of our lineage. My innocence, a fragile shield, began to crack.

"Is my dad in trouble?" I asked, the question heavy in my throat.

"Somewhat," he replied, his voice a mix of menace and sorrow. "Your father's choices have consequences, and now, so do yours."

Duties, danger, destiny - his words were a torrent, sweeping away the last remnants of my childhood. "You will come to Italy with me. You will learn what it means to be a Romano."

I had always cared for my family, my father's drunken stumbles, my sister's quiet fears. I had been a guardian before I knew the word. "Ok. I will go," I said, a decision made in the depths of duty and love.

He smiled, a conqueror claiming his prize, and summoned the others. My father's eyes held a storm of emotions, my mother's embrace was a farewell, and my sister's gaze was a silent question mark. Our world had shifted, and I stood at its trembling center.

This journal, my confidant, begins at the end of my ordinary days and the dawn of a legacy I never asked for but must now embrace.

May 27

As the wheels of the plane lifted off, leaving behind the life I knew, I found myself enveloped in a new world, one where Italian words floated around me like pieces of a puzzle I needed to piece together. My father's slurred Italian phrases, once mere background noise, now became my guideposts in this unfamiliar terrain. The determination that set me apart from my other family members turned into my ally, as I devoted every moment of the nine-hour journey to mastering the language of my ancestors.

The grandeur of my grandfather's home, a majestic fortress straight out of a fairy tale, was both awe-inspiring and foreboding. It stood, not just as a house, but as a symbol of power and legacy. Within its walls, I met my Uncle and his young sons, echoes of a normalcy that seemed so distant. Their laughter and playfulness were a stark contrast to the weight of my own reality.

No sooner had I acquainted myself with my surroundings than I was summoned to my grandfather's office. The long desk, more a barrier than a piece of furniture, separated us as he outlined my future - a regimen of homeschooling, weapons training, and combat skills. Behind his smile lay an expectation of excellence, an unspoken demand to rise to the Romano name. "What am I training for?" I asked with the most innocent of eyes.