Lair of the Lion

steps to a balcony and a double door straight ahead. Isabella stopped abruptly in front of it, not needing Sarina to tell her she was in Don DeMarco's private lair.
    "This entire wing of the house is the Master's. No one is allowed entrance unless he has issued an invitation."
    "What of the servants?" Isabella asked, curious. She was staring at the huge, intricately carved double door graced with a lion's head complete with shaggy mane and piercing eyes.
    The muzzle seemed to come right out of the carving, open mouth displaying sharpened teeth. But there was something different about this lion, something very different from the others. This lion looked intelligent, cunning, menacing. It was almost as if the portrait of a man had been made into the carving of a lion. She could almost see the human beneath the frightful mask.
    "You must go in," Sarina prompted.
    Isabella continued to stare at the carving, scarcely hearing the older woman. She reached out and touched the ferocious muzzle with a gentle fingertip, almost caressing it, something inside her responding to the look in those eyes.
    "Signorina, take hold of the handle and go inside," Sarina urged her in a soft hiss.
    Isabella's heart began to pound as she gazed in horror at the doorknob—another snarling lion's head. She was afraid, now that she was actually here, that the don would turn her down and she would have nowhere else to go. "Come in with me," she whispered softly to the housekeeper, a plea that cost her a great deal in pride.
    "You must go in alone, piccola." Sarina patted her shoulder encouragingly. "He is expecting you. Have courage." She began to walk away.
    Isabella reached out to her before she could stop herself, clutching desperately at the woman's dress. "Is he as they whisper of him?"
    "He is both terrible and kind," Sarina answered. "We are accustomed to his ways, to his appearance. Others are not. Be one he can be kind to. He has not much patience, so go in quickly. You look beautiful, and you have shown much courage." She reached past Isabella, grasped the ornate doorknob, and twisted it.
    Isabella had no choice. She entered the room slowly. Her heart was beating so loudly, she feared he might hear it. She tried not to look intimidated or stiff with anger. She needed to be humble. She repeated that to herself several times. She had to be humble, not speak her mind or allow her wayward tongue to run away with her. She couldn't afford to be the wild girl-child breaking every rule in her father's house, running free in the mountains when no one was looking, playing tricks on her beloved brother at every turn, continually earning her father's disapproving frown as he turned away from her in disappointment.
    She held tightly to her memories of her brother, Lucca. He had often aided her in her rebellious ways, her best friend and confidant despite their father's pleading that she act the part of a lady. She knew she would have been wed long before now if her father had had his way, sold to some older don to aid the war chest. Lucca wouldn't hear of it. Several times she had dressed as a boy and accompanied him on hunting expeditions. He had taught her to wield a sword and a stiletto, to ride as well as a man, even to swim in the cold waters of the rivers and lakes. Long after their father died, her brother had protected her, loved her, and watched over her. Even when they were desperate for money, he had never once thought of selling her to one of the many suitors. And she would never, ever abandon Lucca in his hour of need.
    Isabella lifted her chin. Lucca had taught her courage, and she wouldn't fail him now in her last, desperate attempt to save him. She moved into the darkened interior of the room. A fire blazed on the hearth, but it couldn't compete with the heavy draperies blocking out every vestige of light from the windows. She saw two high-backed chairs in front of the fire, but the room was huge, with high, vaulted ceilings and so many alcoves and archways an army could have been hiding. Even the blaze in the large fireplace had no hope of shedding light into the shadowy recesses.
    For a moment she thought herself alone as the heavy door swung closed, locking her in the room. Then she felt him. She knew it was he. The don. Mysterious. Aloof. She sensed him there in the darkness, the weight of his stare. Intense. Calculating. Burning. Afraid to cross the wide expanse of marble floor to one of the high-backed chairs, Isabella shivered