Isabella POV

The heavy oak doors of the Griffin Estate study slammed shut behind me, sealing me inside with the suffocating scent of stale cigars and my father’s silent despair. I had barely taken off my coat after returning from Holy Trinity Cathedral when the summons came.

"Sit down, Bella," my father, Richard, muttered, staring blankly at his empty crystal glass.

My mother, Catherine, stood by the unlit fireplace, her posture rigid and her face devoid of its usual warmth. "Tomorrow morning, you and Francesca are getting married."

I froze, a nervous, breathless laugh escaping my lips. "Married? To whom?"

"The Moretti brothers," my father said, his voice hollow. "Frankie will marry Damien. And you will marry Leo."

The room spun violently. *Leo Moretti.* The degenerate. The notorious playboy who practically lived in Chicago's most depraved underground clubs.

"No," I gasped, backing away toward the door. "No! You can't do this! I won't marry that disgusting pig! I'll run away!"

"Run where?" Catherine snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. She crossed the room, her perfectly manicured fingers digging brutally into my shoulders. "Wake up, Isabella! The Griffin empire is crumbling. The Kramer family is circling us like vultures. Do you think your pink Bentley and your trust fund will magically protect you? Without the Moretti alliance, you will have absolutely nothing. You won't be a princess; you'll be a plaything for our enemies."

Tears blurred my vision, hot and humiliating. I looked at my father, begging for him to intervene, to protect me like he always did, but he couldn't even meet my eyes. They were selling me. I wasn't a beloved daughter anymore; I was a piece of collateral.

"Frankie will be with you," my mother added, her tone softening just a fraction, though her grip remained iron-tight. "You won't be alone in that house."

A sob tore from my throat. The only tiny mercy in this nightmare was my sister. Defeated by the terrifying reality of poverty and the monsters waiting outside our gates, I let my head drop. I had no choice.

*

Damien POV

The heavy, metallic taste of the chemical sedative still coated my tongue when I opened my eyes. The air was freezing, thick with the scent of damp earth, mold, and aging oak. The Moretti wine cellar.

"I'm going to kill them," a voice snarled from the shadows.

Leo paced like a caged animal between the racks of priceless vintages, his tuxedo jacket torn, his knuckles bruised and bleeding. He had clearly put up a fight when they dragged him from whatever club he’d been wasting his night in.

"We shoot our way out," Leo demanded, turning to me with wild eyes. "I am not marrying that spoiled Griffin brat."

I pushed myself up from the cold stone floor, my muscles heavy and uncoordinated. "Stand down, Leo."

"Damien, they locked us in a fucking cellar!"

"By the order of the Matriarch," I said, my voice a low, dangerous rasp that demanded immediate submission. "Elena invoked the Old Law. The Enforcers are loyal to the tradition. If we fight our way out tonight, we start a civil war within the *Famiglia*. I will not burn my own empire to the ground over two ruined women."

Leo dragged a hand through his messy hair, panic bleeding into his anger. "So what? We just roll over? I'm not being shackled to a wife."

"We play the game," I said coldly, leaning against the stone wall as my mind rapidly calculated our exit strategy. "We stand at the altar tomorrow. We say the vows. But we do not touch them."

Leo stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing in the dim, flickering candlelight.

"The marriages will be *non consummatum*," I explained, the plan solidifying in my mind with ruthless clarity. "We give Elena her public alliance to stabilize the territory. But behind closed doors, the girls remain untouched. When the time is right, and our power is absolute, we file for annulment. We send them away without a scratch, and the Old Law cannot bind us."

Leo let out a harsh breath, a dark, cynical smirk slowly forming on his face. "A sham marriage."

"Exactly." I adjusted my cuffs, the lingering effects of the drug completely replaced by a cold, calculated fury. The Griffin sisters thought they were securing their survival tomorrow. They had no idea their marriages were dead before they even began.

Isabella POV

I stared at the pale, terrified stranger in the mirror. The Vera Wang gown was a masterpiece of ivory silk and delicate lace, but as it clung to my skin, it felt like a beautiful, heavy shroud. The bridal suite was choked with the scent of hundreds of white roses, their sweet perfume so thick it made my stomach turn.

"Breathe, Bella," Francesca murmured, stepping up behind me. Her own gown rustled softly against the thick carpet. She reached out, her fingers wrapping tightly around my freezing hands. "No matter what happens today, we are in this together. You aren't alone."

I met her fierce gaze in the mirror and gave a fragile nod. Our mother, Catherine, hovered near the door, her eyes red-rimmed as she adjusted my veil in silence. There were no words left. In this gilded cage, Frankie and I only had each other.

Before we could leave for the cathedral, my father summoned me to his study.

The room was dim, smelling of old leather and the stale cigars from last night's ruined negotiations. Richard Griffin didn't offer a hug or an apology. Instead, he pushed a thick stack of legal documents across his mahogany desk.

"Your four-million-dollar trust fund, the deed to the Gold Coast apartment, and the title to your pink Bentley," he said, his voice hollow and defeated. "The Morettis demanded a dowry. Sign them over, Bella."

I picked up the heavy gold pen. As I signed my name on the dotted lines, the last illusion of my childhood shattered. I wasn't a beloved daughter walking down the aisle; I was a four-million-dollar down payment. A piece of collateral handed over to appease monsters.

The ride to Holy Trinity Cathedral was a suffocating procession of power. Frankie and I sat in the back of a stretched white Rolls-Royce, our hands locked together in a death grip. Outside the tinted windows, the streets of Chicago had been entirely cleared. We were flanked by a dozen black bulletproof Cadillacs. Every few yards, a Moretti soldato in a dark suit stood like a grim sentinel against the morning chill.

It wasn't a wedding parade. It was a prison transfer, a brutal display of dominance meant to warn the Kramer family and the rest of the city that the Griffins had been swallowed whole.

When the heavy oak doors of the cathedral finally opened, the stained glass cast fractured, bloody light across the cold marble floor. I walked down the long aisle on my father's arm, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.

At the altar stood my future.

Leo Moretti looked bored, shifting his weight with the faint, irritable sheen of a hangover on his handsome face. He didn't even bother to pretend he wanted to be here. Beside him stood the Don. Damien Moretti met my gaze as I approached, his bottomless black eyes sweeping over me with absolute, chilling contempt.

The curse I had whispered to the Virgin Mary in this very church echoed mockingly in my mind: Whoever marries him is truly cursed. I looked at Frankie, my heart breaking for the nightmare she was walking into.

The priest's voice droned on, solemn and heavy. I exchanged rings with Leo, the cold metal sliding onto my finger like a shackle.

"I do," I whispered. The words tasted like ash.

In the eyes of the law and God, I was Isabella Moretti.

The moment the ceremony concluded, the fragile alliance Frankie and I had formed this morning was brutally severed. Leo immediately turned away from me, walking toward his smirking friends without a backward glance. A few feet away, Damien stepped forward. His presence was suffocating as he claimed Frankie, his hand wrapping around her arm with a ruthless, undeniable grip.

They were separating us. As we were ushered out of the cathedral and toward the waiting cars that would take us to the Moretti Estate, I realized I was stepping into the dark completely alone.

Isabella POV

The Moretti Estate’s grand foyer was a cavern of black-and-white marble, echoing with the terrifying reality of my new life. The vaulted ceilings were painted with Sicilian myths, but the air felt like a tomb. The moment we stepped inside, the fragile thread connecting Frankie and me was severed. Two massive guards immediately ushered my sister toward the east wing.

A trembling young maid stepped into my line of sight. She fumbled with two keycards the butler had just shoved into her hands. Her wide, nervous eyes darted between Frankie’s retreating form and my shivering, lace-draped figure. Completely overwhelmed and confusing the two brides in our identical white veils, she handed the keycard for Leo's suite to Frankie’s guard, and gestured for me to follow her to the Don's master suite.

I followed her in a daze. But as we walked, the corridor grew suffocatingly opulent. The chatter of the arriving guests faded into a heavy, oppressive silence. Oil portraits of past Moretti Dons glared down at me from the silk-lined walls. The security here was too tight, the air too thick with the scent of power. This wasn't a second son's quarters.

Up ahead, a broad, imposing back came into view. Damien Moretti.

Panic seized my throat. I spun around to flee, but my stiletto caught on the slick, polished marble. I pitched backward, a gasp tearing from my lips.

Before I hit the ground, an iron grip clamped around my waist. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. I looked up into Damien’s bottomless, dead eyes. For a split second, the sheer, terrifying power radiating from him paralyzed me. He didn't catch me out of kindness; he caught me because he refused to let anything fall out of order in his domain.

The moment I was steady, he released me so abruptly I stumbled. He took a deliberate step back, his jaw clenched in absolute disgust. Reaching into his tailored suit jacket, he pulled out a pristine white handkerchief and meticulously wiped his fingers, one by one, as if my very touch had contaminated him.

The sheer, unadulterated contempt in his gesture ignited a hot flash of fury in my chest. I wasn't just collateral to him; I was a liability. Filth. I lifted my chin, my hands trembling with a toxic mix of humiliation and hatred, but he had already turned his back on me, disappearing down the hall.

Hours later, the estate's ballroom was a gilded cage of clinking champagne glasses and watchful eyes. I stood near the edge of the dance floor, my stomach in knots as the traditional first dance began.

Leo looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. He spun Frankie carelessly, a drunken, arrogant smirk on his face. Suddenly, his heavy dress shoe came down hard on the delicate lace of her Vera Wang train. I gasped, expecting her to stumble or cry out.

Instead, Frankie’s spine went rigid. She maintained her flawless, camera-ready smile, gracefully leaning into Leo’s chest. She whispered something directly into his ear—just one brief sentence.

I couldn't hear the words, but I saw the blood drain completely from Leo’s face. His smirk vanished, replaced by raw, unmasked terror. He swallowed hard. For the rest of the song, he held her with stiff, terrified precision, treating her like a live explosive. A tiny, fierce spark of hope flared in my chest. Leo thought he had married a docile canary, but he had just caught a glimpse of the she-devil inside. Frankie wasn't breaking.

By the time the reception dragged into the early hours of the morning, I was entirely numb. The same nervous maid found me and led me back to the suite I had nearly reached earlier.

The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind me, sealing me in. The room was a cavernous, dark space smelling of cedar, expensive leather, and a faint trace of whiskey. It didn't look like Leo's style, but I was too exhausted to care. I stripped off the suffocating wedding dress, leaving it in a heap on the floor. Crawling into the center of the massive, cold bed, I pulled the heavy duvet over my head and closed my eyes, praying to God that Leo would be too drunk to find his way to this room tonight.