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.

Damien POV

The corridor of the main wing was a suffocating tunnel of shadows and heavy Persian rugs that swallowed my footsteps. From the silk-lined walls, the oil portraits of past Moretti Dons stared down at me, their cold eyes judging my every move. I had just spent hours playing the dutiful groom, parading a bride I didn't want in front of our enemies and allies alike. My grandmother, Elena, thought she could leash me with this farce of a marriage. She was wrong.

I rounded the corner toward the honeymoon suite, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached.

"Don Moretti."

I stopped. Carl, Elena’s most loyal butler, stood in the middle of the hallway. He held a silver tray bearing a single crystal glass of amber whiskey.

"What is this, Carl?" I asked, my voice dangerously low.

"A blessing from the Matriarch, sir," Carl said, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "From our homeland in Sicily. To grant you strength for the night."

I stared at the glass. I wasn't a fool. I knew exactly how desperate Elena was to secure an heir and prevent me from annulling this union on the grounds of non-consummation. The drink was laced.

"Leave us, Luca," I ordered my bodyguard without looking back. Luca hesitated for a fraction of a second before retreating into the shadows.

I looked back at Carl, letting my absolute contempt bleed into the air between us. I was the Don. No drug, no pathetic manipulation could break my iron will. I picked up the glass. Maintaining dead-eyed eye contact with the trembling butler, I downed the burning liquid in one swallow. It tasted like ash and bitter herbs.

I slammed the empty glass back onto the silver tray. "Thank her for her hospitality."

I didn't wait for his response. I strode toward the heavy mahogany door of the suite and pushed it open.

The moment the door clicked shut behind me, the drug hit my bloodstream like a freight train. My vision swam, a primal, uncontrollable heat clawing at my veins and setting my blood on fire. The room was a cavernous tomb, smelling of cedar, expensive leather, and the sickeningly sweet scent of roses.

Through the haze, I saw the silhouette of a woman tangled in the Egyptian cotton sheets of the four-poster bed. My supposed wife. I didn't care about her face in the dark. I only cared about finishing this transaction and purging the poison from my system.

I stripped off my suit jacket, the drug violently stripping away my legendary control. I didn't offer gentle words or soft touches. I took what was legally mine with ruthless, punishing efficiency. Driven by the unnatural, burning chemical surge in my veins, the act was entirely devoid of tenderness and over far too quickly. My body, usually a machine of endless stamina, betrayed me under Elena's toxic dosage.

I rolled off, my chest heaving, staring up at the dark vaulted ceiling as the haze began to recede, leaving behind a throbbing, vicious headache.

Beside me, the woman shifted. She sounded groggy, confused, as if waking from a deep daze. Then, she spoke. Her voice was a soft, hesitant whisper in the dark.

"It's okay... you were great."

I froze. The sheer audacity of the pity in her tone was like a physical blow to my chest.

Before I could even process the insult, she kept digging her own grave, her voice laced with a sickening mix of awkwardness and sympathy. "You were just in such a rush. It's alright; you'll have plenty of time to learn how to take your time."

A deadly silence descended upon the room. The remnants of the drug evaporated, replaced instantly by a cold, murderous rage. She thought I was weak. She thought I was defective.

I lunged. My hand snapped out in the dark, wrapping around her delicate wrist like a steel vice. I yanked her toward me, feeling her pulse instantly skyrocket in terror against my palm.

"You think I can't perform?" I hissed, my voice dropping to a lethal, icy register.