Isabella's POV

"BOOM, BOOM BOOM," the knocks sound again and my heart pounding with every knock.

Go, Bella," my father urges me.

Clara nudges me forward.

What do they mean by I should go? I'm just as scared as any of them.

So even though my heart is like a drum in my chest, I walk down the stairs like I am walking to my own execution. Each step creaks. My legs shake. Clara watches me from the top with her phone out like she is about to record this moment for posterity. Dad stands by the door sweating through his wrinkled shirt. He will not look at me. He never looks at me when he is about to do something horrible.

The door opens before I reach the bottom step.

Three men walk in like they own the place. Maybe they do. Maybe my father gambled away the house too. I would not be surprised. The first man is tall with a shaved head and tattoos crawling up his neck. The second one is younger with curly black hair and a leather jacket. The third man wears a gray suit that probably costs more than my entire yearly salary from both jobs combined. His hair is dark blond and styled perfectly. He looks like he could sell you a luxury car or bury you in a shallow grave. Possibly both.

The one in the gray suit smiles. It does not reach his eyes. "Isabella Moretti?"

I nod because my voice stopped working somewhere around the third stair.

"I am Matteo Greco. We're here to collect the debt your father owes to the Valerio family."

Debt. Of course. My father gambles. My father loses. I pay. That is how our family works.

"I can work," I say quietly. "I will work off whatever he owes. I have two jobs already but I can find a third. I just need time."

Matteo's smile widens. "That is very admirable. But we are not here to discuss payment plans."

Dad finally speaks. His voice is thin and whiny. "She is a good worker. Very obedient. She will do whatever you need. She cooks. She cleans. She never complains."

He is describing me like I am a used appliance he found in his garage.

Elena appears at the top of the stairs. She clutches the railing like standing takes all her strength. Maybe it does. "Please," she says, her voice cracking. "Isabella understands. She wants to help her family. Do not you, Isabella?"

I stare at her. The woman who raised me. The woman I have worked myself into exhaustion for. The woman who called me ugly just hours ago.

"Of course," I hear myself say. "I want to help."

Clara giggles. Actually giggles. She leans against the wall and waves at me with her perfectly manicured fingers. "Bye, Bella. Try not to embarrass us."

Something inside me cracks. Not breaks. Just cracks. Like a window that gets hit by a rock but does not shatter yet.

Matteo gestures toward the door. "Shall we?"

I look at my father one more time. He is staring at his shoes. I look at Elena. She wipes fake tears from her cheeks. I look at Clara. She is already back on her phone.

None of them are going to stop this.

I walk toward the door on legs that do not feel like mine, following men I've never met while still in my nightwear - a black gown with robe to a car I've never seen. The man with the shaved head opens it. Cold air rushes in. Chicago smells like rain and car exhaust and something burning a few blocks away. The black car idles at the curb. It looks like something from a movie. Sleek and expensive and completely out of place on this street where cars have rust spots and cracked windows.

"Wait," Elena calls out. "Isabella. This is for all of us. You understand that, right? You are saving this family."

I do not turn around. If I turn around, I might scream. I might say things I can never take back. So I keep walking.

The man with the curly hair opens the back door of the car. The leather seats look soft. The interior smells like money. I slide inside and the door closes behind me with a heavy, final sound. The kind of sound that says you are not getting out until someone lets you out.

Matteo sits in the front passenger seat. The other two men get in. The engine purrs to life. We pull away from the curb and I watch my house disappear through the window. The flickering porch light. The cracked walkway. The place where I have spent twenty-two years trying to be small enough that no one would notice me.

No one speaks. The city slides past the windows. We leave my neighborhood and enter a different Chicago. The buildings get taller. The streets get cleaner. The cars parked along the curbs look like they have never seen a pothole. We drive through downtown where lights reflect off glass towers and people walk fast with their heads down. Then we turn onto a street lined with trees that probably cost more to maintain than my childhood home.

The car slows. We pass through iron gates that open automatically. A long driveway curves through landscaped grounds that look like something from a magazine. Then I see it. The house. Except 'house' is the wrong word. This is a mansion.

My stomach twists into knots. I wonder how long it'll take to clean a place like this. But I take a deep breath, I'll just have to wake up extra early and work super hard.

The car stops in front of massive double doors. The man with the shaved head opens my door. I step out onto cobblestones that are probably older than me. The air smells different here. Cleaner. Like even the oxygen is expensive.

"This way," Matteo says.

The inside of the house makes me want to apologize for existing. Marble floors. A chandelier that looks like it has a thousand crystals. A staircase that curves up to a second floor. Artwork on the walls that I recognize from textbooks. I suddenly feel very aware of my threadbare nightwear and robe, and the fact that I have not washed my hair in two days because I was too tired after my double shift.

We walk down a hallway lined with more artwork. Our footsteps echo. Every surface gleams. I count four security cameras before I stop counting. We stop in front of a dark wood door. Matteo knocks twice.

"Come in," a voice says from inside.

Matteo opens the door and gestures for me to enter.

I'm scared when I realize he would not be following me inside. Even though I don't know the man, the thought of meeting the person in charge of all this alone scares me more.

The office is huge. Floor to ceiling windows overlook the grounds. A desk sits in the center made from wood so dark it looks black. Bookshelves line one wall. A fireplace crackles on another. And behind the desk sits a man who makes every nerve in my body scream at me to run.

He is tall even sitting down. Broad shoulders. Dark hair pushed back from his face. A thin scar runs from his temple to his cheek like someone tried to kill him and almost succeeded. He wears a black suit that fits him like it was made specifically for his body. Which it probably was. His eyes are gray. Storm gray. The kind of gray that looks cold until you realize there is something burning underneath.

He is looking at me like I am a problem he needs to solve. What do I do? Curtsy? kneel? Bow?

I am definitely a problem.

"Isabella Moretti," he says. My heart is almost beating out of my chest right now.

I nod because my voice still is not working properly.

"Sit."

I sit in the chair across from his desk. The leather is soft. I perch on the edge because sinking back feels presumptuous. Matteo closes the door as he leaves. Now it is just me and this man who I assume is Dante Valerio. The man my father owes three million dollars. The man who everyone in our neighborhood talks about in whispers. The man you don't hear about except you're doing things you should not be doing.

He studies me for a long moment. I try not to fidget. I fail. My hands twist in my lap. I force them to stop.

"Do you know why you are here?" he asks.

"My father owes you money," I say quietly. "I am here to work it off."

"Work it off," he repeats. Something that might be amusement flickers across his face. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Whatever you need. I can clean. I can cook. I will work hard. I promise I will not be a problem." The words tumble out fast. Too fast. "Please do not hurt my family. They did not mean to-"

"Stop."

I stop. My mouth closes so fast my teeth click together.

He leans back in his chair. "Your father did not tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"You are not here to scrub my floors, Isabella."

Relief tries to flood through me but something in his tone stops it. If I am not here to clean, then why am I here? My mind races through possibilities. Each one worse than the last.

He reaches into a drawer and pulls out papers. He slides them across the desk toward me. "You are here to sign this."

I lean forward. The papers are thick. Official looking. Words swim in front of my eyes. I see phrases like "binding agreement" and "legal contract" and then I see two words that make my heart stop.

Marriage certificate.

Dante's POV

"What?" Her brown eyes almost pop from their sockets.

"It is simple." I say "You marry me. Your father's debt disappears. Your stepmother gets the treatment she needs. Everyone walks away happy."

Happy. The word tastes like ash in my mouth. No one walks away happy from deals with men like me. But she doesn't need to know that yet.

"Marry you." Her voice sounds broken already. Fragile. She's worrying her bottom lip between her teeth and I find myself watching the movement. Soft lips. Pink from the pressure. "I do not understand."

Christ, she's so small. Maybe 5'3" at most, the nightwear shows her small frame, that makes her look even younger than twenty-two. Dark hair falling over her shoulders like she's trying to hide behind it. Those big brown eyes tilted down at the corners, making her look perpetually sad and scared.

Like a frightened doe that wandered into a wolf's den.

"Yes."

"No." The word comes out as barely a whisper. Not defiance. More like a prayer that won't be answered. "No. I cannot. I do not even know you."

I smile because the situation is funny in a dark, twisted way only I can appreciate. This girl thinks knowing someone matters. "You do not need to know me. You just need to sign the paper."

"Why would you want to marry me? This does not make sense. You could have anyone. You could-"

"I do not need to explain my reasons to you." My voice drops lower because I'm done playing. "Your father made a deal. This is the deal. You sign, or I visit your family tonight and collect my debt another way. Do you understand what that means?"

She understands. I see it in those enormous eyes that keep darting away from my face, unable to hold my gaze for more than a second. Her hands twist together in her lap, fingers knotting and unknotting. Everything about her screams submission. Defeat.

It should disgust me. Weakness always has.

Instead, something tightens in my chest.

Her hands shake as she reaches for the pen. Small hands. Delicate. The kind that have never held anything more dangerous than a kitchen knife. I notice her nails are bitten down to the quick.

"If I do this, you will leave them alone?"

"I will clear the debt. Your stepmother will receive the best medical care money can buy. Your family will be untouchable as long as you are my wife."

"As long as I am your wife." She repeats it slowly, testing the words. Her voice cracks. "For how long?"

"As long as I decide."

"That is not fair."

I lean forward because I need her to see my face when I say this. "Do I look like a man who cares about fair?"

She shrinks back in the chair, making herself smaller. "No. I am sorry. I did not mean-"

"Stop apologizing."

"I am sor-" She catches herself, then her face flushes. Pink spreads across those soft cheeks, down her neck. I wonder how far that blush goes.

Fuck.

I watch her pick up the pen. It's one of my favorites-Italian, custom-made, worth more than whatever piece of shit car her father probably drives. She reads through the contract but I can tell she's not absorbing anything. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

"What happens if I refuse?" she whispers.

"Your father dies tonight. Probably your stepmother too. Maybe your sister if she tries to be heroic. Which she will not, but the possibility exists."

"You would kill them."

"I would let nature take its course. Your father stole from me. That has consequences."

"He gambled it away. He is sick. He has a problem."

"He has many problems. You are about to solve the biggest one."

I watch her hand hover over the signature line. Part of me-a very small, very buried part-wonders if she'll actually do it. If she'll sign her life away for a family that clearly doesn't deserve her.

But she does.

Isabella Moretti. The handwriting is shaky, almost childlike. She sets the pen down and her hand is shaking so hard she nearly knocks over the inkwell.

"Done."

"That is it?" Her voice cracks and those big eyes finally meet mine for more than a second. They're swimming with tears she's desperately trying to hold back. "I am married now?"

"Not quite. We will have a ceremony. Small and private. Tomorrow afternoon."

"Tomorrow? I do not have a dress. I do not have anything." Panic makes her voice thin. She's started worrying that bottom lip again and I want to reach over and pull it free with my thumb.

I don't.

"That will be handled."

"I need clothes. My things."

"Everything you need will be provided."

She stands up because sitting seems impossible for her now. Her legs wobble and I watch her grab the edge of the desk to steady herself. Those delicate fingers pressing into the wood, knuckles going white.

"I do not understand why you are doing this. What do you get out of marrying me?"

I stand too, moving around the desk. She tilts her head back to look at me and I realize just how much smaller she is. The top of her head barely reaches my chest. I could snap her in half without trying.

Instead, I'm noticing the curve of her neck. The way her pulse flutters visibly at her throat. How her lips part slightly as she breathes, and how her nipples pucker underneath the black nightwear.

"You do not need to understand," I say quietly, stepping closer. Too close. "You just need to obey."

"I am not a dog." It comes out as barely a whisper, not defiance, more like she's reminding herself.

"No. You are my wife." I reach out and touch her chin, tilting her face up to meet mine. Her skin is impossibly soft. Warm. She's trembling under my fingers but she doesn't pull away. Can't, probably. "Welcome to your cage, Mrs. Valerio."

She licks her lips nervously and I track the movement like a predator.

Christ, I want to taste her.

The door opens and I force myself to step back. Business mode.

"Sir. The room is ready."

"Take her upstairs. Make sure she has everything she needs."

I watch Isabella follow my housekeeper out on unsteady legs. She looks back once, just before she disappears through the door. Those eyes meeting mine for a brief second before she drops her gaze to the floor again.

The door closes and I pour myself three fingers of whiskey. I down it in one swallow, feeling the burn.

I wait two hours before I go upstairs. I tell myself it's because I have work to do. Calls to make. Plans to finalize, but the truth is I'm not sure what I'm going to do when I open that door.

When I do, the room is dark except for the light spilling in from the windows. I spot her immediately-a small shape curled up on the floor beside the bed, not in it.

She's on the floor crying. Not loud, dramatic sobs. Quiet, broken sounds like she's trying not to disturb anyone. Like she's apologising for her tears.

I should leave. This is none of my concern. She signed the papers, the deal is done.

But I stand there in the doorway, watching her shoulders shake, listening to her try to muffle her tears in her hands.

I close the door and walk back downstairs. I give her another hour but when I return, she's still on the floor. Still crying.

Fuck this.

"Will you cry all night?"

She gasps and scrambles backward, her eyes wide and red-rimmed in the darkness. Her hair is a mess around her face, cheeks blotchy and wet. She presses herself against the bedframe, trying to disappear into it.

"I am sorry. I am so sorry. I did not mean to disturb you. I will be quiet. I promise. I am sorry-"

"Stop apologizing."

She clamps her mouth shut, but I can see her bottom lip trembling. Fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

I should feel nothing. A decent man would feel guilty for putting that look on a woman's face.

But I'm not a decent man. And what I feel isn't guilt.

I cross the room and she makes herself smaller, arms wrapping around her knees. Trying to protect herself from me.

"Get up."

"I am sorry, I just-the bed felt wrong, and I did not want to-"

"Get. Up."

She tries. Her legs won't cooperate. She's been sitting on that hard floor for so long they've gone numb. She struggles, that pink blush spreading across her face again.

I reach down and lift her.

She weighs nothing. Like a fucking bird in my hands.

The moment I touch her, she goes completely still. Not calm, frozen. Even her breath stops. Those big eyes lock on my face, terrified and something else.

I set her on the bed and she sits there, rigid, staring up at me. Her hair falls around her face in dark waves and I can smell her now-something clean and simple. Soap. Fear.

And underneath it, something sweet.

"You signed the papers," I say, my voice rough. "The crying does not change anything."

"I know. I am sorry. I should not have-"

"Why were you on the floor?"

She looks down at her hands. Always looking away. "The bed felt... it is too nice. Like it belongs to someone else. I did not want to ruin it. I am sorry."

"Stop saying you are sorry."

"I am-" She catches herself, then her face crumples. "I do not know what else to say."

Something in my chest tightens again. Harder this time.

"The bed belongs to you now. Everything in this room belongs to you." I sit down beside her and she tenses. "You belong to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes." It's barely a whisper.

I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She jerks but doesn't pull away. Her skin is still damp from tears.

"I do not keep broken things, Isabella. So stop crying."

"I will try. I am-" She stops herself before the apology. "I will try."

I should leave. This is already more than I intended.

But I don't leave.

Instead, I pull off my jacket and shoes. Her eyes go wide as I stretch out on the bed beside her, on top of the covers.

"What are you-"

"You cannot sleep. Neither can I. So we will not sleep together."

"I do not understand."

"You will learn that I do not explain myself often." I turn my head to look at her. She's frozen, sitting up against the headboard, staring at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. "Lie down."

"I-where should I-"

"Next to me."

"But-"

"Isabella." My voice drops lower. "Lie down. Now."

She moves like a frightened animal, slowly lowering herself to lie on her side, as far from me as she can get while still being on the same bed. Her body is rigid, her breathing shallow.

I can feel the heat of her even through the space between us.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispers to the ceiling.

"Because if I leave you alone, you will cry all night on the floor and be useless tomorrow."

"I am sorry-"

"Stop."

Silence falls. I can hear her breathing, quick and nervous. The sound of traffic outside. The old house settling around us.

"You are afraid of me," I say. Not a question.

"Yes." At least she's honest.

"Good. You should be." I turn my head to look at her profile in the darkness. That small nose. Soft jaw. The curve of her mouth. "But I do not hurt what belongs to me. Remember that."

I should not want this. I should not want her.

But I do.

Bella's POV

I wake to the feeling of being watched.

My eyes flutter open and there he is, Dante, Sitting in a chair beside the bed like some kind of dark guardian angel who forgot the angel part. The early morning light from the window cuts across his face. He's still wearing yesterday's clothes but his suit jacket is gone and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.

He looks tired but dangerous. Yet, beautiful in a way that makes my stomach flip. Did he not sleep all night?

I sit up too fast and the room spins. "I am sorry. I did not mean to oversleep. What time is it? I should-I can clean. I will clean the house and make breakfast and-"

The words tumble out before I can stop them because this is what I do. This is what I have always done. Wake up early, clean the house, make breakfast for Father and Elena and Clara before they even open their eyes. Scrub the floors until my knees ache. Wash dishes until my hands are raw. Stay quiet and useful and maybe, maybe they will not look at me with that expression that says I am a burden they wish they could discard.

I swing my legs off the bed and stand. "I will start with the kitchen. Do you take coffee or tea? I can make both. I am sorry, I should have asked last night what you-"

"Stop."

His voice cuts through my rambling like a knife. I freeze halfway to the door.

"You are not a servant here, Isabella."

I turn to look at him. He has not moved from the chair but something about his posture has changed. More alert. Like a predator that just noticed its prey trying to run.

"I do not understand."

"You are my wife. Not my maid."

The words sound strange. Foreign. Like he is speaking a language I should know but do not.

"But I need to-someone has to clean and cook and-"

"I have staff for that." He stands and the chair scrapes against the hardwood floor. The sound makes me flinch. "You will not clean my house. You will not cook my meals. You will not act like a servant in your own home."

Your own home. The words echo in my head but they do not make sense. This is not my home. This is a prison that looks like a palace.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" The question comes out smaller than I intended.

He walks toward me and I have to fight the urge to back away. He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker. Whiskey, maybe. And cigarette smoke.

"You are supposed to obey me." His voice is low and rough like gravel. "There are rules, Isabella. You will learn them now."

My heart hammers against my ribs. "What rules?"

"First. You do not leave this estate without me. Not to visit friends. Not for any reason. Do you understand?"

I nod because what else can I do?

"Second. You do not contact your family without telling me first. I will decide when and how. No surprises."

Something cold slides down my spine. "But my mother is sick. I need to know if she-"

"She is receiving the best care money can buy. I told you that. You will not contact them."

"That is not fair. I just want to know she is okay. I just want to-"

"Third rule." He steps closer and I back up instinctively. My spine hits the wall. I am trapped between expensive wallpaper and six feet four inches of muscle and menace. "You will attend all public events as my wife. You will smile. You will be gracious. You will play the doting wife, and you will make everyone believe you are happy to be married to me."

"I am not happy." The words slip out before I can stop them.

His eyes darken. "I do not need your happiness, Isabella. I need your obedience."

I should stay quiet. I should nod and agree and make myself small the way I always do. But something about being caged against this wall with this man who married me without even pretending to care makes something crack inside my chest.

"You cannot just lock me away and expect me to smile about it."

"I can do whatever I want. You signed the papers, remember?"

"I signed because you threatened to kill my family."

"Yes. I did." He says it like he is commenting on the weather. Like threatening to murder people is just another Tuesday for him. Which it probably is. "And now you belong to me. That means you follow my rules."

His face inches clos, his lips just an inch from mine. He is so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body. So close I can see the flecks of darker gray in his storm-cloud eyes. For a second I think he'll close the space between our lips so I turn my face away.

He makes a sound that might be a laugh but has no humor in it. "Look at me when I am speaking to you."

"No."

The word comes out as a whisper but it might as well be a shout. His whole body goes still.

"What did you say?"

"I said no." I force myself to meet his eyes even though every instinct screams at me to apologize and look away. "I do not want to look at you."

For a moment I think he might actually hurt me. His jaw clenches and something dangerous flashes across his face. Then his mouth curves into something that is not quite a smile.

"You do not seem to understand that you are now my wife… and that means I own you. Every part of you."

He leans in, his breath brushing my cheek. "So if I want to kiss you, Isabella, I can."

My breath catches. "What?"

"You heard me." He leans in until his mouth is inches from mine. Until I can see the stubble along his jaw and the way his eyes have gone darker. "I own you now, Isabella. Every part of you. Including this."

His thumb brushes across my lower lip and I jerk back but there is nowhere to go. I am already pressed against the wall.

"Do not." My voice shakes but I force the words out anyway. "Do not touch me like that."

"Like what?" His hand slides from my face down my neck, fingers trailing along my collarbone, down to my chest, dangerously close to the swell of my breast. "Like you are mine?"

"I am not yours. I am just-I am trapped here because you gave me no choice."

"You always had a choice." His hand drops away but he does not step back. "You could have let your family die. You could have walked away. But you did not."

"Because I am not a monster like you."

Something flickers across his face. Anger, maybe. Or something that looks almost like respect.

"No. You are not." His gaze drops to my mouth again and I see him track the way I press my lips together. The way my breath comes faster. "But you will learn to be if you want to survive in my world."

I shake my head. "I do not want to be in your world. I just want-"

"It does not matter what you want." He reaches past me and I think he is going to cage me in completely but instead his hand lands on the wall beside my head. "You are in my world now. My house. My bed. My wife."

"I did not ask for any of this."

"Neither did I." For just a second, something raw flashes across his face. "But here we are."

The way he says it makes me pause. Like maybe he is as trapped as I am. But that is ridiculous because he is the one with all the power. He is the one who forced me to sign those papers.

I try to slide away from him but he catches my wrist. His fingers wrap all the way around it with room to spare. He could break me so easily. But his grip is not tight. Not painful. Just firm enough to keep me in place.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"Away from you."

"That is not an option." He pulls me closer instead of letting me go. "You are my wife. That means you stay where I put you."

"I am not a possession you can just-"

"Yes. You are." His free hand slides to my waist and suddenly I am very aware of how thin my nightgown is. How his palm burns through the fabric, and my body reacts in a way it has never done before. My nipples harden, goosebumps dot my skin. The reaction is dizzying and confusing.

"You signed yourself over to me, remember? Body and soul."

"The contract did not say anything about my soul."

"No. But I am taking it anyway."

The words should terrify me. They do terrify me. But underneath the fear is something else. Something hot and wrong that makes my face flush.

He notices. Of course he notices. His eyes drop to my neck where I know my pulse is hammering visibly.

"You are afraid of me."

"Yes."

"Good." His thumb traces slow circles on my hip and I hate that my body reacts. That heat pools low in my stomach. "You should be."

"Then let me go."

"No." He leans in until his mouth brushes my ear. "I am going to keep you, Isabella. And one day you will stop fighting me."

"Never."

"We will see." His hand slides lower, fingers catching the hem of my nightgown. "But first, you need to understand something."

My breath stops. "What?"

"No one tells me no." His fingers trace the outside of my thigh through the thin fabric. "Not my enemies. Not my men." His hand slides higher and my entire body locks up. "And definitely not my wife."

"Stop." I try to twist away but his grip on my wrist tightens just enough to keep me still. "Do not do this."

"Do what? Touch what belongs to me?" His hand slides higher still, pushing the fabric up my leg. "You are mine, Isabella. Every inch of you."

"No. Stop. Please-" Panic claws up my throat and I do the only thing I can think of. I turn my face completely away from him and squeeze my eyes shut. "Please do not do this. Please."

His hand stops. Just stops completely.

The silence stretches so long I think maybe I have broken something. Then he makes a sound that might be a curse and steps back. The loss of his heat feels like being doused in ice water.

I open my eyes to find him staring at me with an expression I cannot read. Anger, yes. But something else too. Something that looks almost like frustration. Or regret.

"Get dressed." His voice is hard. Controlled. "We have a long day ahead." And then he's gone.