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.

Dante's POV

The conference room overlooks the Chicago River. I picked this city for a reason. New York and Boston are overcrowded; Vegas is all show. Chicago has bones, history, and enough corruption for men like me to build empires.

My father was smart about it. Until someone got to him. Now I have to find out who that someone is before they get to me while fighting off other wolves that want his position.

I push the thought away because I have eight underbosses staring at me and waiting for an explanation I do not owe them.

"A wife." One of them leans back in his chair like he owns it. "Forgive me, Dante, but this seems sudden. Your father was killed six months ago. You take over, make enemies, and now you marry a girl whose father owes you money? It looks weak."

He is good-looking in a polished way I don't trust. Symmetrical. Safe.

"It is not your concern what I do. Any of you."

"Of course not." He spreads his hands. "But the other families will have questions. The Moretti girl is nobody. No connections. Unless-" He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Unless you are going soft, Boss."

The room goes silent. Even Luca, standing by the door, tenses. Going soft. The worst thing you can accuse a man like me of being.

I stand up slowly. I walk around the table until I am looming over him.

"Stand up," I say.

"Boss, I did not mean-"

"Stand. Up."

He stands. He is six feet tall, fit. He probably thinks he can take me in a fair fight. But I do not fight fair.

My fist connects with his nose before he can blink. The crunch of cartilage is satisfying. Blood explodes across his face and he stumbles back. I grab him by his expensive tie and pull him close.

"You think I am soft? You think marrying Isabella makes me weak?"

He tries to pull away but I do not let him.

"She is mine. That makes her valuable. And if I hear you or anyone else disrespect my wife again, I will do more than break your nose. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he gurgles, blood dripping. "I understand."

I let him go and he collapses into his chair. "Anyone else have questions? Good. Get out."

They leave quickly. Only Santino stays behind.

Santino stretches. "So. This wife of yours. Is she pretty?"

I think about Isabella. The fear in her eyes last night. The way she begged me to stop.

"She is mine," I say finally. "That is all that matters."

Santino grins. "So she is pretty. Good for you, cousin."

He leaves before I can throw something at him.

I finish my drink, looking out at the gray city. Somewhere down there, Isabella is locked in my house. I should feel nothing about that. Guilt is a luxury I cannot afford. But I keep seeing her face. The way she looked at me like I was a monster.

Maybe I am.

I head home to Lincoln Park. The house is quiet, filled with secrets my father left behind. I find Isabella in the library, curled up in a leather chair by the window.

I did not expect that. I expected her to be in the bedroom. Still crying. Still making herself small.

Instead she is curled up in one of the leather chairs by the window. A book in her lap. Her dark hair falling over her shoulder in waves that catch the afternoon light. She is wearing clothes someone must have brought her. A simple sweater and jeans that actually fit her properly. Nothing fancy. But on her it looks right.

She is biting her bottom lip. A habit I am starting to notice. She does it when she is concentrating. When she is nervous. When I touch her.

I lean against the doorframe and watch her. She traces her finger along the words as she reads. Like she is savoring each one. Her eyes move across the page slowly. Carefully.

Beautiful.

The thought comes unbidden and I push it away. I do not need her to be beautiful. I need her to be obedient.

But watching her like this. Unaware and unguarded. Something shifts in my chest.

She turns the page and sunlight catches her profile. Small nose. Soft jaw. Those ridiculous eyelashes that make her look younger than she is. Her skin is that warm olive tone that speaks of Mediterranean blood. Italian, probably. Or Greek.

Mine, something primal whispers in the back of my head.

I clear my throat.

She jumps so hard the book nearly flies out of her hands. Her head snaps toward me and those big brown eyes go wide with panic.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to-I found this room and I thought-I can leave. I am sorry. I should have asked-"

"Stop apologizing."

She closes her mouth so fast her teeth click together.

I push off the doorframe and walk into the library. It is one of my favorite rooms in the house. Floor to ceiling bookshelves. First editions I will never read. A fireplace that actually works. The chair she is sitting in belonged to my father.

"What are you reading?" I ask.

She looks down at the book like she forgot it was there. "Jane Eyre. I hope that is okay. I did not think-"

"It is fine." I stop in front of her chair. She has to tilt her head back to look at me. I like that. The way I tower over her. The way it makes her neck look long and vulnerable. "Do you like it?"

"I-yes. I have read it before but-" She stops. Starts again. "Yes. I like it."

"Good." I check my watch. Platinum. A gift from my father on my thirtieth birthday. Two years before someone murdered him. "Get your shoes. We are going out."

Panic flashes across her face. "Where?"

"Shopping."

"For what?"

"Your wedding dress." I watch her process this. Watch the color drain from her face. "The ceremony is tomorrow. You need something appropriate to wear."

"I do not-I cannot-" She stands up and the book falls to the floor. "I do not want to go shopping. I do not want a wedding dress. I do not want any of this."

"That is unfortunate."

"You already made me sign the papers. You cannot just-"

"I can." I step closer and she backs up until her legs hit the chair. Trapped again. "And I will. Now get your shoes or I will carry you out of here in bare feet."

"No." It comes out shaky but defiant. "No. I am not going."

There it is again. That word. No.

I smile because the situation is funny in a dark way only I can appreciate. "Isabella. Do you remember what I told you this morning?"

She swallows hard. I watch her throat move. "You said many things."

"I said no one tells me no." I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinches but does not move away. Cannot. "Not my enemies. Not my men. And definitely not my wife."

"This is insane." Her voice rises slightly. "You are insane. And I told you I'm not a dog-"

I bend down and lift her over my shoulder in one smooth motion.

She shrieks. Actually shrieks. "What are you doing? Put me down!"

"No."

I walk out of the library with her draped over my shoulder. She weighs next to nothing. I could carry her for hours and not feel it.

"Dante! Put me down right now!"

"No."

"This is-you cannot-" She starts kicking. Her small fists pound against my back. "Put me down!"

I carry her through the hallway. Past the staff who wisely look away. Down the main staircase. She is still kicking and hitting me and yelling.

"I will scream," she threatens.

"You are already screaming."

"I will scream louder!"

"Go ahead. No one will stop me."

She makes a sound of pure frustration and pounds her fists harder against my back. It does not hurt. If anything it is amusing.

Luca is waiting by the front door. He takes one look at Isabella dangling over my shoulder and his expression does not change at all.

"Car is ready, boss."

"Good."

"I hate you!" Isabella yells. "I hate you so much!"

"I know."

I carry her outside into the cold March air. The car is idling at the curb. Black SUV with tinted windows. Bulletproof. The only kind I drive anymore.

I set Isabella down on her feet and she immediately tries to bolt. I catch her around the waist and pull her back against my chest. She fits perfectly. Small and soft and trembling with rage.

"Let me go!"

"Get in the car, Isabella."

"No!"

I lean down until my mouth is at her ear. "You can get in the car willingly. Or I can put you in the car. Your choice."

She goes still. I can feel her heart hammering against my arm. Her breath coming fast.

"I do not want to go shopping," she whispers.

"I know."

"Then why-"

"Because you are going to be my wife this afternoon. And my wife will look like she belongs to me."

I open the car door and guide her inside. She goes without fighting. Probably because she knows fighting is pointless.

I slide in beside her and Luca gets behind the wheel.

Isabella presses herself against the far door. As far from me as she can get in the confined space. Her hair is messy from being carried. Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears.

She has never looked more beautiful.

"I hate you," she says again. Quieter this time.

Isabella

I press myself against the door and try to breathe. My heart is still racing from being thrown over Dante's shoulder like a sack of flour. Like I weigh nothing. Like I am nothing.

He sits beside me, taking up too much space. His presence fills the entire car even though he's not touching me. Not anymore.

I should stay quiet. I know I should. But the words tumble out anyway.

"Please."

He doesn't look at me. Just stares straight ahead as Luca navigates through Chicago traffic. The city rushes past the tinted windows. Gray buildings. Gray sky. Everything feels cold.

"Please what?" His voice is flat.

"Let me see them." I twist my hands in my lap. "My family. Before the wedding. Please. Just once more."

He still doesn't look at me.

I wait for the no. The refusal. The reminder that I'm his now and he doesn't care what I want.

Instead he leans forward slightly. "Luca. Change of plans. Take us to the Moretti house first."

I blink. Did I hear that right?

Luca glances in the rearview mirror but doesn't question it. Just changes lanes and turns left at the next light.

Dante sits back and crosses his arms. His jaw is tight. His gray eyes are cold when they finally slide toward me. "You have fifteen minutes. Then we leave. With or without you saying goodbye."

"Thank you." The words come out shaky. "Thank you so much. I did not think you would-"

"Don't thank me." He looks away again. "I'm not doing this to be kind."

I don't know what to say to that. So I say nothing.

The drive to my neighborhood feels longer than it should. Or maybe time just moves differently when you're sitting next to a man who could break you without trying.

We pull up outside the house I grew up in. Small. Cramped. Paint peeling on the shutters. One of the front steps is cracked.

It looks worse than I remember. Or maybe I'm seeing it differently now that I've been inside Dante's mansion.

"Fifteen minutes," Dante reminds me.

I nod and fumble with the door handle. My hands are shaking.

The house is exactly how I left it. Cluttered. Dusty. Smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and my stepmother's cheap perfume.

Father is in the living room. He jumps up when I walk in. "Isabella! You are back!"

Elena is on the couch. She looks paler than usual. Sicker. But her eyes are sharp when they land on me.

Clara comes down the stairs in a pink dress that probably cost more than our monthly rent, I wonder where she got it. "Oh. It's you."

"I came to tell you something." I stand in the doorway because I don't feel welcome enough to sit. I never have. "I am getting married. Today."

Papa's eyes light up. Actually light up. "To Valerio? That's wonderful! See, Elena? I told you it would work out."

I wait for someone to ask if I'm okay. If I'm scared. If I need help but no one does.

"You are doing the right thing," Elena says from the couch. Her voice is thin but certain. "For the family."

"Do you even love me?" The question bursts out before I can stop it. "Any of you? Do you actually love me?"

Father waves his hand like I'm being ridiculous. "Don't say nonsense, girl. Of course we love you. And you love us. That's why you're doing this."

Clara examines her nails. Perfect manicure. Pink polish, almost everything about her is pink. "It's not like you had other options anyway."

Something inside me cracks just a little at that.

"You did not even try to stop him." My voice sounds distant. Like it's coming from someone else. "You just gave me to him. Like I'm nothing."

"You are being dramatic," Elena snaps. Then she starts coughing. Father rushes to her side.

"Maybe Valerio will treat us like proper in-laws now," Papa says. He's not looking at me anymore. He's looking past me. Like I'm already gone. "We could use better connections. Better money."

I hear footsteps behind me. Heavy. Deliberate.

Dante fills the doorway. He doesn't come inside. Just stands there with his hands in his pockets. Looking at my family the way someone might look at insects.

Father sees him and his entire demeanor changes. He straightens up. Smooths down his wrinkled shirt. Tries to smile.

"Mr. Valerio! Thank you for coming. We were just telling Isabella how happy we are for her. Such a good match. Such an honor-"

"Enough." Dante's voice cuts through Father's rambling. "Isabella. Car. Now."

I look at my family one more time. Waiting for something. Anything.

Elena adjusts her blanket. Clara goes back upstairs. Papa wrings his hands and won't meet my eyes.

"Face your new life with courage," Elena says finally. "That's all you can do now."

I walk past Dante without looking at him. My eyes are burning but I refuse to cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

Behind me I hear Father's voice. Sniveling. Pathetic. "Mr. Valerio, about the debt. Perhaps we could discuss-"

Whatever Dante says in response is too quiet for me to hear, but Father goes silent immediately.

The car ride is quiet. I stare out the window and try not to think about how easily my family let me go. How quickly they moved on. How little I've ever mattered to them.

"They did not try to stop you." Dante's voice breaks the silence.

I don't answer.

"Not even once."

"I know." My voice cracks. "I know."

He says nothing else. Just watches me with those cold gray eyes that sometimes seem less cold than they should be.

We stop in front of a boutique on Michigan Avenue. The kind with a single dress in the window and no price tags because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.

A woman in a black dress rushes out to greet us. "Mr. Valerio. Everything is ready as you requested."

Inside, the boutique is all white marble and gold fixtures. It smells like expensive perfume and lilies. But I'm still stuck thinking about my family to admire the store.

"Show her the dresses," Dante says.

The woman leads me to a private room. There are five wedding dresses waiting. Each one is beautiful. Each one probably costs more than my family's house.

"Try them on," Dante orders. "All of them."

I want to refuse. Want to tell him I won't play dress-up for his entertainment. But I'm tired. So tired of fighting so I just stand there and follow the attendant to the changing store.

I try on the first dress. Lace sleeves. It's too heavy.

The second. Too much tulle.

The third. Too revealing.

The fourth makes me look like a child.

But the fifth. The fifth dress is different.

It's simple. Elegant. Off-the-shoulder with a fitted bodice that flows into a soft skirt. The fabric is silk that catches the light when I move. No excessive details. No unnecessary drama.

Just beautiful.

I stare at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the girl looking back. She looks older. More sophisticated. Like someone who belongs in Dante's world.

Like someone who isn't me.

The door opens behind me. I see Dante's reflection before I see him.

The woman who was helping me takes one look at his face and leaves quickly. The door clicks shut.

We're alone.

Dante walks toward me slowly. His eyes move over the dress. Over me. His expression is unreadable.

"Turn around," he says.

I turn. The dress is unzipped in the back. I've been holding it up with one hand.

I feel him behind me. Close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. Smell his cologne. Something expensive and dark.

His fingers brush my spine as he reaches for the zipper.

I shiver. Can't help it. Then I curse my body for always reacting this way when he's close. How do I say I hate someone when their touch makes their body react so?

He pulls the zipper up slowly. So slowly. Each tooth clicking into place feels deliberate. Intentional. His knuckles drag against my skin and I forget how to breathe.

"You're shaking," he murmurs.

"I'm cold."

"Liar."

The zipper reaches the top. But he doesn't step away. His hand stays on my back. Warm. Possessive.

"Look at yourself," he says.

I look up at the mirror. At us standing together. Him towering behind me in his dark suit. Me in white silk that suddenly feels too much like a real wedding dress.

"You're beautiful," he says. His voice is low and rough. Different from his usual cold tone.

My breath catches. "You don't mean that."

"I don't say things I don't mean." His hand slides from my back to my waist. Pulling me against him. "You're mine now, Isabella. And what's mine is always beautiful."

My heart skips, I'm not sure it's out of fear.