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.

Dante's POV

She looks so good, I don't know if I want to rip off the dress and claim her or keep looking at her.

She's beautiful. Not in the flashy way Clara is. Not in the way women usually make themselves beautiful for men like me. Isabella is beautiful the way a storm is beautiful right before it hits. Dangerous without meaning to be.

The silk dress hugs her body perfectly. She's small. Delicate. The kind of small that makes men want to either protect or destroy. I'm currently caught between both impulses and it's making me slightly unhinged.

"Why are you doing this?" Her voice is soft. Shaky. She's looking at my reflection instead of her own.

I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth is complicated and I don't do complicated.

I watched her family today. Watched them dismiss her like she was nothing. Watched her father calculate what he could get from me. Watched her stepmother manipulate her with guilt. Watched Clara examine her nails like Isabella's pain was boring.

I knew they would react that way. I knew it before we even arrived. That's why I didn't want to take her there. But she asked. She begged. And something about the way she looks at me makes me do stupid things.

Like letting her see them one last time. Like hoping maybe they would surprise me. Like thinking maybe having them at the wedding would make her happy.

They didn't surprise me. They never do. People are predictable. Selfish. They take what they can and give nothing back.

But Isabella keeps giving. Keeps apologizing. Keeps shrinking herself down to fit into spaces that don't want her.

It pulls at something in my chest I didn't know was there.

"Dante?" She says my name like a question. Like she's not sure she's allowed.

I turn her around. Fast. She gasps and stumbles slightly. I catch her by the waist and suddenly we're face to face. Her eyes are huge. Those ridiculous brown eyes that tilt down at the corners and make her look gentle even when she's terrified.

A tear slides down her cheek. Just one. She probably doesn't even know it's there.

I reach up and wipe it away with my thumb. Her skin is soft. Warm. She smells like the perfume they sprayed on her at the boutique mixed with something underneath that's just her.

"Stop crying," I say. My voice comes out rougher than I intend.

"I'm not crying." Another tear falls. She's a terrible liar.

I brush it away too. My hand stays on her face. My thumb traces the line of her cheekbone. She's not pulling away. She's frozen. Staring up at me like I'm something she can't figure out.

Join the club, Isabella. I can't figure myself out either.

I knew her family would react the way they did. I tried to save her from the hurt. But maybe seeing them one last time was what she needed. Maybe having them at the wedding will give her closure. Or maybe it will just hurt more.

I don't know. I'm not good at this. At caring about what other people need.

But with her, I'm trying. And that alone should terrify me.

"Turn around," I say again.

She turns slowly. Obediently. The dress is still zipped up but I reach for the zipper anyway. Pull it down. Slow. Deliberate. The sound fills the small room.

Her back is perfect. Smooth olive skin. The ridge of her spine. The curve of her shoulders. I brush my fingers down her back and feel her shiver. I can't stop myself. I don't want to stop myself.

My hand flattens against her lower back and I feel her breath catch. I lean down. Close enough that my lips brush the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Not quite a kiss. More like a promise.

She makes a sound. Small. Surprised. Her hands come up to hold the dress against her chest.

"Dante." My name sounds different when she says it like that. Breathless. Wanting.

I straighten up and step back before I do something we'll both regret. Or maybe something only she'll regret. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't regret anything involving Isabella and significantly less clothing.

"Get dressed," I say. My voice is steady but my hands aren't. I shove them in my pockets. "The wedding starts in an hour. We need to move."

She looks at me over her shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips parted. She looks thoroughly kissed even though I barely touched her.

"You didn't answer my question," she whispers.

"Which question?"

"Why are you doing this? The dress. The wedding. All of it."

I could lie. Tell her it's about power. About consolidating my position. About sending a message to my enemies that I'm strong enough to take what I want.

All of that is true. But it's not the whole truth.

"Because you're mine," I say finally. "And what's mine gets the best."

It's not a romantic answer. But it's honest. And right now, honesty is all I have to give her.

She studies me for a long moment. Then nods. Turns away. Starts to change back into her regular clothes.

I leave before I can do something stupid. Like pull that dress off her myself.

***

The church sits on North State Street. Old stone building with Gothic spires that reach toward the gray Chicago sky. My father was married here. His father before him. Three generations of Valerios making vows they may or may not have kept.

Now me.

The inside is cold. High ceilings with exposed wooden beams. Stained glass windows filter what little sunlight there is into pools of blue and red on the stone floor. Rows of wooden pews face the altar where a priest in white robes waits.

My men fill most of the seats. Luca stands at my right hand. Santino at my left. Both armed under their suits. Both ready. Because even at my own wedding, I can't afford to let my guard down.

I sent a car for the Morettis after we left the dress store and had Luca deliver the invitation personally. Isabella doesn't know yet. She'll see them when she walks down the aisle.

A part of me hopes that makes her happy. But I remember the way she looked at them. The way she asked if they loved her. The way she wanted one last goodbye.

So I'm giving her this. One last chance to have her family at her wedding. One last chance for them to show they care.

I don't think they will. But I'm willing to be surprised.

They're sitting in the back now. Federico – her father, keeps glancing at his phone. His hands shake every time he picks it up. Something is wrong. I make a mental note to have Luca check his messages later.

Elena sits beside him. Pale. Gaunt. Even though I've paid for a very espensive room for her in the hospital, she chosoes to be here and I hope that counts for something. But her eyes are sharp when they scan the church. Calculating. Always calculating.

Clara is next to her mother. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Pink dress that's too bright for a wedding. She's smiling. Actually smiling. Like this is entertainment.

I want to throw them all out. Want to tell Isabella her family isn't worth the effort. But that's not my choice to make. Not yet.

The organ music starts. Low and somber. Everyone stands.

Isabella appears at the end of the aisle.

My breath stops.

She's wearing the dress we got this afternoon. The one that makes her look like she belongs in my world. Her dark hair falls in waves over her shoulders. Someone put makeup on her – probably the maid I put in charge of her, but it's subtle. She looks terrified but beautiful.

She walks toward me slowly. Her eyes are wide. When she sees her family in the back, she stumbles slightly. Surprise crosses her face. Then something that might be hope.

I hate that look. Hate what it means. But I let her have it.

She reaches the altar. Stands beside me. I can see her hands shaking even from here.

The priest starts talking. Latin phrases I've heard a hundred times at other weddings. Other ceremonies. None of them mattered like this one.

The vows come. Isabella repeats them in a voice that shakes but doesn't break. I respect that. She doesn't cry. Doesn't run. Just says the words that the priest tells her to, the words that bind her to me forever.

When it's my turn, my voice is steady. Clear. I mean every word. Even the ones about cherishing and protecting. Especially those.

"You may kiss the bride," the priest announces.

I turn to Isabella. She's looking up at me with those big brown eyes. I cup her face in both hands. My thumbs brush her cheekbones. She's so small. So fragile looking.

I lean down. Slowly. Giving her time to pull away even though we both know she won't.

"I'm about to kiss you, wife," I whisper into her ear.