Chapter Four

Isabella POV

“Tomorrow?” My voice cracked so bad it was as if someone else's voice! I was shock stiff in Papa’s study, the warm tart smell of his espresso turning quickly bitter in my nostrils. “You said… tomorrow?”

Papa didn’t even flinch. “The wedding is tomorrow afternoon, Isabella. Moretti is not the type to lose time and neither do I.” The tone of Papa's voice was neutral, business-like as though he was informing me what we were to have as a dinner, not as though he were destroying my life with four unpleasant words.

I shook all over. I held on the leather chair in front of his desk, until the edges of the chair sank in my palms. “Papa, please. I need more time. I’ve never even spoken to him. I don’t know—”

“You’ll have the rest of your life to get to know him.” He didn’t look up. Papers covered his desk like fallen leaves, and he shuffled them with the same focus he might use to count money. I could’ve been a contract he was signing, nothing more.

“But Papa—”

“Isabella.” My name was a warning. Cold enough to stop the air in my lungs. “This discussion is over. The alliance with Moretti is crucial for our survival. You understand survival, don’t you? After last night?”

Giuseppe’s lifeless eyes flashed in my mind. I understood survival. But did survival require selling your daughter like livestock?

The words slipped out before I could stop them. “What would Mama think about this? Would she want you to trade her daughter for business advantages?”

Papa’s head snapped up. The shift was instant, calm authority igniting into pure fury. His fist hit the desk so hard the coffee cup jumped, spilling a dark bloom across his papers.

“Don’t you dare bring your mother into this,” he snarled, rising from his chair like a storm breaking its restraints. “Everything I do is to protect this family. To honor her memory. She would understand what you apparently cannot, that sometimes we sacrifice our wants for the greater good.”

Tears stung, hot and humiliating, but I wouldn’t let them fall. “Mama believed in love, Papa. She told me stories about choosing her own path—”

“Your mother is dead!” The words struck me like a physical blow. And his voice wavered, not with weakness, but very strangely, with something jagged, something that poured forth and could not be held. “And she was killed because the world does not give a damn about love, or dreams or fairy tales. Good intentions are not enough to keep you alive and that is why she is dead.”

The silence after felt heavy enough to crush us both. Papa had never spoken about her death like that before. There was an edge in his voice that made the “car accident” story I’d grown up with feel suddenly flimsy.

But before I could ask, the wall came back down. His fury folded into cool, efficient command.

“Marco!”

His second-in-command appeared instantly, like he’d been waiting on the other side of the door.

“Get the wedding coordinators,” Papa ordered. “The best dress money can buy. The best makeup. The best of everything. This wedding will be perfect.”

Marco nodded, vanishing to execute the order.

Papa’s eyes locked on mine, unreadable now. “Go to your room, Isabella. Tomorrow, you become Mrs. Moretti. End of discussion.”

---

The Next Morning

My bedroom wasn’t my bedroom anymore. It was a war room. Three women were swirling around me like soldiers, makeup artist, hairstylist, wedding coordinator, all with brushes, pins and the kind of determination you just could not argue with.

Francesca, the coordinator, said “Bellissima,” and for the third time she readjusted the ivory silk at my waist. “Like a princess, Cara Mia.”

A princess being auctioned off to secure a kingdom.

The dress was gorgeous. Painfully so. A fitted lace bodice, a skirt that pooled like spilled cream, a veil that had supposedly belonged to an Italian countess. It probably cost more than most people earned in a year, proof of how much Papa was willing to spend on appearances.

“Chin up, sweetie,” Rosa murmured, brushing foundation over the dark circles under my eyes. “You want to look radiant for your groom.”

My groom. Damian Moretti, danger wrapped in an expensive suit. I had never set eyes on him, just seen him in pictures: tall dark hair, eyes that cut through whatever mask you had on. There was nothing in the photos of whether or not he was cruel or kind, whether his touch would be gentle or bruising.

“You need to eat something, Isabella.” Says Francesca.

“I don't have an appetite.”

She smiled in that sort of way people smile when they feel you are dramatic. “A few bites. Per favore.”

I chewed a corner of toast without tasting it. My mind kept circling the same questions, what if Damian hated me? What if Papa’s plan fell apart? What if I made one wrong move and ruined everything?

And beneath it all: What if I just can’t do this?

But I already knew the answer. I could, and I would. Because there was no escape.

---

Three Hours Later

The Moretti estate was like a European fairy tale, if fairy tales had security guards and bulletproof cars. The garden ceremony was covered with white roses and babies breath and it was like I was entering a set, acting a part I never tried out for.

The arm of Papa was calm under my shaking hand. His face was carved into polite satisfaction. No emotion. No pride. Just strategy.

And then, Damian.

Perfectly tailored black tuxedo. Slicked back dark hair. Eyes locked on me with a stare that had me pounding my heart with a force, triggering all the wrong expectations. He was handsome in some sort of dangerous way like the sort of handsome that you did not want to see but could not resist.

Papa took my hand in his, and then a moment I thought I felt him shake. Or maybe that was just me.

The vows blurred. His voice was steady, but his eyes held no warmth. The kiss was brief, precise, a signature on a contract.

The reception was a blur of champagne, forced smiles, and names I forgot instantly. Damian stayed near me but never truly with me. Our first dance was perfect in form, empty in feeling.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.

It was the first personal thing he’d said to me all day. But it still sounded like a line.

---

Later, Damian slipped away, phone pressed to his ear. I followed, silent as a shadow, to the connecting balcony.

“…shipment was completely destroyed, just like we planned,” his voice carried into the night air. “The Russos never suspected it was us instead of the Torrinos.”

My blood went cold.

“Antonio came running to me like we hoped. Desperate men make the best allies, especially when they don’t realize they’re being played… The marriage was the perfect final touch.”

The world tilted under me.

“Vincent Torrino’s family conspired with the Russo’s family and had my father killed twenty-three years ago… Antonio Russo was the one who gave the information to the FBI. Of course he doesn’t remember me, I was six then. But I remember him. And now it’s time they both pay.”

My hands shook. Damian Moretti wasn’t an ally. He was a weapon aimed directly at my family. And I was the perfect delivery system.

Through the balcony doors, guests still laughed and toasted. They thought they were celebrating the beginning of something. But they were really celebrating the beginning of the end.

Footsteps came closer. I had seconds to decide, confront him, or play the ignorant bride.

Either way, my wedding had just turned into a war.