CHAPTER 6

Isabella stared at her reflection in the ornate full-length mirror, barely recognizing the woman who gazed back at her. The wedding dress—a custom Valentino creation of ivory silk and delicate lace—hugged her figure perfectly. Too perfectly. It felt like a beautiful cage.

"You look stunning, Isabella" whispered Maria, the elderly maid who had been assigned to help her prepare. Her wrinkled hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the cathedral-length veil.

Isabella met the woman's eyes in the mirror. "Thank you," she replied, her voice hollow. She wondered if Maria knew what this wedding truly was—not a union of love, but a business transaction sealed with her body and freedom as collateral.

The door opened, and Gia slipped in, her bridesmaid dress a shade of burgundy that matched the Ricci family colors. Her face was a mask of practiced cheer, but her eyes betrayed her concern.

"They're almost ready for you," Gia said, approaching carefully. When Maria stepped away to retrieve the bouquet, Gia whispered, "Are you sure about this, Bella? My car is still parked behind the chapel. We could—"

"Don't," Isabella cut her off sharply, then softened her tone. "Please don't. You know what would happen." She turned from the mirror, squaring her shoulders. "This is happening, Gia. I've accepted it."

"Accepting is not the same as surrendering," Gia replied, squeezing her hand. "Remember who you are."

Who am I? Isabella wondered as she took the bouquet of white roses and blood-red lilies. The daughter of Giovanni Marino, raised in luxury but never love. A bargaining chip. And after today, the wife of Leonard Ricci—Italy's most feared man.

As if summoned by her thoughts, a sharp knock sounded at the door. Her father entered, resplendent in an expensive suit that couldn't hide the strain of recent years. His once-powerful frame seemed diminished somehow, though his eyes retained their calculating coldness.

"It's time," Giovanni said, offering his arm with no warmth or apology in his gaze.

Isabella took it, her fingers barely touching the fabric of his sleeve. "Yes, Father. It's time."

*******

The Chiesa di San Marco was filled to capacity with the most dangerous people in Italy. Old mafia families sat alongside corrupt politicians and international crime lords, all dressed impeccably, all watching with predatory interest as Isabella walked down the aisle on her father's arm.

She kept her eyes fixed on the carved marble altar, refusing to meet the gazes of the vultures who had come to witness her sacrifice. Leonard stood waiting, his broad shoulders encased in a perfectly tailored black suit, his dark hair slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face. He didn't smile as she approached, but his eyes never left her, tracking her movement with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

When Giovanni placed her hand in Leonard's, she felt the rough calluses on his palm, the surprising warmth of his skin. His fingers closed around hers with gentle firmness—a contradiction that seemed to embody the man himself.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, so low only she could hear.

Isabella said nothing, keeping her face carefully composed as the priest began the ceremony. She recited her vows mechanically, the words tasting like ash on her tongue. When Leonard spoke his, there was a conviction in his voice that surprised her. He promised to protect, to honor, to cherish—all the things she knew this arrangement had nothing to do with—yet he spoke as if he meant every word.

The golden band he slid onto her finger felt impossibly heavy.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the priest declared, and the church erupted in applause that sounded to Isabella like the closing of a prison door.

Leonard's kiss was brief but possessive, his hand at the small of her back holding her firmly against him. "Smile, wife," he whispered against her lips. "They're all watching."

And so she smiled, the perfect mafia bride, as they walked back down the aisle together.

****

The reception was held at Villa Ricci, Leonard's ancestral estate on the outskirts of Milan. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the grand ballroom as hundreds of guests mingled, drank expensive champagne, and paid their respects to the newlyweds.

Isabella stood beside Leonard, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, an ornament to be displayed. She accepted congratulations with practiced grace, noting how each person approached Leonard—some with obvious fear, others with barely concealed resentment, a few with genuine respect.

"Ricci," a booming voice called out, and Isabella felt Leonard's arm tense slightly beneath her fingers. A tall man with silver-streaked black hair approached them, flanked by two younger men who shared his features. "Congratulations on your beautiful bride."

"Salvatore," Leonard acknowledged with a curt nod. "I'm surprised you accepted my invitation."

The man—Salvatore—smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "How could I miss the wedding of the year? The Marinos and the Riccis, finally united." He turned his attention to Isabella, his gaze traveling down her body in a way that made her skin crawl. "Though I must say, if Giovanni was offering such a prize, he should have opened the bidding to more interested parties."

Isabella felt Leonard's body shift subtly, angling himself between her and Salvatore.

"My wife is not a commodity to be bid on," Leonard said, his voice deceptively soft. "She's a Ricci now."

Salvatore laughed, a harsh sound. "Everything has a price, Leonard. You taught me that lesson years ago." He reached out as if to touch Isabella's cheek. "Perhaps after you tire of her—"

His words cut off abruptly as Leonard moved, quick as a snake striking. One moment Salvatore was standing there, smirking; the next, Leonard had the man's wrist in a grip so tight that Isabella saw Salvatore's fingers turning white.

"Let me be clear," Leonard said, his voice still conversational despite the violence in his posture. "My wife is untouchable. She doesn't have a price. She isn't available. Not now, not ever." He released Salvatore's wrist with a slight push. "The next hand that reaches for her without permission will not remain attached to its owner. Do we understand each other?"