Claimed By The Mafia Devil

ISABELLA'S POV

My wedding gown was soaked in sweat.

My hands trembled as I stared at the blood on Matteo’s shirt. His white dress shirt was ruined, streaked with red, sticking to his chest like it belonged there. My brother’s eyes were wild, his jaw locked tight, one hand pressed to my back like he thought I might collapse. He wasn’t wrong.

“Tell me again,” I whispered. My voice cracked. “Tell me it’s not true.”

Silence.

Adrian stood in the doorway, pale as chalk. His hands were empty, but his eyes weren’t. They carried the truth he couldn’t say.

The hallway outside my bridal suite pulsed with chaos. Heavy footsteps, rushed voices, men barking orders, my father’s voice slicing through the noise downstairs.

But no one answered me.

Because it was true.

Angelo Moretti, the man I was supposed to marry in two hours, was dead.

Shot in the head. Shot in the stomach. Left in his car like a goddamn warning. Like a message written in blood and bone.

My knees buckled. Matteo caught me, pulling me upright with rough hands. “Stand up, Isabella,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare fall apart now.”

I clutched his shirt, my lips trembling. “He’s…” My throat closed. “He’s gone?”

Matteo’s jaw clenched. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t have to.

Adrian stepped forward, his voice low, almost breaking. “It was quick.”

“Quick?” I choked. “Quick doesn’t matter. He was…he was supposed to…” My chest heaved. “We were supposed to…”

Matteo shook me hard enough to steal the air from my lungs. “Enough. Don’t say it. Don’t let them hear you.”

Them.

The Morettis. The Russos. The men filled the house downstairs, waiting for a wedding that would never happen.

My wedding dress suddenly felt like a shroud. White satin, delicate lace, pearls sewn into the bodice by hands that never thought of blood. A dress made for promises and lies.

I wanted to rip it off.

Instead, Matteo pushed me into a chair. His shirt was sticky against my arm. “Stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll deal with Father.”

Adrian hesitated at the door, his eyes on me. His lips parted like he wanted to say something. Anything. But Matteo snapped his fingers. “Adrian.”

He flinched and followed our brother out.

And then I was alone.

Alone with silence, lace, and the sound of my heart breaking.

The door slammed open.

My mother swept inside like a storm in heels. Bianca Russo. Perfect hair pinned in a cruel knot. A black dress for the morning, not out of grief but power. Her perfume filled the room before her voice did.

“Get up,” she snapped.

I stared at her, numb. “He’s dead.”

“Yes.” Her tone was flat. “And yet you’re still alive. Which means you still have a duty.”

My head whipped toward her. “Duty? He’s dead, Mother. Angelo is…” My voice cracked. “He’s dead.”

Her gaze cut through me like glass. “And if you keep screaming about it, every soldier in this house will hear you break. Do you want that? Do you want them to see a Russo daughter fall apart?”

“I don’t care what they see, Mother.”

“You will care.” She leaned down, her nails digging into the arm of my chair. “Because the eyes of the Moretti family are on you. Your father is downstairs right now, negotiating the future of this alliance. And if you embarrass him, if you embarrass us, you won’t only lose a husband. You’ll lose your life.”

Her words slapped harder than Matteo’s hands.

I swallowed, shaking. “What do you want me to do?”

Her lips curled in something that wasn’t a smile. “You’ll marry.”

The room tilted. “What?”

“You’ll walk down that aisle, Isabella.”

“To who?” My voice rose. “He’s dead! He’s…”

“To whoever the Morettis put in his place.”

My stomach dropped. “That’s insane. That’s not right, Mother. This is a punishment.”

“It’s survival.” She straightened, smoothing her dress. “This marriage was never about Angelo. It was about peace. About power. And peace does not wait for grief.”

My body shook, fury climbing my throat. “He was a person. He…he was supposed to be my husband.”

“He was a pawn,” she said coldly. “As are you.”

Her words crushed me flat.

Before I could breathe, the door opened again.

My father stepped inside. Carlo Russo. Tall. Silver hair slicked back, black eyes that cut deeper than knives. His suit was spotless, as if he hadn’t just bargained his daughter’s life away.

He didn’t look at me with pity. He didn’t even look at me with love. Only expectation.

“You’ll marry,” he said.

I whispered, “To who?”

His gaze flicked to the doorway.

And that’s when I saw him.

Dante Moretti.

The bastard son. The enforcer. The devil’s blood.

He filled the doorway like a shadow, broad shoulders wrapped in a black suit, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar like he didn’t give a damn about the ceremony. His hair was dark, careless, his jaw shadowed by stubble. But it was his eyes that froze me, ice-blue, cold as death, cutting through me like they already owned me.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t greet me. He didn’t offer condolences.

He simply said, voice low and merciless. “The wedding goes on.” My blood turned to stone.

“You can’t…” My voice broke. “You can’t mean…”

His gaze locked onto mine, hard, unyielding. “I do.”

My father cleared his throat. “The union will continue. You’ll marry Dante.”

“No.” I shook my head, my pulse racing. “No, no, no. I won’t, I can’t…”

Dante stepped closer. Each stride was a warning. The air thickened with him, his presence crushing, dangerous. He stopped in front of me, towering above me, his voice a razor against my skin.

“You will.”

I gasped, stumbling back into the chair. “You’re not him. You’re not…”

“I’m better.” His lips curled, but there was no humor in it. “Angelo would’ve held your hand. I’ll break it if you try to run.”

My heart thundered. My mother’s silence pressed against my ears. My father’s approval stung like poison.

And at that moment, I understood.

My fate had been rewritten.

I wasn’t marrying a prince.

I was marrying the devil.