Chapter 2

ISABELLA’S POV

The church smelled like smoke and roses.

Candles burned in tall silver stands. Their light flickered over the white aisle, the polished pews, the faces of men dressed in black. Soldiers lined the walls. Their guns were hidden, but not really. Every step I took told me this wasn’t a wedding. It was a funeral dressed in lace.

My own funeral.

The veil over my face was heavy, suffocating. My hands shook inside satin gloves. Somewhere above me, the organ played a hymn that sounded like mockery.

Two hours ago, I was a bride-to-be. Now I was a widow-to-be and still walking down the aisle.

Because the world didn’t stop for my grief. Because my father said so.

I gripped the bouquet so hard the stems snapped. My legs wanted to give out, but Matteo’s arm forced me forward. He looked calm, proud, like escorting me into hell was an honor.

His whisper burned against my ear. “Stand tall, Isabella. Don’t disgrace us.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip the veil off and run. But my knees were weak, my throat raw, my heart a stone in my chest.

And my mind…my mind was stuck in that bedroom, remembering Matteo’s voice when he told Father how Angelo was found.

“In his car,” Matteo had said. His tone was clipped, almost proud. “Driver’s side. Throat slit open. Head and stomach shot. A black veil laid across his face like a joke.”

I had almost thrown up.

A black veil. Now it covered his corpse.

Matteo tightened his grip on me, dragging me one more step closer to the altar. And there he was.

Dante Moretti.

He stood waiting in front of the priest, broad and cold, a storm in human form. His suit was black as midnight, his shirt open at the collar, no tie. His hands rested behind his back, his face carved from ice.

Those blue eyes never left me. Not once.

I hated him already.

I hated him because he was alive and Angelo wasn’t. I hated him because he stood there like this was his right. I hated him because, when I stopped in front of him, he looked at me through the veil like I already belonged to him.

The priest began to speak. His voice was low, shaking. He knew this wasn’t holy. He knew this was a crime dressed as a vow.

“Dearly beloved…”

“I need a moment.”

My voice cut through the silence.

Gasps echoed. Matteo hissed. My father’s head snapped toward me from the front row. My mother’s lips pinched so tight I thought they might disappear.

But I didn’t care. Not anymore.

I turned to Dante. My heart hammered in my chest. “One moment. Please.”

For the first time, his mouth curved. Not into kindness. Into something darker.

He stepped forward, leaned close, and his voice brushed my ear like a blade. “One moment. No more.” The priest hesitated. My father nodded stiffly. The church held its breath. Dante took my arm and led me aside, just far enough for whispers.

I turned my face up to him, veil trembling over my lips. “I don’t want this. I don’t want you. I don’t want to marry you.”

He studied me in silence. His jaw was sharp, his eyes unreadable. Then his lips curved again, slow, dangerous.

“You don’t have to want it,” he murmured. “You just have to do it.”

My breath caught. “You’re a monster.”

His smile widened. “And now, I’m your monster.”

Before I could answer, his hand gripped mine and dragged me back to the altar.

The priest cleared his throat, stumbling through the words.

“Do you, Isabella Russo, take Dante Moretti…”

“No,” I whispered under my breath.

“Yes,” my father’s voice boomed from the pews.

The priest flinched. Dante’s fingers tightened on mine until pain shot up my arm.

“Yes,” I said through my teeth.

“Do you, Dante Moretti, take Isabella Russo…”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No warmth. Just steel.

The vows blurred. My name blurred. Everything blurred around me.

And then Dante’s hand lifted the veil. For a heartbeat, his eyes locked on me. No pity. No kindness. Just possession. He bent and pressed his lips to mine.

Not a kiss. A claim.

When he pulled back, the room applauded. Cold, sharp claps that meant nothing. It was done. I was his wife.

There was no reception. No champagne. No music. No dance. Only silence, broken by the sound of shoes on marble as people filed out.

Matteo kissed my cheek, his smile sharp. “Don’t fail Father.”

My mother smoothed her dress and looked me over like a doll she had dressed. “Don’t embarrass us.” That was it. No hug. No warmth. Just commands. Adrian was the last to approach. His face was pale, his eyes red. He gripped my hand tight, like he didn’t want to let go.

“I’m always here for you,” he whispered. “No matter what happens, Isabella. Remember that.”

My throat closed. I wanted to hug him, but Matteo’s stare burned behind him. So I just nodded. “I’ll remember.” He squeezed once more before letting go.

Then Dante’s hand was on my back, guiding me out.

The church doors opened. Cameras flashed. Soldiers followed. The world watched. But I felt nothing.

Nothing except the weight of his hand, the emptiness of my family, and the truth settling in my bones… I wasn’t a bride. I was a prisoner.

The car was sleek, black, waiting like a hearse. Dante opened the door. I climbed in without a word. The door shut behind me like a cell door. The city rolled past the windows. I kept my eyes on the blur of lights, my fingers twisting the edge of my veil. For a while, silence.

Then his voice. Low. Steady. Unforgiving.

“You’ll play the perfect wife.”

I didn’t answer.

“You’ll smile when I tell you to. You’ll stand when I tell you to. You’ll keep your mouth shut when I tell you to.” I stayed quiet.

His eyes flicked to me, sharp. “Don’t get on my nerves, Isabella. I don’t have patience for disobedience.” I pressed my lips together, staring out at the dark streets.

He leaned back in his seat, stretching his arm along the leather. “Good. Silence suits you.”

The car swallowed us whole. The road stretched endlessly. And I thought to myself, over and over, as the city disappeared behind me… My life had gone from a bed of thorns to hellfire.

And there was no way out.