Chapter 4

ISABELLA’S POV

The door shut behind him.

For the first time that night, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My body sagged against the wall. My knees were weak, my chest tight, my head spinning.

Relief. Not comfort. Not safety. Just relief.

Dante Moretti had left me alone.

I pressed my hand against my heart, feeling it race, like it wanted to punch through my ribs. The sound of his voice still rang in my ears, low, sharp, unforgiving. Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t fuck scared, unwilling women.

Those words slammed into me harder than I expected.

Why?

Because they were true. Because they were honest. Because they came from a man who didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t.

And God help me, because part of me didn’t feel scared. Not of him. Not the way I should have.

I hated him. I wanted to hate him. But my body… my body didn’t listen.

Dante wasn’t like Angelo. Angelo had been soft, almost beautiful. His face carried a light, like the sun always touched him. He smiled easily, laughed quietly, and his hands always felt warm when they held mine.

But Dante… Dante was sin carved into flesh. Broad shoulders. Strong jaw. Eyes that could cut through stone. He didn’t smile; he smirked, like every secret in the world belonged to him. His presence filled every corner of the room until there was no air left for me.

And when he laughed, it wasn’t warm. It was sharp, cruel, heavy.

Still, my hands were clammy. My lips were dry. My body trembled, not only with fear but with something else I didn’t want to name.

Heat. Desire. God, no.

I pressed my palms to my face, shaking my head. I was a widow-to-be turned bride on the same day. Angelo had been killed hours before I walked down the aisle. And now my body dared to respond to the monster who replaced him?

Disgust crawled through me.

I pushed away from the wall and turned to the room.

It was big. Too big. White walls, velvet curtains, a bed the size of a kingdom, furniture polished until it gleamed. And every corner whispered the same truth, this wasn’t mine.

But it was filled with my things.

They had moved everything. During the wedding. Without my consent. Without my knowledge.

I shivered.

This wasn’t a home. This was a cage dressed in silk.

Still, I needed to change. The gown was suffocating. My skin burned under the lace. My ribs ached from the corset.

I pulled at the back, twisting, tugging, fingers digging into stubborn buttons. Nothing.

“Damn it,” I muttered, yanking harder. My shoulder screamed in pain. The buttons stayed locked.

I tried again. And again. My breath grew harsher, my hair sticking to my face, frustration boiling in my veins.

Nothing.

The gown clung to me like a shroud.

I froze, staring at myself in the mirror. Pale face. Red-rimmed eyes. Veil tossed aside. My reflection looked more like a ghost than a bride.

The only person I could call was Dante.

No. No, no, no.

I shook my head. I’d rather rip the gown with scissors than ask him for help.

I tried again. My fingers slipped. The button didn’t move.

Tears pricked my eyes.

“Shit,” I whispered.

There was no other choice.

I swallowed hard, grabbed the skirt, and walked out. My bare feet were silent on the marble floor. The hall stretched endless, dark, lined with shadows. My heart pounded with every step.

I followed the faint glow of light. Voices had died down. The house was quiet.

And then I saw him.

He was in the study, by the bar. A glass of whiskey in his hand, his body leaning against the counter. The fire behind him painted his features in gold and shadow. His shirt sleeves were rolled, collar open, tattoos snaking across his forearms.

A king in his kingdom.

Dante Moretti.

He looked up. His eyes met mine instantly, sharp, piercing, unreadable.

My throat closed.

“You’re still up,” he said, voice low, calm.

I swallowed. My lips trembled. “I… I need help.”

One eyebrow rose. “Help?”

“With my dress,” I blurted, too fast. “The buttons. I can’t reach them.”

Silence. His eyes scanned me slowly, from my messy hair down to the lace clinging to my body. The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Cute,” he murmured. “The bride can’t undress herself.”

Heat flared in my cheeks. “Don’t…don’t get ideas.”

He smirked. “Too late.”

He set the glass down and stalked forward. Slow. Predatory. Each step made the air heavier, my body tighter.

I stepped back until my spine hit the wall.

He stopped in front of me, close enough that I smelled the smoke and whiskey clinging to his skin. His hand lifted, caging me against the wall. His other hand brushed against my cheek, a feather-light touch that made my stomach flip.

“Tell me, Bella,” he whispered, eyes burning into mine. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Yes.” My voice cracked.

His lips curved. “Good.”

I turned my face away, pressing my cheek to the wall. “Just… just help me out of the dress.”

He chuckled, dark and low. “So impatient.”

His fingers slid to the back of the gown. He worked the first button open. Then the next. Slow. Deliberate. Each sound of fabric loosening sent shivers racing through me.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured near my ear.

“Just hurry up,” I hissed.

He undid another button. His fingers brushed my spine, warm against my skin.

“You say hurry,” he drawled, “but your body says something else.”

“Stop talking.”

He laughed softly. “As you wish.”

Button after button. My breath grew shallow. The dress loosened, slipping from my shoulders.

Finally, he stepped back. I clutched the front of the gown, holding it to my chest. My head bowed, hair falling over my face.

“Thank you,” I muttered.

Silence. I looked up. He was still watching me. Eyes locked. Jaw tight. He didn’t move. For a long moment, I thought he wouldn’t. Then he finally stepped back. “Breakfast. Tomorrow. With me.”

My heart skipped. “What?”

“You heard me.”

I shook my head. “I—”

“You don’t get a choice,” he said sharply. “Breakfast. Eight o’clock.”

I clenched my jaw. “Fine.”

“Good girl.”

Heat shot through me. I hated the way those words made me feel. Before he could see my face, I clutched the gown tighter and ran down the hall. My feet pounded the marble. My door shut behind me with a thud. I leaned against it, breathing hard, eyes wide.

Relief crashed over me again. Relief, and shame.

What was I doing?

I berated myself under my breath. “Idiot. Fool. He’s not worth it. Not worth a single thought.”

I stripped out of the gown and changed into a nightdress. I washed my face, brushed my hair, tried to erase the heat still crawling under my skin.

I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. My mind spun, faster and faster.

Angelo’s murderer was still out there. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that the killer was close. Too close. Dante thought he could own me. My father thought he could use me. Everyone thought I was powerless.

But I wasn’t.

All of Angelo’s things had been moved here, since he was supposed to take over once he married me. His files, his clothes, his documents, they were all somewhere in this house.

And maybe… just maybe… they held the truth.

I would find it. I would find out who killed Angelo. No matter what it cost. My eyes grew heavy. My body sank into the mattress.

And with those thoughts, anger, determination, fear, I drifted into sleep.