His Father's Wife

My fiancé, Dante, refused to marry me three times, all in the name of “honoring his mother.” The third time, I put on my wedding dress and married his father instead. If he’s so devoted, I’m sure he’ll show his new stepmother the proper respect.

“That bitch Isabella! When will she get the fuck out of my life!”

Dante's curse cut through the night. The lake reflected the moonlight as I hid behind the cabin, watching the man—my so-called fiancé—pinning a blonde bombshell to the deck of his yacht.

Three times.

He had rejected me three times.

At our engagement party, in front of all Five Families, he’d said, “My mother just passed. It would be disrespectful to her memory to talk about marriage right now.”

At the charity gala, he refused to dance with me. “Bella, can’t you understand the grief of a man who’s lost his mother? You’re being selfish.”

And just last week, at a family gathering, he didn't even look at me. “Maybe Isabella should find someone else.”

Every time, he’d used the noble excuse of “respecting his late mother” to humiliate me. And now, this “devoted son” was dishonoring the memory of his dead mother in the filthiest way imaginable.

“Once that little bookworm finally gives up, I’ll be free,” Dante’s insults continued. “My father can’t force me to marry some piece of trash nobody wants.”

Scarlett’s laughter was sharp and piercing. “Are you sure she’ll stop chasing you, darling?”

“What’s she gonna do? Isabella Rossi is just a caged canary who’s good with numbers. She’s nothing without the dusty old ledgers her dead old man left behind.”

Dusty old ledgers?

My fingers tightened into a fist. Those ledgers documented every dollar that moved through the New York underworld for thirty years, including the debt the Moretti family owed my father—a debt they could never repay.

But tonight, I didn't want his money.

I was going to burn his world to the ground.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the custom Vera Wang wedding gown I’d had made for tomorrow’s ceremony. The silk clung to my body, every pearl shimmering in the moonlight.

I fired up the Ferrari and sped toward the Moretti estate.

“Miss, you can’t go in!” The guard at the gate tried to stop my car.

“Get out of my way.” I rolled down the window, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Tell Vincent that Isabella Rossi is here to fulfill the contract.”

In the great hall of the estate, the family’s inner circle was in a meeting. When I pushed the doors open, every head turned. They all stared in shock at me—a woman in a wedding dress, alone, storming the heart of the Moretti family's power.

“Isabella?” The old consigliere, Marco, stared wide-eyed. “What are you—”

“According to the marriage pact signed in 1993 between the Rossi and Moretti families,” I announced, standing at the head of the long table. My voice echoed in the silent room. “The pact specifies that ‘the heir of the Rossi family shall be joined in matrimony with the Moretti family to solidify the alliance between our two houses.’”

“Are you crazy?” one of the cousins stood up. “Dante’s not even here—”

“The pact says ‘the Moretti family,’ not ‘Dante Moretti,’” I cut him off, pulling a document from my purse. “And by tradition, the family is represented by the Don, not the heir.”

The air in the room went still.

“So, Vincent Moretti,” I said, looking directly at the empty seat at the head of the table, my voice void of all emotion. “I am here to marry you.”

“Madonna mia…” someone gasped.

Just then, heavy footsteps approached. Vincent pushed the door open, followed by a few of his capos. He stopped for a second when he saw me, then his eyes scanned the shocked faces in the room.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice a low rumble of thunder.

“Don, this woman… she’s lost her mind,” Marco stammered. “She says she’s here to marry you, according to the pact—”

“Shut up.” Vincent held up a hand and walked toward me.

He was a head taller than me, his dark eyes studying my face. The man was nearly forty, but age had only given him more authority and a rugged charm. His suit fit his broad shoulders perfectly, and he radiated absolute power.

“Why?” he asked.

I held his gaze. “Because I need a real man, not a coward.”

Vincent was silent for a long moment. No one else in the room dared to breathe.

Finally, he nodded.

“Marco, get the priest.”

“Don, are you sure—”

“Now.”

An hour later, before the family’s statue of the Madonna, I became Vincent Moretti’s wife.

The wedding was simple. A few traditional vows and a heavy platinum ring. When Vincent kissed me, I smelled the cigar and cologne on him and felt the warmth of his lips.

This wasn’t love. But it was a beginning.

At dawn, Vincent kissed my forehead, waking me gently. He leaned in and whispered, “Bella, there’s an emergency in Chicago. I have to fly out immediately. Rest up. This estate is your fortress now. It's your home.”

I opened my eyes and watched him fix his cufflinks.

“A month?”

He paused and looked back at me. “You’ll have protection. I’ll be back before you know it.”

After the door closed, I sat on the bed, looking at the ring on my finger. Sunlight filtered through the silk curtains, illuminating the strange new room.

I imagined the look on Dante’s face when he came home.

This was going to be fun.