Chapter 3

THE WHITE CAGE

~GISELLE POV~

A wedding dress is supposed to be a dream.

Mine was a suffocating, multi-layered nightmare of French lace and silk organza that cost more than my first year of law school tuition.

I stood on the pedestal in the bridal suite of the Cathedral, staring into the tri-fold mirror. The woman staring back didn't look like Giselle Castellano. She looked like a doll.

A porcelain figure wrapped in white, painted and polished until all the humanity was sanded away.

The corset was so tight my ribs groaned with every shallow breath. The veil was heavy, dragging my head back, a physical burden to match the stone in my stomach.

"Stop fidgeting," a sharp voice snapped from behind me.

Isabella, my adoptive mother, stepped into view in the mirror.

She was wearing black. Fitting. She looked less like the mother of the bride and more like a widow in waiting. Her cold hands batted mine away from my waist.

"I can't breathe, Isabella," I whispered, my voice thin.

"You don't need to breathe," she said, yanking the laces at the back of the dress tighter. I gasped as the air was squeezed out of my lungs. "You just need to stand there and look, prefect. Do you know how much this ceremony is costing us? The flowers alone are worth a small fortune."

"I never asked for this," I said, the rebellion flaring up in my chest for a brief second. "I wanted to finish my degree. I wanted…”

Isabella turned me around, her fingers digging into my bare shoulders. Her nails were sharp, manicured into red claws.

"Nobody cares what you want, Giselle," she hissed, her face inches from mine. Her perfume…something floral and rotting…clogged my nose. "You think we took you in out of charity? You think we fed you and clothed you for eleven years because we liked you?"

I flinched. I knew the answer, but hearing it out loud was like a slap.

"You were an investment," she spat. "And today is payday. So for once in your miserable, ungrateful life, be useful."

She shoved me back toward the mirror. "Fix your face. You look like a corpse. Alessandro isn't buying a funeral dirge; he’s buying a wife. Give him a reason to keep you."

She turned and marched out of the room, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed in my bones.

‘Be useful.’

I looked at my reflection again. A tear threatened to spill over my lower lash, and I aggressively dabbed it away with my knuckle. No. I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't ruin the makeup. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

If I was going to be sold, I would be the most expensive thing they ever bought. I would be sharp. I would be cold. I would be unbreakable.

The door opened again. This time, it was Julio.

He was smiling. He looked younger, lighter, the weight of his gambling debts already lifted from his shoulders.

"Ah, bellissima," he sighed, clasping his hands together. "You look... expensive."

"Is that all I am, Papa?" I asked, turning to face him. "A check you’re cashing?"

Julio’s smile didn't falter, but his eyes hardened. He stepped forward and took my arm, his grip firm. "You are doing your duty for this family. The Romanos are powerful allies. Alessandro will take care of you."

"Alessandro is a psychopath," I said flatly.

"Alessandro is a King," Julio corrected, leading me out of the suite and toward the heavy oak doors of the monastery. "And today, you become his Queen. Now, head up. Don't embarrass me."

The organ music began. The "Wedding March." It sounded like noise to my ears, low and bad, like the soundtrack to a horror movie right before the killer strikes.

The heavy doors groaned open.

The sudden inrush of light blinded me for a moment. Then, the scene settled. The Cathedral was packed. Hundreds of people…mafia dons, politicians, captains, soldiers…turned to look at me.

There was no warmth in their gazes. There were no "awws" or teary smiles. They were assessing me. They were witnessing a merger. I was the contract, walking down the aisle to be signed.

I gripped my bouquet of white roses so hard the thorns bit into my palms through the satin ribbon. The pain grounded me.

‘Left foot. Right foot. Breathe.’ I focused on the end of the aisle.

The altar was draped in white lilies. And standing there, dark against the purity of the flowers, was him.

Alessandro Romano.

He wasn't fidgeting. He wasn't chatting with his best man. He was standing perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, his pose tough and commanding.

He wore a black tuxedo that drank the light. His hair was slicked back, painful and dark.

As I walked closer, step by agonizing step, our eyes locked.

I expected to see lust. Men usually looked at me with lust.

I expected to see triumph. He had won the prize, after all.

But I saw neither.

Alessandro looked at me as I walked closer, with a scary, uninterested look. His blue eyes looked me over, checking out my dress, my veil, the way I moved my hips, and how I held my chin up proudly.

He didn't smile. Not even a twitch of the lips.

He looked like a general checking the delivery of new guns. He seemed to be looking for problems, thinking about how much harm I could cause, and measuring how strong I was in a fight.

He wasn't looking for a wife. He was gaining a weapon.

I reached the altar. Julio handed my hand to Alessandro.

The moment skin touched skin, a shockwave went through me. His hand was large, warm, and calloused. He didn't hold my hand gently; he gripped it. It was a shackle.

"Take care of her," Julio said, the lie slipping easily from his lips.

Alessandro didn't look at Julio. He didn't look at the priest. He stared down at me, his gaze piercing through my veil as if it wasn't even there.

"She is mine now," Alessandro said. His voice was low, a rough vibration that I felt in my chest. "Go sit down, old man. You’ve done your part."

Julio stiffened, but he obeyed. Everyone obeyed Alessandro.

I stood next to him, feeling small, feeling trapped. The priest began to speak, droning on about love and honor and cherish. Words that had no place in this transaction.

"Do you, Alessandro Dante Romano, take this woman..."

Alessandro turned his body fully toward me. He reached up and lifted my veil.

The heavy lace fell back, exposing my face to the cold air and his colder eyes. Up close, I saw the darkness in his pupils. I saw the intelligence. And I saw something else…a hunger that wasn't sexual, but possessive. A hunger that wanted to devour me whole.

"I do," he said. It sounded like a threat.

"And do you, Giselle Maria Castellano..."

I hesitated. The silence stretched. One second. Two. The crowd shifted uneasily.

I looked at Alessandro. He arched a single dark eyebrow, daring me. Run, his eyes seemed to say. ‘Run so I can hunt you.’

I thought of the debt. I thought of Isabella’s cruelty. I thought of the cage I had lived in for eleven years. I was just trading one cage for another. Maybe this new cage would have sharper bars, but at least the monster inside was honest about what he was.

"I do," I whispered.

"I now pronounce you man and wife," the priest rushed, sensing the tension. "You may kiss the bride."

Alessandro stepped in. He didn't ask permission. He cupped my jaw with one hand, his thumb pressing against my pulse point, feeling the nervous beat of my heart.

"You’re terrified," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.

"I am not," I lied, trembling.

"Liar," he whispered.

Then he crushed his mouth to mine.

It wasn't a sweet kiss. It was hard, demanding, and bruising. It was a branding. He kissed me like he was breathing my air, stealing my oxygen, replacing my will with his own.

For a moment, the world spun. I felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the scent of him….sandalwood and power.

He pulled back, leaving my lips throbbing and swollen. He looked down at me, a dark satisfaction curling his lip for the first time.

"Ready to go home, moglie?" he asked. ‘Wife.’

I nodded, unable to speak.

He took my arm, gripping it tightly, and turned us toward the exit. The music poured out. The doors opened.

We stepped out of the church and into the bright sunlight.

And then the world exploded.