Chapter 2 - Claimed at the Altar

DANTE 

I stand at the altar with Valerio Corsini beside me. His presence is steady, as always. Every muscle in my body is locked, disciplined into stillness. My palms press flat against each other, hiding the urge to clench my fists. I hate being here. Hate that my life has been forced into a corner where this marriage is my only option.

My mother sits in the front pew, dressed in deep burgundy, smiling like a woman who cannot wait to see her grandchildren. She doesn't look at me. She doesn't need to. The message was delivered weeks ago, folded into a legal document and handed to me like a gift.

Marry Isabella Hart. Or watch Nico Romano inherit every asset my father spent his life building.

I should have refused. I wanted to. But my mother knows exactly how to get to me, has always known since I was a boy watching my father sign away pieces of himself in order to keep the peace she demanded. She learned that power early and never let it go.

I told myself I would enter this marriage on my terms. That I would keep it cold, keep it contained. A contract with a signature and nothing more.

Then the chapel doors open, and my carefully constructed certainty starts to crack.

Her father steps in first, tall, proud, his hand curled protectively around her arm. Then I see her.

Isabella Hart. My bride.

For a moment, I forget to breathe.

The dress should have looked ridiculous, heavy with lace and sequins, the kind of gown that makes a woman look like a doll. But on her, it doesn’t. The fabric hugs her waist, the neckline bares her shoulders, and the faint shimmer of beads catches the light. Her hair is braided into a knot, a few strands loose around her face. She looks untouched. Fragile, even.

My chest contracts in a way that pisses me off.

Her eyes lift and find mine. Blue meeting blue. The chapel disappears. For a second, it’s just us. She’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes a man angry about it.

My jaw ticks. My mouth goes dry.

“I shouldn’t want her,” I mutter under my breath.

Valerio hears. He always does. His lips twitch into a smirk.

“Careful, amico,” he murmurs without turning his head. “Someone might think you’re human.”

“Shut up.” My words are sharp, clipped.

He tilts his chin toward her as she walks closer. “She’s stunning, Dante. Admit it.”

“I said shut up.” My fists clench tighter.

He chuckles softly, low enough that only I catch it. “Your mother was right. This might not be such a bad thing, or a curse like you see it.”

I glare at him, cold enough to cut glass. “One more word, and I’ll replace you as best man before the priest opens his mouth.”

He grins, unfazed. “Relax. I’m only saying what everyone’s already thinking. Look around, half these bastards are jealous.”

I scan the pews. He’s right. Men are staring, some too long, some with envy. My teeth grind.

“Good,” I mutter. “Let them look. Let them remember she’s mine.”

Valerio hums under his breath, clearly entertained, while I drag my eyes back to her. Every step she takes feels like a test. And damn it, I feel like I’m failing.

They reach me.

Her father’s hand is steady on her arm, though his shoulders are stiff, carrying a weight he doesn’t trust me with. His gaze locks on mine before he says anything.

“Dante.” His voice is calm but firm.

"Signore Hart." My tone is polite. The crowd is watching.

For a beat, he doesn’t let go. He studies me, measuring. It grates on my nerves.

“This is my daughter,” he says slowly, as if I don’t already know. “My only daughter. You’ll take care of her.”

The words are a demand, not a question.

Something tightens across my shoulders. I don’t like being questioned, especially not here, not now. But I feel her hand trembling faintly in his hold. She hides it well, but I notice. And something in me flares, not at her weakness, but at the idea that she might think she’s safer with him than with me.

“I take care of what’s mine,” I answer evenly, voice low. “And I protect what’s mine. You don’t need to remind me.”

His eyes narrow, searching for cracks. I give him nothing but steel.

“Then see that you do,” he says under his breath.

He places her hand in mine. His grip lingers, a subtle warning, not surrender.

“You’ll always be my little girl,” he says, rough. “Nothing will change that.”

He presses his lips to her forehead, a fraction too long, before finally releasing her.

Her skin is warm. Too warm. My fingers close around hers automatically. She looks up at me, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. I force myself not to react.

Her father steps back. He won’t interfere, but I know he’s watching, ready to reclaim what’s his if I slip.

She's mine now. Every inch of her, whether she knows it yet or not.

The priest begins. Words of promise, vow, forever. I stopped believing in those words years ago. But I watch her hands, the way her fingers slowly unclench around the bouquet stem. Petal by petal, she releases the grip. Like she's practicing letting go. My chest tightens more than it should, and I don't know if it's because of her, or because I recognize the habit.

When it comes time to exchange rings, I feel the shift.

Her hand waits for me; pale, slender. Mine swallows it whole. I slide the diamond band onto her finger, and for a second too long, my thumb strokes her skin. Reflex.

Her lashes flicker, a quick flash upward at me. Blue eyes meeting mine. Fear, defiance, something sharp.

She slips my ring on carefully, fingers brushing mine. 

Whispers ripple through the guests as though they can feel the tension thickening around us.

The priest clears his throat.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Then my mother’s voice shatters the pause.

“Kiss! Kiss!” she calls, louder, orchestrating a show. Guests laugh, chant building.

Isabel’s eyes widen. Her lips part, ready to protest, but I don’t let her.

I slide my hand to her waist, tug her against me harder than necessary. Her breath catches.

This is for them," I mutter, low enough only she can hear. "Don't read into it."

Her throat swallows, but she doesn’t move away. Brave or trapped, I don’t care.

I lower my mouth to hers.

The first brush of contact is meant to be quick. A show. A gesture. But the second my lips touch hers, the plan unravels.

She’s soft. Too soft. And when her mouth parts in shock, I take advantage. I deepen the kiss, pressing harder, tasting her fully.

Her small gasp slips between us, and it makes me reckless.

Every rational thought screams to stop. I should. I don’t. My hand slides higher, fingers splaying against the curve of her back, pulling her flush to me.

The crowd cheers. My mother claps like she’s won a prize.

Isabel stiffens, then, God help me, she melts. Just a fraction. Her lips move under mine, uncertain but real, and the taste of her makes my head spin.

Strawberries. Coffee. Sweet with an edge of bitterness. I want more.

I break the kiss for air only to dive back in before she can step away.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I growl against her mouth, though I’m the one dragging the kiss deeper, rougher.

Her hand presses lightly against my chest, trying to steady herself. She whispers, breathless, “Then stop.”

I don’t.

Instead, I kiss her again, slower this time, thorough enough to make her tremble. She shivers in my arms, and heat pools low in my gut.

I pull back at last, not because I want to, but because if I don’t, I’ll forget where we are.

Her eyes stay closed a heartbeat too long. When they finally open, dazed, unfocused, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. She looks like I’ve reminded her body of something her mind wanted to forget.

Pride surges in me, sharp and possessive. I like that she’s not untouched. That beneath all her careful composure, I’ve found something raw.

The chapel has gone quiet. Guests stare, wide-eyed. Cameras click.

I smirk, brushing my thumb across her cheek. “There. Over.”

Even as I say it, my body knows I’m lying. It’s not over. It’s just beginning.

The priest clears his throat, forcing the ceremony back into motion. Applause rises and falls like a tide, but I barely hear it. 

I guide her down the aisle, each step measured, her hand locked in mine. Every camera flash, every whisper, every satisfied clap from my mother feels like a display. Like we've been framed and mounted on a wall. Her shoulder brushes mine. She's aware of me. I can feel it in the way her pulse beats against my fingers, quicker than she wants it to be.

“You didn’t have to kiss me like that.”

“Yes, I did,” I answer, eyes forward, jaw set.

Her breath hitches. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t pull away. Like me.

They see what they want: a perfect union, a fairy tale ending.

But I know better.

The aisle stretches out. Guests lean forward with smiles that feel rehearsed. My mother glows with triumph.

My mother intercepts us before we reach the reception doors. She steps smoothly into our path, as though she has always been standing there, waiting. Her hands close over mine and Isabella's together, pressing them between her palms.

"My two beautiful babies," she says, and her voice is full and warm enough that Isabella smiles back instinctively. "I knew from the moment I thought of this that it was right. You are exactly what he needs, Isabella. Exactly."

Isabella's smile holds, but her eyes flicker briefly to me. I give nothing back.

My mother turns to me next. She squeezes my hand once, firm, a gesture she has used since I was a boy that means: good. You did what was necessary. Her eyes carry pride that I know has nothing to do with love and everything to do with satisfaction.

"You'll make the Moretti name proud," she says quietly, only for me.

I keep my expression even. But something runs through me cold, the familiar feeling of being moved like a piece on a board I never agreed to sit on.

She releases us and drifts back into the crowd, already moving between guests like she was made for rooms like this. She always has been.

Isabella watches her go. Something small crosses her face, too quick to read. But it's there. Whatever she sensed in that moment, she filed it away.

Good, I think. She's smarter than my mother knows. They both are.

I take her hand again before she can reach for anything else. My grip is firm, deliberate.

"Come," I say.

She comes.

I sense her scanning the crowd, catching faces, measuring reactions. Good. A woman who pays attention is harder to use.

I harden my grip, a small, silent warning. This is my territory now. Every inch of it.

Her hand presses against mine briefly, a tremor I don’t allow myself to acknowledge. Yet it lingers in memory, threading through my mind.

We reach the reception. I release her hand just enough for her to stand between Valerio and me. I don’t move. My body stays rigid, but my chest still hums from the heat of her against me.

Her eyes find mine. For a fraction of a second, nothing else exists. Not the crowd, not the cameras, not my mother's satisfied smile. Just her, and the way her body reacts to me despite everything she believes about this marriage.

This was supposed to be a contract. A deal. 

And yet, it already feels like a war.