Marriage of Revenge (Mafia Vows of Blood and Love #1)

2. CHAPTER 1 – ISABELLA

CHAPTER 1 – ISABELLA

" His dark eyes lock onto mine. “Mine.” The possessive growl sends a bolt of heat through me. “So wet for me, mon amour,” he breathes, slipping another finger inside me. A moan escapes—helpless, endless—as my body clenches around him. Lost, claimed, found. “You’ve always been mine,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “I love you.”

I want to believe those words. That love could be mine. That somewhere, someone might see me as more than a Moretti. More than a broken ballerina who still can’t dance without losing her balance.

More than me.

Snapping the book shut, I let out a slow breath. Maybe that’s asking too much. Maybe fairy tales are for girls who don’t have blood on their hands.

Through my open window—a luxury after months of sterile hospital air—honeysuckle and wet grass carry the scent of possibility. Of everything I desperately want to believe still waits for me.

“You’re a Moretti, Isabella. You make the world yours. Never forget that,” my father used to tell me.

Before.

When he used to talk to me. Before I messed everything up.

So yep, maybe the fairy tale isn’t in the cards for me. But screw it, I’ll take whatever happily-ever-after I can get.

Hope.

It’s all I’ve got left, and it’s probably foolish. But whatever. Pity-party officially over.

If romance novels are the only love story I get, then so be it. I’ll devour every last one.

Sliding my well-worn copy of Hate To Love You under my pillow, I stretch and yawn, my hand accidentally brushing against the pill bottles on my nightstand, sending one scattering to the ground.

Pavarotti the Cat glances up at me with that patented What-Are-You-Doing look and proceeds to meow so loudly he might wake up the entire mansion.

"Pssttt, don’t tell them I’m going to dance," I murmur. He responds by plopping himself down and starting a bath, without a care in the world.

Must be nice.

Dancing before anyone wakes up is one way to get back to it. I avoid the pity-stares and the leery ones and I get to do what I want.

Turns out spite is a hell of a motivation for getting back to relevé .

Which is good since my latest physical therapist had to mysteriously “relocate”—like the three before him.

I tip toe outside of my room, knowing that I have one more hour until the guards start making their rounds in this wing.

“Good morning, Miss Isabella.” My father’s bodyguard’s nasal voice makes me want to jump out of my skin. He’s lounging against the wall, like he’s been here all night, like he knows the books I’ve been reading and wants to audition for the role of villain.

He should know there’s a long list of contenders.

His slow smile makes my stomach turn. “Early start today?” His gaze travels down my body, lingering in places that make me want to wrap my arms around myself. To disappear into the oversized Juilliard sweater I didn't think I needed at five in the morning.

“Yep,” I reply, refusing to look down, to let him see how uneasy he makes me. “Don't worry, I know the rules. No dancing past eight.”

He nods as if he's giving *me* permission. He's not my father, not my ballet teacher, not my doctor.

“Good girl,” he says, the smirk deepening. As if I need his approval. As if I belong to him.

The words crawl over my skin, making me want to scrub them off. If my father weren’t his boss, I’d be in real trouble—he wouldn’t hesitate, and we both know it.

I force myself to walk past him, not run (because tripping right now would really not help).

But the second I round the corner, my breath whooshes out. It’s not enough, though. I can still feel his eyes on me, crawling down my spine like he’s waiting for the day I’m no longer untouchable.

I look up to my mother’s portrait, like I always do. The only portrait among that gallery where the woman smiles. “WWMD – What Would Mom Do?” was my go-to during years of grueling trainings and then chemo.

I don’t remember much of her, but making her proud is always a whisper in the back of my mind.

That, and wondering if I look like her. If I would make her smile.

At the ballet barre, my worn-out sneakers feel like betrayal against the polished floor. The mirror shows a stranger—new curves, dark circles, and a curly pixie cut that showed up without RSVP-ing where my dancer's bun used to be.

But this moment isn't about things I can't change.

So, I hit play.

Haunting piano notes flood the room--Chopin. I always dance to Chopin these days.

Maybe because this room is where he played piano for me, where he wrapped his arms around me after lifting me on the piano, where he made me believe that romance novels could become true.

I shake my head, focusing on the curve of my arms.

I grip the barre, my fingers turning white as my calf muscle twitches, threatening to give out. My legs tremble with each relevé, beads of sweat gathering on my forehead. I force myself to keep going, refusing to let the burn stop me. My knee wobbles, and for a second, I almost topple. But I bite down on my lip, hard, and push through. I won’t let my own body betray me—not again.

And then I slide across the room. The music gets me—it really does. I move, guided by a memory tape that's all kinds of raw, rough, and ridiculously alive.

Mid-pirouette, and I lose it. The floor slams into me, and my hip feels like it's on fire. But what really burns? My ego.

I try to wiggle my toes, but a vicious cramp decides to throw a party in my hand instead.

Footsteps echo down the hall. I know that measured pace, the weight of disappointment it carries. And there’s a tightness in my chest I want to ignore.

"Isabella." My father's voice cuts through the music.

For one silly, stupid second, I hope for a hand, a comforting word, a small smile.

But all I get is silence.

For a heartbeat, I'm eight years old again, falling during my first recital. Back then, he scooped me up, called me his Piccola Bella-rina. Back when I thought his business was just business, when I didn't know what happened to people who disappointed him.

Now? I catch him watching me as I struggle to push myself up from the floor. His eyes narrow, flicking over me like he’s calculating the cost of repairs on something broken. He doesn’t say a word, but the slight downturn of his mouth, the almost imperceptible shake of his head, speaks louder than anything. It’s that silent appraisal that turns my stomach more than if he shouted at me.

I force myself to square my shoulders.

“You’re wasting your time,” he grunts. “Breakfast is ready. And we need to talk.”

I stand there, waiting, hoping he’ll meet my eyes, that maybe this time he’ll smile, say something kind, anything to show that he still sees me. But all I get is a dismissive wave of his hand, like I’m nothing more than an annoying fly he can’t be bothered to swat.

“And put your sweater back on or something.” The way he says it has me wanting to scream.

The mansion murmurs secrets as I make my way to the kitchen. Last night, a group of men cheered to something in my father's office. There was even loud laughter from a few of them. The kind that makes the maids duck their heads and find reasons to dust the same spots twice.

As I pass in front of the office, Georgio isn’t anywhere to be seen. And the guards stop talking when I approach.

“I need to grab a file for my father,” I tell them like I do this every day, crossing my fingers they don’t hear my heart thundering.

I step inside. Just for a peek. Nothing more.

Maybe he got my latest scan results, and this was what they were celebrating. Or maybe I'm delusional. There is a folder on his mahogany desk. But the word scrawled on top is Asta.

Auction in Italian.

Nothing about medical results.

Just Dad being Dad, expanding his empire, while I'm here trying not to fall apart.

Next to it, another file catches my eye and my lungs must stop working. It’s him .

My fingers hover over the folder, my former forbidden crush staring up at me.

Antonio .

The scar on his cheek is a brutal reminder of everything that went wrong. Once, those eyes used to soften when he looked at me, his voice would drop to a whisper, promising things that made my heart flutter. Now, those same eyes seem to burn through the paper, dark with a hatred that twists my stomach.

We were so close, once. Before everything went to hell.

Some nights I still wake up hearing...things I can't think about. Not now.

Pictures may be worth a thousand words, but they lie. They don’t show the memory of his calloused hands on my face, his minty breath on my face, his laughter that seemed to surprise him.

They don't show the weight of choices. Of silence. Of guilt.

The sudden mew of Pavarotti makes me tense up.

If Dad catches me here, he won't be pleased (understatement of the century). And I need Dad to be in a good mood—or whatever that means for him—since I want to pitch him the idea of returning to school.

I’m a thorn in his side, here. Someone he has no use for.

I scoop up Pavarotti, holding his soft fluffiness for a heartbeat before setting him down. My phone chimes.

Morning Beautiful Bella! Any news on those spring applications? Also is your father still earning the title of Asshole Dad of the Century?

Naomi—my father's right-hand man's daughter and my lifeline in this wild world—is the only one who knows I'm trying for spring admission.

Three years ago, it would've been Juilliard or nothing.

Now, with August burning away and fall semester already starting everywhere, I'm throwing Hail Marys at any university still accepting applications for January.

Dancing might be out of the question now, but maybe school, language and art studies, can help gather the fragments of my life.

UCLA's portal still says under review. Maryland wants another recommendation letter before their late deadline. And I’m waiting for London. The thought of any university away from here ignites a flicker of hope.

Somewhere I might find a new rhythm for my hesitant feet. But not Chicago. Because that would be dancing on broken shards.

It’s going to work. I’ll see you later, okay?

Please, yes.

I slide the phone back into the pocket of my sweatshirt, smiling, and hold on to the railing of the sprawling staircase. At least the smell of French toast and cappuccino is now enticing, instead of nausea-inducing.

And this is like a mini-hug from the universe.

As I approach the kitchen, I overhear my father's stern voice.

"I didn't ask you for your advice," he says.

"You can't do that, Signor Moretti. Isabella ... she shouldn't have to go through that," Mrs. Romano pleads, her usually firm voice trembling with worry.

“You knew this was coming,” my father’s voice is low, a threat wrapped in velvet. “It could be worse. There are other ways...”

“But Signor Moretti... she’s your daughter.”

A chill races down my spine. I press myself flatter against the wall, my heart thudding in my ears. What could be worse? What could possibly be worse than this? Oh, he’s going to say no to the university, isn’t he?

Georgio must have overheard Naomi and I talking about it.

Or maybe the last scan wasn’t good.

"Non è una decisione che spetta a te," my father spits at her. Something about it not being her decision.

While I want to keep on listening, Pavarotti meows at my feet again and I stumble. My father's piercing gaze shifts toward where I'm awkwardly standing.

There's a hint of annoyance flashing in his eyes as he takes my sweater in—even though he did tell me to wear one. It was my mother’s sweater.

It’s a reminder of who she was and who I’ll never be.

Maybe he hates that sweater more than he hates my scars.

"Sit," he tells me, tapping his fingers on his folded newspaper.

He waits until Mrs. Romano hands me the plate of delicious French toast with a look filled with pity. The heavy scent of butter and maple syrup does little to ease the tense air.

My father's gaze feels like chains. "Isabella," he begins, formal and cold. When is the last time he called me his Piccola Bella-rina? "I need to tell you something. It's about your future." He's not smiling. It must be bad news.

I can barely breathe, each thought louder than the last: more tests, treatments, and the unraveling of dreams I’m starting to weave again. Whether it’s terror or rage bubbling up, I can't tell.

"What's happening?" My voice doesn't break and I look at him, search his eyes for a hint, a clue. But they're closed off, remote. The father who once upon a time laughed with me, encouraged me, told me I was his princess is replaced by this stern figure who seems more like a stranger than my flesh and blood.

Mrs. Romano halts her knife, eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second before she looks away.

"Someone called you 'Broken Beauty' the other day." His casual tone doesn't match the cold fury in his eyes. "They won't make that mistake again."

I tense, the nickname lacing through me like a barbed wire. It's the closest thing to an emotional reveal I've heard from him in ages.

"I've shielded you from much of my life. But now, your role in our family is changing. You're still invaluable," he pauses, locking eyes with me. "Like you were once."

I am?

While I know who he is, I’m still unsure of everything that means. But being invaluable? That’s something I’ve longed to hear.

"Three days from now, there's an auction in Naples. Followed by a tournament."

My eyes widen, hope blooming in my chest. An auction? That’s right. The folder I saw on his desk.

My mind leaps to paintings, art—something respectable, something that could finally get me closer to leaving this house. Maybe even help with my university applications.This could be the beginning of my new life.

Finally free.

I don’t even have to force out a smile, it’s there. Eager. Real. “We’re traveling to Naples?” My voice comes out almost breathless.

Italy.

Out of this house, away from the suffocating shadows. Maybe Mrs. Romano’s hesitation was her worrying about my doctors.

But I need this. I need to breathe again.

“Yes,” he says, his eyes narrowing, like he can see every hopeful thought I’m trying to hide. And thinks I’m stupid. “But not for what you think.” The cold twist of his smile drains the warmth from my chest.

The room tilts. “What do you mean?” I whisper.

“The winner... will claim you as a wife.” It takes a heartbeat too long for his words to register.

Wife?

My lungs seize. I must have misheard him. But the ice in his gaze says otherwise. My fingers dig into the table’s edge, trying to keep from toppling over.

Forget happily-ever-after.

This is my nightmare. And there is no pretty pink bow around it.