Chapter 4
ISABELLA
I stare at my reflection, hardly recognizing the woman in the white gown staring back at me.
Three days ago, I had an escape route, a future where I'd finally get justice for my mother.
My mind flashes back to that night. The dark street, the attacker, and Roman appearing like a shadow. The way he looked at me when I fought against him.
I'd been so close to meeting Agent Blackwood, so close to freedom.
Now I'm about to allow my father to hand my life over to another man. To a killer.
Ever since that night that Roman brought me home, my father has locked me away, confined to the house. I suspect he knew the truth, that I was trying to leave.
It was odd the way Roman appeared to cover for me.
To be honest, I was fairly certain he was bringing me home to kill me in front of my father to make a point.
Instead, he acted like we were on a date.
Like we were a real couple.
But we’re not.
I’m being forced to marry a man twenty years my senior who likely killed my mother. There’s no way in hell I’d ever fall for a man like that.
It feels surreal. Like I'm watching my life unfold from outside myself. This is not what I wanted in my life. Not what my mother wanted for me.
"Beautiful," my father says from the doorway, his eyes assessing me like merchandise being prepared for delivery.
"Don't." The word comes out sharp.
His face hardens. "Isabella, we've been through this. This wedding happens today. Roman Ginetti is a reasonable match."
"Reasonable?" I turn to face him fully. "You've handed me to a killer."
"He's a father with a good position in the Calabresi organization."
"He's their executioner."
Father steps closer, lowering his voice though we're alone. "You should be grateful I negotiated this instead of what La Corona wanted."
"I never asked for your protection," I whisper.
"No, you chose to betray your family instead." His eyes are hard as they look at me through the mirror. As if he’s trying to will me to understand. But I’ll never understand.
“This marriage is for your protection,” he finishes.
"This isn't protection. It’s imprisonment.”
Father sighs in defeat. "I suggest you finish preparing yourself to become Mrs. Ginetti."
When he leaves, I turn my attention back to the woman in the mirror in the pure white dress. A rush of nerves cascades through me.
My mother had the birds and bees talk with me before she passed.
At twenty-five, I’m probably the oldest virgin in the world. To be honest, I don’t really care. What’s all the hubbub about, anyway?
But now, I find myself more nervous about what Roman expects from me in bed than worried he’s going to kill me.
Ten minutes later, I’m downstairs on my father’s arm as he leads me up the makeshift aisle set up in our grand room.
My mother wanted a big Catholic wedding for me. Admittedly, this is better. There’s no sense in pretending this is anything other than an arrangement.
Each step down the aisle feels like walking toward my execution. I focus on anything but the man waiting at the altar.
When I finally look at Roman, his expression is unreadable.
No joy, no triumph, just calm assessment as I approach.
I notice his daughter isn’t there, but why would she be? This isn’t a real wedding.
Father places my hand in Roman's. His grip is firm but not painful. Like a warning rather than a threat.
"Dearly beloved," the priest begins.
I retreat into my mind as the ceremony proceeds. I think of the life I wanted to have and the dream that is now gone.
My little design studio is filled with fabrics waiting to be transformed into beautiful garments. All I’ve ever wanted to do was to design clothes.
My mother even convinced my father to let me go to design school, but for him, it was a way to keep me occupied until he could marry me off.
I suspect it was the same for my mother, although I believe she wanted me to have something that brought me joy in this difficult confined world as a Mafia daughter and wife.
"I do," Roman says, his voice deep and certain.
The priest turns to me. Everyone waits.
"I do," I manage, the words scraping my throat raw.
Roman slides a ring onto my finger, a plain platinum band. I place his band on with surprisingly steady hands. I like to think of it as a victory, but more likely, I’m just resolved.
I’m the epitome of learned helplessness.
"You may now kiss the bride."
I freeze at the priest's words. Somehow, in all my dread about this forced marriage, I hadn't prepared myself for this moment.
The public claiming.
The performance of affection where none exists.
My first kiss.
Roman's eyes meet mine. Something flickers in their depths.
Hesitation?
For a split second, I see uncertainty in this man who has never seemed uncertain about anything.
His hand rises slowly to my cheek, his fingertips barely grazing my skin. I brace myself for my first kiss to be rough, a kiss that reminds me who I belong to now.
It never comes.
Instead, his lips touch mine with unexpected gentleness. Soft. Almost… respectful.
The pressure is light. My eyes flutter closed against my will, my body betraying my mind's resistance.
The kiss lasts only seconds, but it's enough to scatter my thoughts.
When he pulls away, I'm left disoriented, confused by the tenderness from a man I've only ever associated with violence.
"Breathe," he murmurs, so quietly only I can hear.
I realize I've been holding my breath. I inhale shakily as polite applause ripples through the room.
Roman's hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. The touch is proprietary but not crushing.
Like everything about his kiss, it's not what I expected.
I glance up at him, searching his face for mockery or triumph, but find neither. Just that same unreadable expression, though something softer lingers around his eyes.
For the first time, I notice that while he’s older, he’s attractive.
He’s the epitome of a romance novel Alpha male with a strong, chiseled jaw, piercing gray eyes, and short, dark hair with a hint of gray along the temple.
An odd feeling flutters in my gut. My heart stutters.
I give my head a shake, hating having a reaction that is anything but loathing toward the man. I can’t afford to forget who he is, what he represents.
The reception passes in a blur of false smiles and veiled threats disguised as congratulations.
I recognize faces from La Corona gatherings throughout my life, men who decided my fate over brandy and cigars, women who watch me with either pity or calculation in their eyes.
I cling to the champagne flute in my hand, taking small sips to maintain composure without dulling my senses.
Roman stays close, his hand occasionally finding the small of my back when someone approaches. His touch is light but ever-present, a reminder of my new reality.
Sometimes, it feels like he's trying to be reassuring, but I dismiss that thought. His touch shows everyone that my ownership has changed from my father to him.
When it's finally over, I'm ushered into a sleek black SUV. Roman sits beside me.
"We're going home," Roman says, the first words he's spoken directly to me since our vows.
Home. It’s not my home. It’s my prison.
We arrive at a luxury high-rise in the heart of the city. The doorman nods respectfully as Roman guides us through the lobby, his hand on my elbow. The elevator ascends silently.
He opens the door. “It’s not as big or lavish as you’re used to.”
We enter the apartment. It's surprisingly warm with rich woods, comfortable furniture, large windows showcasing the city lights. Not the sparse, cold space I'd imagined.
“Let me show you around.” After a quick tour that ends in a large bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows, Roman turns to me. "This is our room."
"Our room?" I echo, scanning the space for any sign of alternatives. "Where am I supposed to sleep?"
"Here," he says simply. "There is no spare room. Like I said, my place isn’t the mansion you’re used to. The other bedrooms are in use by my daughter and her nanny.”
“Maybe you could sleep with the nanny.” The sarcasm drips from my voice, a shield against the panic rising in my chest. “Isn’t that the old cliché? Single fathers and their nannies?”
Roman's lips curl into an amused smirk. “Maybe in The Sound of Music.” He turns toward the doorway where an older woman with a gray bun stands. "Mrs. Rossi, my new bride suggests you might prefer to share my bed. Any interest?"
The older woman's eyes widen before she bursts into laughter. "Well, that’s quite an offer, Mr. Ginetti, and I can’t deny that if I were younger, I’d take you up on it.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. I’ve been here less than five minutes and everyone is laughing at me.
Mrs. Rossi's laughter dies down as a young girl peeks around her legs, solemn eyes fixed on me with suspicion.
"Angelica," Roman says, his voice softening in a way I wouldn’t have imagined he could do, "come meet Isabella properly."
The little girl steps forward reluctantly, her small shoulders squared like she's preparing for battle.
"Hello, Angelica," I say, crouching down to her level. Up close, I can see Roman in her features. The same determined set of the jaw, the same watchful intelligence in her eyes. "It's nice to finally meet you."
She doesn't respond, just stares at me with an intensity that feels unsettling coming from a seven-year-old.
"You're supposed to say hello back," Roman prompts gently.
"Hello," she mumbles, then adds with unexpected directness, "Are you going to make Daddy send Mrs. Rossi away?"
The question catches me off guard. I glance up at Roman, whose expression reveals nothing.
"No," I answer honestly. "Why would I do that?"
"Because stepmothers always change everything," she declares with absolute certainty. "In stories, they make the real children do all the work and sleep in the attic."
A small, unexpected laugh escapes me. "I promise I won't make you sleep in the attic."
She doesn't look convinced. "Do you know how to make chocolate chip pancakes?"