2. Isabella
2
Isabella
I f I had a dollar for every time, my father disrupted my day, I’d have enough to buy an island to go with our other islands, and some extra private jets to boot.
Case in point: Instead of overseeing our newest resort in the Maldives, I’m stuck in a meeting I didn’t plan, waiting for a man who’s decided, yet again, that my schedule needs his personal adjustment.
I force myself to focus on the ledger. Numbers don’t lie. They don’t care about the Bellanti's name or our family’s power. They just tell me if my nightclub—the business I insisted on running myself—is making the profit I promised Papa it would.
Disappointing him isn’t an option. Not because I’m afraid, but because making him proud matters more than I’d ever admit aloud.
But trying to concentrate when I know he’s about to walk in is impossible.
The door opens, and I don’t need to look up. You know it’s him from his steady steps, the smell of his cigars, and how everyone else stiffens slightly.
My father, Luca Bellanti, Don of the Bellanti Syndicate.
“Isabella,” he says, his voice deep and familiar.
I take my time looking up, my green eyes—just like his—meeting his gaze. It’s a distinctive trait in the family, these eyes. Except for Matteo. He’s the odd one with gray eyes.
Despite being annoyed at the surprise meeting, I can’t help the warmth I feel.
He’s stubborn and overprotective, but he’s always been there. Even for my first period, when Mom was at some spa in Europe. He panicked, bought out a pharmacy, and made sure I had everything I needed, including awkward but sweet advice.
He looks perfect, as always. Clad in an expensive suit, hiding the limp from that old wound by leaning on a diamond encrusted cane, which is likely hiding a sword.
But it really is more for show than need. It’s reminding everyone that even if injured, he’s still dangerous.
“Well, everyone’s here,” I say, nodding toward my siblings.
Matteo’s by the window, silent and watchful in his perfect suit. Lorenzo’s sprawled on the leather couch, tapping the couch impatiently as always. Olivia sits straight-backed beside him, designer glasses perched on her nose. And Angelo, baby of the family, is already drinking at the bar.
Father nods, looking us over with that mix of pride and calculation I’ve known all my life. “Let’s get this over with.”
"There's a mole in our organization," Father announces without preamble. "Someone leaking sensitive information to our allies and enemies alike."
The air turns electric. Matteo's jaw tightens, Lorenzo's eyes narrow dangerously, and Olivia's perfectly manicured nails dig into her palm.
"How bad?" Matteo asks, voice low and controlled.
Father sighs, leaning on his cane. "Bad enough that the Morettis found out that Judge Romano is in our pocket, not theirs. Bad enough that the Bratva knows about our arrangement with the city council member handling their casino licenses."
"Fuck," Lorenzo mutters.
"It's worse," Father continues. "Every family has received evidence suggesting we're double-crossing our allies, manipulating political connections. There's evidence suggesting we've compromised everyone's shipping routes before the Port Authority vote."
The implications hang heavy in the air. Our family's power comes not just from strength, but from trust. If the other families think we’re betraying them, it won’t be long before they turn on us. And when they do, it won’t be a war. It’ll be a massacre.
"So what's the plan?" Matteo asks, crossing his arms.
“What else are we thinking about? It's easy. We find the mole and eliminate it,” Lorenzo says.
“It’s not that simple,” Father says, his eyes narrowing. “The mole is smart. They’ve been careful, covering their tracks. We need to be smarter. We need to prove to the other families that we’re not the ones behind this.”
“And how do we do that?” Olivia asks, her voice calm and measured. She’s always been the voice of reason in this family, the one who can see the bigger picture.
My father's gaze shifts to me, and I feel a chill run down my spine. “We form an alliance,” he says. “A marriage alliance.”
The room goes silent.
Father's eyes lock with mine. "You're getting married."
For a moment, I think I've misheard him over the music. "I'm what?"
"You're marrying Nico Moretti. In two days."
The room explodes. Matteo pushes away from the wall, Lorenzo lets out a string of curses, and Angelo chokes on his drink.
"The enforcer?" Matteo spits the word. "The man has no soul, Father. They call him the Reaper for a reason."
"Allegedly," Angelo interjects, earning a glare from Matteo. "What? I'm just saying, rumors are rumors."
"Angelo's right," Olivia adds, pushing her glasses up. "Strategically speaking, an alliance with the Morettis makes sense. They're the second most powerful family after us."
Matteo turns to our father, his cold gray eyes flashing with anger. “This is a mistake,” he says. “Nico Moretti is a monster. You’re throwing her to the wolves.”
“He’s our best chance at stopping this war,” Our Father counters firmly. “We need him.”
My mind races, memories flashing on the one time I glimpsed Nico Moretti. It was three years ago at a neutral territory meeting.
Tall, imposing, with jet-black hair touched by silver at the temples despite his being only in his thirties. Cold, dark eyes that revealed nothing. He always wears a black suit, as if perpetually attending a funeral, perhaps one of his own making.
"The marriage will present a united front," Father explains. "It shows transparency between our families while we hunt for the mole. If the Morettis stand with us, the other families will back down."
"And if he's abusive?" Matteo challenges. "We've all heard—"
"I can handle myself," I interrupt. "And if he tries anything, I'll cut his throat in his sleep."
Lorenzo barks out a laugh. "That's my sister."
Father regards me carefully. "You understand what's at stake?"
I nod. Family comes first. Always. "When do I meet my future husband?"
"He's waiting outside."
My siblings step out, Matteo squeezing my shoulder as he passes.
Father pauses at the door.
"Isabella," he whispers. "I wouldn't ask this if there was any other way."
"I know, Father."
When the door closes behind him, I take a moment to gather myself. I smooth my black Versace dress, touch the small scar on my collarbone—I got from playing rough with Lorenzo—and lift my chin.
The door opens again, and he enters, like a shadow.
Nico Moretti is a darkness personified. Six-foot-four of lethal grace, broad shoulders filling out his black suit to perfection. His presence sucks the oxygen from the room.
Up close, his eyes aren't just dark, they're bottomless, holding secrets and sins I can only imagine.
"Ms. Bellanti," his voice is rough around the edges.
"It's Isabella," I corrected him, refusing to be intimidated. "Considering we're getting married in forty-eight hours."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those eyes. "Isabella, then."
He moves to the bar, pouring himself two fingers of scotch with the casual confidence of a man who takes what he wants. "I assume your father explained the situation."
"The bare minimum." I follow him, keeping the bar between us. "So, tell me, Nico Moretti, are the rumors true? Do you really collect ears from your victims?"
His lips twitch, almost a smile. Almost. "Only when I'm feeling sentimental."
Dark humor. Interesting.
"Let's establish some ground rules," he continues, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "This marriage is business, nothing more. We present a united front, share intelligence about the mole, keep our families from tearing each other apart."
"And behind closed doors?" I challenge him.
His gaze slides over me, cool and assessing. "We stay out of each other's way."
The dismissal stings more than it should. "Fine by me."
"Good." He downs his drink in one smooth motion. "My men will coordinate with yours on security for the wedding. I assume you'll want the basics: dress, flowers, whatever women care about for these things."
I arch an eyebrow. "Such a romantic."
"Romance isn't part of our arrangement."
"Clearly." I move closer, refusing to be towered over. "But let me be clear about something, Moretti. I may marry you, but I'm still a Bellanti. I run this club and our family's legitimate businesses. That doesn't change."
He studies me, and for a moment, I glimpse something like respect in his expression. "I wouldn't expect it to."
Electricity crackles between us, something dangerous and undeniable.
"Two days," he says finally, averting his gaze. "I'll send a car."
"I'll be ready."
As he turns to leave, the light catches the slight bulge beneath his jacket; his gun, always within reach. The enforcer. The killer. My future husband.
"One more thing," I called after him. "If you ever try to control me, threaten me, or harm me, I won't just cut your throat. I'll burn everything you care about to the ground first."
He pauses at the door, looks back over his shoulder. For the first time, a genuine smile touches his lips, dangerous and beautiful.
"I'd expect nothing less, wife."
The door closes behind him, and I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding. Outside, the music continues to pound, oblivious to how my world has just shifted on its axis.
In two days, I'll be Isabella Moretti.
The thought should terrify me.
But it doesn’t.
And I don’t know why.