3. Nico
3
Nico
T he door to Inferno closes behind me, yet I feel her presence lingering, her green eyes burning into my back like fire.
Isabella Bellanti is not what I expected.
She's dangerously attractive, witty and full of sarcasm. Just like a recipe for disaster.
I slide into the back of my waiting Bentley, nodding to Jared, one of my most trusted men, in the driver's seat.
"All set, boss?"
"Drive," I reply, loosening my tie slightly. The scent of her perfume clings to me, something expensive and intoxicating, jasmine with an undercurrent of darkness. Like her.
My father's words echo in my mind as we weave through midnight traffic. "Marriage is a small price to pay for stability, Nico. You've killed men for less."
True enough. But killing is clean. Marriage is…… unpredictable.
I don't like being unpredictable.
I check my watch. Eighteen hours since our families discovered the leak that threatens the delicate balance of power in New York. Two days until I take a wife I never wanted.
My phone buzzes. Jared’s eyes flicker to the rearview mirror.
"It's my father," I say, answering without enthusiasm. "Yes?"
"Is it done?" Antonio Moretti barks, his voice sharp with impatience even through the phone.
"Yes. She's agreed to the terms."
"Good. Their princess for our enforcer. A fair trade." He laughs, the sound devoid of humor. "Is she as beautiful as they say?"
I think of Isabella's dark hair cascading down her back, her sharp cheekbones, those piercing green eyes and the way she held her own against me. It was impressive.
"She's acceptable," I lie.
"Make sure you get her pregnant quickly. A child will cement the alliance."
My grip tightens on the phone. "We discussed the parameters. This is business, nothing more."
"Business evolves, Nico. Remember who you serve."
The call ends before I can respond. Typical.
Jared pulls up to my penthouse, the gleaming spire of glass and steel overlooking Central Park. "Need anything else tonight, boss?"
"No." I pause. "Actually, tell Roman to increase security at the Bellanti compound and Isabella's residence. And I want eyes on her 24/7 until the wedding."
"Already done."
I nod, stepping into my penthouse.
Shedding my jacket, I pour a glass of scotch and move to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Lorenzo Bellanti, surprisingly.
*Wedding rehearsal tomorrow. 3PM. Castello di Vetro. Isabella's idea. Dress appropriately.*
I frown. A rehearsal wasn't part of our arrangement. Isabella is already testing boundaries—I should have expected something like this.
In the window's glass, I catch sight of myself, the silver already threading through my hair at thirty-five, the coldness in my eyes that makes lesser men look away. I've built my reputation on being ruthless, precise, and feared.
Yet, for a moment, I wonder what Isabella sees when she looks at me. Monster? Necessary evil? Stepping stone?
I down my scotch and dismiss the thought. It doesn't matter what she thinks of me. This marriage is purely based on alliance. Nothing more.
---
Castello di Vetro shines in the afternoon sun, the Bellanti’s event venue living up to its name: a castle of glass. I arrive precisely five minutes early, two of my men flanking me.
Inside, the wedding planner scurries about frantically, directing staff with military precision. Lorenzo spots me first, breaking away from his brother Matteo with a surprisingly genuine smile.
"Moretti, welcome to the madness."
I nod, scanning the room. "Your sister's idea?"
"Isabella does nothing halfway," he confirms. "When she heard 'impromptu wedding,' she still insisted on doing it right."
Matteo approaches, his posture stiff. "Moretti."
"Bellanti."
The tension between us crackles. I've killed men Matteo has saved; he's negotiated deals I've enforced through blood.
We respect each other professionally, but there will never be warmth between us.
"Where's my bride?" I ask, ignoring the way Matteo's jaw tightens at my words.
"Here."
Her voice cuts through the chaos, and I turn to see Isabella descending the grand staircase. She's wearing a simple white dress. It's not her wedding gown, clearly, but elegant?. She has swept her hair up, exposing the graceful line of her neck.
"You're punctual," she says, reaching the bottom step. "I appreciate that in a husband."
"And you're demanding," I counter smoothly. "No one discussed a rehearsal."
She smiles, all teeth. "Consider it a bonus. I thought our families should practice not killing each other before the actual ceremony."
I study her for a moment, then concede with a slight nod.
She's using this rehearsal to gauge alliances, test reactions, and gather intelligence. That's quite smart.
"Let's begin then," I say.
After an hour of gruesome dancing, we take a break. I notice Olivia Bellanti analyzing me from across the room. The family lawyer, with a mind like a supercomputer according to our intel.
"She's trying to figure you out," Isabella says, suddenly beside me. "Good luck to her."
"And you?" I ask. "Have you figured me out yet?"
She tilts her head, considering. "You're careful. Controlled. You've killed men for looking at you wrong, yet you've been surprisingly accommodating today."
"Disappointed?"
"Intrigued."
"Your brother doesn't approve," I observe, nodding toward Matteo, who's watching us like he wants to put a bullet in my eye.
"Matteo sees threats everywhere." She shrugs. "He'll come around when it's time. ”
Then I hear it. The sharp crack of a rifle.
Before I can react, Isabella stumbles forward. For a split second, my brain doesn’t register what’s happening. Then I see the blood on her arm.
I grab her, pulling her behind me, my gun already in hand.
The rehearsal room erupts into chaos. Matteo and Lorenzo have taken defensive positions, guns drawn. Angelo is evacuating the staff through a back entrance.
My men have formed a perimeter, returning fire at the assailants rappelling through the shattered skylights.
Another shot rings out, but I already have Isabella pressed against the stone wall, shielding her body with mine.
Footsteps echo in the distance. Matteo fires. Lorenzo follows. One body drops, but the other gets away.
Across the room, I spot another assailant behind Matteo.
"Nine o'clock high!" I shout to Matteo, who swings his weapon up and fires simultaneously with me.
The man crashes over the railing, dead before he hits the floor.
The silence that follows is deafening. I pull back just enough to look at Isabella.
There's a bloodstain on her arm, but one glance tells me it's just a graze.
“Are you hit anywhere else?” My voice is rough, sharper than I intend.
She shakes her head, but her breathing is uneven. “I’m fine.”
She’s lying. But she’s also strong enough to stand on her own, so I let her.
Matteo storms over. “Who the fuck were they?”
“Professionals,” I say. “Not some street-level hitmen.”
Lorenzo nudges the dead shooter with his boot. “No insignia, no tags. Someone hired them.”
This marriage was supposed to prevent a war.
Instead, it might have just started one.