9. Bella
9
BELLA
T he wedding dress hangs like a ghost in the predawn light, mocking me with its perfection. Yards of Italian silk and French lace cascade from delicate cap sleeves to a cathedral train, the bodice hand beaded with thousands of tiny crystals that catch the gray morning light. It’s a Vera Wang masterpiece, the kind of dress I used to sketch in the margins of my notebooks during boring lectures.
But in my dreams, my father was always there to walk me down the aisle.
I curl tighter into the window seat of my studio, pulling the cashmere throw closer around my shoulders. I haven’t slept, couldn’t sleep, not after what happened in Matteo’s study. My lips still tingle from his kisses, my skin burning everywhere his hands touched me. The memory of his mouth on my neck makes heat pool low in my belly even now.
God, the way he’d kissed me. Not gentle or hesitant, but demanding, possessive, like a man starving. The taste of him—scotch and smoke and something darker, more dangerous—haunts me. His groans when I’d touched his chest, the way he’d growled my name against my throat, how his hands had felt sliding up my thighs…I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes the memories more vivid.
My studio, at least, offers some refuge from the madness. Matteo had it prepared before I arrived, setting it up on the third floor with windows facing east to catch the morning light. The space is bigger than my apartment, with pristine white walls, perfect track lighting, and enough room for multiple easels. He even stocked it with better supplies than I’ve ever owned—imported paints, handmade brushes, canvases of every size.
Another gilded cage, but at least this one speaks my language.
I painted until my arms ached last night, trying to capture the storm inside me. Grief for my father weights every brushstroke—not just that he’s gone, but that his death has forced me into exactly the life he tried to protect me from. Rage follows close behind, that the Calabrese family could just decide to destroy our lives, that I have to marry for protection like some medieval princess.
And then there’s Matteo.
The canvas before me tells that story too well—dark swirls of midnight blue and crimson, shot through with glints of gold. The colors of desire and danger, of attraction I shouldn’t feel and safety I can’t trust. How can I want a man who represents everything I’ve tried to escape? How can my body crave his touch even as my mind rebels against his control?
A knock at the studio door makes me tense. “Go away, Maria. I know it’s time.”
“It’s not Maria.” Elena’s voice comes through the door, followed by her striking presence. My best friend is everything I’m not—tall, willowy, with the kind of blonde beauty that turns heads. This morning she’s perfectly put together in a pale blue dress that makes her eyes look like sapphires, her honey-blonde hair falling in elegant waves past her shoulders. Even at this ungodly hour, she looks like she stepped off a magazine cover.
“Elena.” My voice breaks as I launch myself at her. Just having her here makes me feel less alone, less like I’m drowning. “You came.”
“Of course I came.” She hugs me tight, then holds me at arm’s length to examine me. Her perfect features draw into a frown. “You look like hell, B. Did you sleep at all?”
“How did you get past security?” I change the subject, not wanting her to know the truth.
“Please.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s something tight around her mouth. “I do all the event planning for these families. The guards know me.” She pauses, those striking blue eyes turning serious. “There’s still time to run.”
I shake my head, moving to study my painting. Elena’s the best event planner in New York, especially for our world’s particular brand of parties. She can make a mob wedding look like a royal celebration, knows exactly how to arrange seating to prevent blood feuds, and can spot an undercover FBI agent at fifty paces.
But even she can’t plan an escape from this.
“You know there isn’t.”
“Then tell me what happened last night. Maria said you never came to bed, and Matteo…” She trails off meaningfully.
Heat floods my cheeks as the memories rush back—Matteo’s hands tangled in my hair, his mouth hot on my neck, the way he’d growled my name like it was something sacred and profane at once. The way his chest felt under my hands, all hard muscle and heated skin…
“Oh my God.” Elena’s eyes widen as she takes in what must be a very telling blush. “You slept with him?”
“No! We just…almost…” I can’t even form coherent thoughts about it. How do I explain that I wanted him so badly it scared me? That part of me wishes Antonio hadn’t interrupted? That I’m equal parts relieved and disappointed we didn’t finish what we started?
“Details. Now.” Elena’s demand is cut short as the studio door bursts open. My mother sweeps in like a perfectly coiffed hurricane, her Chanel suit impeccable, her platinum hair styled just so. Even at dawn, Cher Russo looks ready for a society photograph. A team of stylists trails in her wake, laden with bags and equipment, their faces a mix of determination and fear.
“Isabella Marie Russo!” Her voice could cut glass. “What are you doing hiding in here? In your paint clothes, no less! The hair and makeup team has been waiting for an hour.”
“Mom—”
“No arguments. You’re marrying one of the most powerful men in New York in four hours. You will look perfect.” She snaps her fingers at the stylists. “Get her cleaned up. And someone do something about those paint stains under her nails.”
Elena squeezes my hand before the whirlwind of preparations sweeps me away. Soon I’m seated in front of my vanity, surrounded by people intent on transforming me into someone I barely recognize. The irony isn’t lost on me—this is what I’ve been doing all my life, trying to paint myself into something I’m not. Only now it’s being done for me.
I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror as they work. My dark hair is being curled and pinned in an elaborate style that somehow looks both elegant and effortless. Makeup artists turn my pale skin luminous, define my eyes until they look huge and haunted in my face. My hands—my artist’s hands with their telltale stains and calluses—are being scrubbed and buffed into submission.
“The foundation needs to be heavier,” my mother critiques, circling like a shark. “Those dark circles are atrocious. And do something about that rebellious curl at her nape.”
“She looks beautiful,” Elena interjects, earning a glacial stare from Cher.
“Beautiful isn’t enough. She needs to be flawless. The other families will be watching her every move, analyzing every detail.” My mother’s perfectly painted lips twist. “The DeLuca name comes with certain expectations.”
I close my eyes, trying to block out her voice, but it only makes everything more intense. This should be a happy day. I should be surrounded by bridesmaids and champagne, giggling about my honeymoon and my future. Instead, I’m being polished like a weapon, prepared for a marriage that feels more like a funeral.
“The dress is Vera Wang,” my mother continues, directing the chaos like a general. “The emeralds are from the DeLuca family collection—they belonged to Matteo’s grandmother, then his first wife.”
My stomach lurches at the mention of Sophia. Another ghost haunting this wedding. “Mom, please?—”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic, darling. Sophia’s been dead for years. Though you might want to avoid emeralds at first, just to be safe. Speaking of safe…” Her voice drops to a stage whisper, eyes gleaming with gossip. “I hear Johnny Calabrese paid a visit last night.”
The makeup artist’s hand jerks at the mention of Johnny, smudging eyeliner across my temple. I barely notice, my mind flying back to the interruption in Matteo’s study. The way his body had tensed against mine, how quickly passion had turned to rage at the mention of those photos. What happened after I fled? What evidence did Johnny have?
“For God’s sake,” my mother snaps at the makeup artist, her beautiful features twisting into irritation. “Are you qualified to do anything besides ruin my daughter’s wedding photos? Fix it. Now .”
A commotion in the hallway saves me from my mother’s continued criticism. Maria appears in the doorway, her kind face pinched with anxiety. “Miss Bella? Mr. DeLuca sent this for you.”
She holds out a large black velvet box. Inside, nestled on white silk, lies a delicate gold chain supporting a stunning oval pendant. My breath catches—it’s my painting from last night, perfectly reproduced in miniature enamel and gold, backed by a spiral of tiny diamonds. Every brushstroke I made in my midnight frenzy has been captured with exquisite detail, the dark blues and crimsons swirling around hints of gold.
How did he do this so quickly? More importantly, why? The note accompanying it makes my heart race .
You see the beauty in the darkness. Wear this today instead of Sophia’s emeralds. -M
“But the tradition—” my mother begins to protest, gaping at the necklace.
“I’m wearing this,” I cut her off, my voice firm for the first time today as Elena helps me put it on. My fingers trace the pendant, remembering how Matteo had looked at my painting when he’d come to the studio last night after dealing with Johnny.
He hadn’t said a word when he entered, just studied the canvas for a long moment. I’d tensed, expecting him to try to resume what we’d started in his study. The air had crackled between us with unfinished desire, but he’d maintained his distance.
Still, his presence had filled the room like smoke, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. When he finally left, the ghost of his cologne lingered, reminding me of how his skin had tasted under my lips.
A sharp knock shatters my reverie. Bianca enters, already dressed in her bridesmaid’s gown of deep blue silk. She looks exactly like what a Mafia princess should be—all elegant angles and expensive grace. Her dark hair is swept up in a complicated twist, her makeup perfect, her entire demeanor radiating cold disdain. The resemblance to her father is striking, especially in the way she holds herself—like she owns every room she enters.
“Dad wants to know if you’re still going through with it,” she says bluntly.
The room falls silent. Even my mother stops her fussing to stare at me, waiting for my response.
I meet Bianca’s eyes in the mirror—steel blue like Matteo’s, yet harder somehow. I touch the pendant as if to ground myself. “Tell him I’ll see him at the altar.”
She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Even after what Johnny revealed last night?”
My hand freezes on the pendant. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know?” Bianca’s smile is cruel, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “About how my mother really died? About Dad’s part in it?”
“Bianca!” Maria tries to intervene, her voice desperate, twisting her hands in agitation. “This isn’t the time?—”
“No,” Bianca shoots back, “she should know what she’s marrying into. Grandfather Giuseppe would have?—”
“Don’t.” Matteo’s voice cuts like steel. “Don’t ever presume to know what he would have wanted.”
I’ve never heard that tone from him before. It’s not anger—it’s something deeper, darker. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.
“That’s enough.” His voice is still razor-sharp, and my whole body reacts to his presence before I even turn to look at him.
He fills the doorway in his wedding tuxedo, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. The custom Tom Ford fits him like sin, emphasizing broad shoulders and narrow hips. His dark hair is styled just so, the silver at his temples catching the light. But it’s his face that undoes me—those steel-blue eyes intense as they lock onto mine, his jaw shadowed with just enough stubble to remind me how it felt against my neck last night.
He looks dangerous and devastating and entirely too attractive for my peace of mind.
“Leave us. Now.”
“But it’s tradition for the groom to not—” my mother starts to say but Matteo’s sharp glare stops her in her tracks.
“I said leave us. Now .”
The room clears instantly at his command, leaving me alone with my soon-to-be husband. I rise from the vanity, acutely conscious of being in only a silk robe with my hair half done. His eyes trace over me, and I feel each look like a physical touch.
“What was she talking about?” I demand, proud that my voice doesn’t shake despite my racing heart. “What don’t I know about Sophia?”
Matteo’s jaw clenches as he looks at me. His eyes catch on the pendant around my neck, softening slightly. “Not now, Isabella.”
“Yes, now. Before I walk down that aisle, I need the truth.” I step closer, drawn to him despite my anger, despite my fear. His cologne wraps around me—that familiar mix of spice and danger that makes my head spin.
He moves closer too, reaching out to touch the pendant where it rests against my collarbone. The brush of his fingers against my skin sends electricity shooting through me. “The truth is complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it.” Why does he always talk in riddles? Why does he have to be so infuriatingly controlled when I feel like I’m falling apart?
His hand slides up to cup my cheek, and despite everything—all the secrets, all the lies, all the danger—I lean into his touch. My body is a traitor, craving his contact even as my mind screams for answers.
“The truth is, I’ll tell you everything tonight. After you’re my wife. After you’re safe.”
“Safe from what?” My heart thuds against my ribs, though whether from his proximity, his touch, or the warning in his words, I’m not sure.
“From making a decision that will get you killed.” His voice roughens as his thumb traces my cheekbone. This close, I can see the flecks of gray in his eyes, count every dark eyelash. “The Calabrese family has people inside the church. If you don’t go through with this wedding…”
The threat hangs in the air between us. I close my eyes, feeling the warmth of his hand on my cheek, the weight of the pendant at my throat. Everything in me wants to lean forward those few inches, to taste his mouth again, to lose myself in the dark pleasure I know he can provide.
Instead, I force myself to focus. “Fine,” I whisper. “Tonight then. But I want all of it, Matteo. Every dark truth, every secret. Or this marriage won’t last until morning.”
His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my breath catches at the intimate gesture. I want him to kiss me so badly it hurts. Want to forget about secrets and lies and just lose myself in the heat that always flares between us.
“Wear your hair down,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel. “You look beautiful with it down.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with my reflection and the haunting certainty that I’m about to marry a man I’m not sure I can trust—but one I’m increasingly sure I want anyway. The worst part? I’m not sure which scares me more—the secrets he’s keeping or how much I want him despite them.
In less than four hours, I’ll walk down that aisle alone. No father to give me away, no dreams of true love to sustain me. Just political alliances, death threats, and this maddening attraction to a man who deals in secrets and shadows.
Some wedding day.