2. Dante
Chapter 2
Dante
I stand in front of the mirror in my bedroom at my family’s estate in Italy, adjusting my bowtie with a steady hand despite feeling anything but that on the inside.
Today’s the day, and if I’m being honest, the vows I’m about to take make my stomach twist with unease. I didn’t even feel this unsettled on the day of my father’s funeral.
The thought of marrying Arabella Rossi and being bound to not only her but also her father makes me sick to my stomach.
I always presumed this day would come, but I’d hoped my marriage would be for love. Not like this. Not to a person who can’t stand the sight of me. To someone who recoils from my slightest touch.
In the past few days, we’ve crossed paths countless times as we finalised the details for the wedding, and with each encounter, the tension between us grew more charged and unyielding than the last.
We are not taking a honeymoon. What’s the point? She’s already made it abundantly clear that the thought of me touching her is repulsive. Instead, we’ll board my father’s private jet in the morning and return to Australia. I haven’t the faintest idea what I’ll do with her once we arrive, though. I’m used to the no-strings lifestyle, so I guess it will be challenging.
I take a step back and assess myself one more time in the mirror. I’m wearing a tuxedo, one I purchased for this very occasion. I fiddle with my cufflinks, then straighten my jacket. I’m stalling because I know my life will never be the same once I leave here.
Opening the drawer beside my bed, I reach for my gun and slide it into the back of my trousers. Stefano Rossi is unpredictable, so I’m not taking any chances by being unarmed.
As I descend the stairs, I exhale a long, resigned breath, accepting my fate. I make my way towards the door, snatching the keys to the Bugatti from the side table as I pass. I grasp the handle of my suitcase, pull back my shoulders and step out of the house.
It’s time to marry my bridezilla.
I stand in front of the altar of a small stone church nestled on the edge of the village where the Rossis reside. My nostrils flare as I take a deep breath through my nose, and my nerves become more frayed by the second.
From the outside, this place isn’t much to look at, but inside, it’s a different story. Sunlight filters through the stained-glass windows, casting vibrant patterns of colour across the worn stone floors. The high, vaulted ceilings seem to enlarge the small space.
The arches above are adorned with intricate frescoes depicting scenes of saints, angels, and divine moments. My mother would’ve loved this place if she were still alive.
Given the short notice, only around fifty people are in attendance today, mostly Stefano’s men and a few family members. Apart from the two guards I flew over earlier in the week, I’m going it alone.
I didn’t even tell my brother about today, but I had my reasons. I know he’d be here supporting me if he knew, but given the person I’m marrying and the reasons why, I thought it better not to say anything just yet.
He would disagree with what I’m doing; hell, I even think this is ludicrous, but there’s no backing out now. Not unless I want to leave Italy in a body bag. Stefano kept his side of the bargain by getting my nephew, Giovanni, back. So I need to do the same. My reputation is on the line if I renege on the deal.
I glance over my shoulder at the ornate wooden doors at the entry to the church, which are now closed and guarded. Is that at my expense?
As much as I’d love to flee this clusterfuck, I’m not going to.
I blow out a long breath as I face forward again. Behind the altar, delicate carvings of angels and cherubs surround a marble statue of the Madonna, flanked by candles on either side. The flames dance in the cool air, and for a brief moment, I contemplate reaching out to knock over one of the candelabra’s with my foot.
I can’t marry Arabella if the church burns down, but even I know that won’t stop her father from seeing us eventually wed. I’d only be prolonging the inevitable.
I expel all the air from my lungs as the minutes drag by. The waiting only seems to make me angstier. I want to get this over with.
When the doors finally open and the pipe organ begins to play, I hesitantly turn my body in that direction as Arabella and her father appear in the centre of the opening.
The light outside casts a soft glow around her, outlining her silhouette. She looks like an angel, draped in layers of white, intricate lace and satin.
The tight-fitting gown she’s wearing clings to every delicious curve, highlighting her beauty in ways that make this situation almost unbearable.
It’s a shame that I know, all too well, the ice-cold person hiding beneath all that perfection.
The world fades, and the noise disappears. All I can focus on is her. My heart races in my chest, beating furiously against my ribcage, which is stupid since this isn’t a union of love.
She looks radiant, and for a brief moment, she feels like she was meant to be mine from the very beginning. But that thought is quickly quashed when her father takes the first step towards me. His eyes lock on mine with a glare that could freeze blood.
Arabella, on the other hand, remains still. Her arm is linked through his, and I watch helplessly as his free hand moves with brutal force to grip her wrist.
Without a word spoken, he jerks her forward so violently that it almost causes her to trip. My lips purse in anger as her body stiffens, her face a mix of shock and something darker—resistance, perhaps—but it’s not enough to help her break free as he practically drags her in my direction.
My chest tightens as a bitter surge of rage rises within me, but I can’t tear my eyes away from her long enough to act.
The walk is short, yet it feels like an eternity, and within moments, they are standing before me. Her eyes are locked with mine, and the anguish radiating off her is tangible. It claws at me, twisting my insides, making my black heart tighten painfully in my chest.
Deep down, I may be a monster, a man capable of despicable things, but at this very moment, I realise something: I would be anything for this woman .
My hand reaches for hers, but unlike her father, I don’t tug her forward. I simply wrap my fingers around hers and hope—no, pray—that she’ll come towards me of her own accord.
My features soften despite the rage that boils within me. “It’s okay,” I tell her, my voice low and reassuring, though inside, I’m anything but calm. Confusion and uncertainty flicker in her big green eyes. “You can trust me.”
Her father releases her, but he stays rooted, fury radiating from him like a palpable force. I’ll deal with him later. I have something more important to attend to right now.
My eyes never leave hers, and I silently hope that the intensity of my look is enough to convey the one thing I need her to understand: she will be safe with me.
It takes a moment—just a heartbeat longer than I would’ve liked—but slowly, she steps forward. And for that small, quiet gesture, I’m grateful.
I don’t let go of her hand as my gaze moves to her father. She may be petrified of this man, but I’m not. “If you touch her like that again, you’ll die.”
My words hang in the air, heavy with conviction. He feels the threat in my tone; that much is evident, and although his lips curl into a tight, menacing scowl, he doesn’t dare challenge me.
Without another word, he turns sharply and sits on the front pew, all his fury swallowed in silence.
When my gaze returns to Arabella, the shock on her face is unmistakable. She’s probably never seen anyone defy her father like that, but I’m the Don of my family now … her father’s equal in every sense.
This marriage may be unconventional and fraught with tension, but by the end of this service, she will be my wife. I do not take that knowledge lightly.
We may not like each other, hell, we probably even hate each other, but that doesn’t matter. From this moment forward, I will not stand idly by while anyone disrespects or harms her. She is mine to protect, for better or worse.
Lucia slides up beside me and whispers, “Watch her. She’s the type of woman who puts a certain something behind her ears to attract men.”
She’s referring to her cousin, Antonella, who’s been shamelessly flirting with me from the second we arrived at the wedding reception. Arabella and I may have entered into a marriage not derived from love, but who does that?
I frown. “What does she put behind her ears?” I ask, perplexed.
My question has her grinning. “Her ankles.”
I throw back my head and crack up. Lucia is the complete opposite of her sister. She’s easygoing, funny, and personable, whereas Arabella is … not.
She reaches for my glass, takes it out of my hand, and downs the amber liquid in one gulp. “Should you be drinking? How old are you?”
She flicks her hand. “I’ll be turning eighteen next month.”
I knew she was young, but seventeen?
Seventeen!
“How old is your sister?” I ask, the irony not lost on me. Knowing her age should be a given, considering she’s now my wife.
“Twenty.”
I wince. I’m thirty-one, which means we have an eleven-year age gap. I didn’t expect that.
“What’s with that face?” Lucia asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m eleven years older than her.”
“That’s nothing. At least she got to marry the young Mancini, not the old one.”
I grab another drink from the silver tray as the waiter passes, bringing the glass to my lips. “Alexander?”
“No, your father.”
“What?” I choke, the scotch spraying from my mouth .
“I overheard Papa talking about their nuptials before your father passed. Arabella had no idea.”
I bang my open palm on my chest as I cough up a lung. “The fuck!” That can’t be true.
“Ask Papa if you don’t believe me, but don’t tell him you heard it from me. He has no idea I listen in on his conversations sometimes.”
I intend to do just that. My father never mentioned anything about remarrying, and to a child, no less. He was sixty-five years old, for fuck’s sake. That’s sick.
I scan the room, searching for Stefano, but I don’t see him anywhere. Come to think of it, I don’t see my bride either. She’s been avoiding me like the plague ever since we arrived here. She was forced to sit beside me as we ate, but she disappeared as soon as the food was consumed.
“Where is your sister?” I ask, glancing down at Lucia. Like Arabella, she’s short—barely five feet—so I tower over them both.
“She’s locked away in the bathroom, crying.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. No woman has ever made me feel as despised as she does. Even after the ceremony, when it was time for the kiss, our lips barely met before she pulled away and wiped her mouth. It pissed me off beyond belief.
Lucia places her hand on my arm when my lips thin. “It’s not you … well, not really. It’s the whole blood on the sheet ritual that comes later.”
“It’s a barbaric fucking ritual if you ask me.”
“You don’t do that in Australia?”
“Fuck no. We are no longer in the Dark Ages.”
I can’t believe they still do this here. What a married couple do—or in our case, don’t do—on their wedding night should be nobody’s business but their own.
When Stefano first informed me of the tradition, I was floored. I looked it up as soon as I got back to my estate. It’s an ancient custom meant to prove the woman’s virtue, where the bloodstained bedsheets are displayed to the guests the morning after.
It’s sick and depraved, and I told him I wanted no part of it. I already knew there would be no consummation of our marriage, but he informed me I didn’t have a choice. His and Arabella’s reputation would be on the line if we didn’t produce the evidence.
That knowledge had me plotting my next move. I plan to stay one step ahead of that motherfucker whenever I can. If he needs to see blood, then blood’s what he’ll get, but it won’t be mine or his daughters.
The only good time I’ll be getting tonight is a handjob in the shower, compliments of myself.
What a sad turn my life has taken. I’m only thirty-one, and my damn cock has already been put out to pasture.
I drain my glass in one gulp and place it on a nearby table. “Show me where your sister is.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
She winces. “Papa told me to leave them alone. When I faulted, he pulled his gun on me.”
I rear back. “He what?”
She casually lifts one shoulder. “He does it often. I’ve always been the hardest of the two of us to control. I’m what some may refer to as the black sheep in the family. Wild and feisty. Arabella is much more submissive, and Papa knows how protective she is of me and uses that to his advantage.”
“What a cunt,” I growl. “Tell me where they are.”
“Go through that door,” she replies, pointing across the ballroom. “Turn right when you exit and follow the corridor to the end.”
My feet are already moving. I warned that fucker at the wedding. I swear if he’s harmed one hair on her head, blood will be shed.