Chapter 32 ISABELLA
Chapter thirty-two
ISABELLA
The fortress has been transformed.
Signora Martha and her army of helpers have woven roses through every bannister, hung candles from every archway, turned Antonio's stone prison into something out of a fairy tale.
Elena supervised the entire operation, counting each flower ("Seven hundred and forty-two roses, Bella-ballina!
") and rearranging them when she decided the spacing was "not right. "
Naomi stands behind me, adjusting my veil—an antique from Antonio's grandmother, delicate lace that survived wars and weddings and somehow found its way to me.
"You look..." She stops, blinks hard. "Damn it, I promised myself I wouldn't cry until the ceremony."
"You're allowed to cry."
"I'm Irish by marriage now. We don't cry, we drink." She sniffles. "But you look beautiful. Really. Like something from one of those romance novels we're always reading."
I study my reflection in the mirror. The dress is simple—ivory tulle, fitted bodice, flowing skirt that whispers when I move. No corset. No restrictions. I can breathe. I can dance.
I can choose.
That's the difference between this wedding and every other moment that led here. My father's auction. The red wedding that ended in blood. Henrik's ceremony that never finished. All of them were cages dressed in silk.
This is freedom dressed in love.
A scratch at the door. Then another. Then a low, insistent whine.
Naomi laughs. "I think someone wants in."
I open the door, and Cerberus barrels through like he's been waiting hours. Which, knowing him, he probably has. He circles my legs once, twice, then sits directly on the train of my dress and looks up at me with those ancient, knowing eyes.
"You're wrinkling my dress," I tell him.
He doesn't move. His tail thumps once against the floor. I'm not leaving.
"He's been like this all morning," Naomi says. "Antonio tried to lock him in the study. He howled until Elena let him out."
I crouch down, careful not to ruin the silk, and scratch behind his ears.
This dog who came from a fighting pit with his muzzle torn open.
Who growled at everyone except Antonio but who cared for me and started sleeping outside my door three months into my imprisonment, like he'd decided I was his to protect.
"You can come," I tell him. "But you have to behave."
His tail thumps again. No promises.
"Mom would have loved this," I say quietly, straightening up.
Naomi's hand finds my shoulder. "She would have loved seeing you happy."
"She never saw me happy." The truth stings, but it's softer now. Grieving and time have worn down the sharpest edges. "Not really. Not like this."
"Then we'll be happy for both of you." Naomi squeezes. "And I'll be judgmental enough for three people, to make up for her absence."
I laugh, wiping carefully under my eyes. "Don't ruin my makeup."
"Don't give me reasons to cry and I won't."
A knock at the door. Franco's voice: "They're ready for you."
Franco. Who took a bullet for me and spent a month recovering. Who went to retrieve Pavarotti. Who insists he still has at least five lives left. And looks at Liria like she hung the moon.
"Coming," I call.
Naomi hands me my bouquet—white roses from the garden, tied with ribbon from Elena's hair. Simple. Perfect.
On the dresser beside my jewelry box sits a small jar with a handwritten label: For my ballerina.
Always. The first batch Antonio made himself, before the factories took over production.
I've kept it like a talisman—proof that the Beast learned to build instead of destroy.
Proof that love can be practical and profound at the same time.
"Ready?" she asks.
I think about the girl I was not so long ago. Terrified. Trapped. Sold by her father to a man she thought was a monster. I think about the woman I became in Antonio's fortress—the one who found strength in captivity, who forgave the unforgivable, who chose love when hate would have been easier.
I think about Elena waiting at the altar, probably bouncing on her toes. About Antonio in his suit, trying to look composed while his hands shake. About the family we've built from ashes and broken promises and the stubborn refusal to be what our parents made us.
"Ready," I say.
Cerberus rises, positions himself at my left side, and waits.
The great hall is full.
Not the hundreds of strangers from our first wedding—this time, it's family.
Real family, the kind you choose. Connor and Naomi.
Franco, leaning on his cane, Manuel beside him.
Signora Martha, openly weeping. Ewa, who asked if she could come and cried when I said yes.
A handful of others—people who've become part of our world over the past months, bound by something stronger than blood.
And then I see her.
Third row. Gray hair pinned back in that same careful bun she's worn for thirty years. Hands folded in her lap, clutching a handkerchief that's already damp.
Mrs. Romano.
My feet stop moving. Cerberus presses against my leg, a question in the pressure.
She looks up. Our eyes meet. And her face—that face that snuck me cookies when my father wasn't looking, that called me Piccola Ballerina when everyone else called me investment, that argued against the auction even though she had no power to stop it—crumples into tears.
"How—" My voice breaks.
Naomi appears at my elbow, whispering. "Antonio sent Franco for her three weeks ago. She's been staying in the village, waiting. He wanted it to be a surprise."
Mrs. Romano raises one trembling hand. A wave. A blessing. I'm here. I made it. I wouldn't have missed this.
I press my fingers to my lips, blow her a kiss, and somehow start walking again.
At the end of the aisle, under an arch of roses that Elena helped design, stands Antonio.
He's wearing a dark suit, perfectly tailored, but that's not what makes me stop breathing.
It's the way his jaw is clenched against emotion.
The way his scarred hand grips Elena's small one like she's the only thing keeping him upright.
The way his eyes find mine and don't let go—tracking me down the aisle with the same intensity he used to track threats, except now it's something else entirely.
Want. Reverence. Terror.
Like he still can't believe I'm walking toward him instead of away.
Elena stands beside him in her flower girl dress, clutching a basket that's already half-empty because she couldn't wait to start throwing petals. When she sees me, her face lights up.
"BELLA-BALLINA!" Her shriek echoes through the hall. "You look like a PRINCESS! And CERBERUS is coming too!"
Laughter ripples through the guests. Cerberus's tail wags. I laugh too, the nerves dissolving. Because of course Elena would break protocol. Of course this wedding would be imperfect and loud and exactly right.
I walk down the aisle with a dog at my side. No father to give me away—I gave myself away when I chose to stay with Antonio, and I've never regretted it. Every step is mine. Every step is chosen.
When I reach the altar, Cerberus settles at my feet with a satisfied huff. Antonio takes my hands. His are trembling.
"Hi," I whisper.
"Hi." His voice is rough. "You brought the dog."
"He insisted."
"He has good taste." Antonio's thumb traces my knuckles. "You're beautiful."
"You're shaking."
"I'm terrified." A ghost of a smile. "What if you change your mind?"
"After everything we've survived? Not a chance."
The officiant—a local priest who owes the family several favors and asks no questions—clears his throat.
"We are gathered here today..."
The words wash over me, formal and familiar.
But I'm not really listening. I'm watching Antonio's face.
The scars that used to frighten me, now just part of the man I love.
The darkness in his eyes that's gentled but never fully disappeared.
The way his thumb traces circles on my palm, the same gesture of comfort he's offered a hundred times.
I glance toward the third row. Mrs. Romano is openly sobbing now, Signora Martha's arm around her shoulders. Two women from different worlds, united by loving the same broken family.
"Do you, Antonio, take Isabella..."
"I do." He doesn't wait for the full question. "I did when I was seventeen. I do now. I will until they put me in the ground."
The priest looks mildly scandalized. I bite back a smile.
"And do you, Isabella—"
"I do." I squeeze his hands. "I choose you. Past, present, future. All of it. Yes."
"Then by the power vested in me..."
Elena tugs at Antonio's jacket. "Is this the kissing part? I want to see the kissing part!"
"This is the kissing part," I tell her.
Antonio doesn't wait for permission. He pulls me against him, one hand tangled in my hair, and kisses me like we're alone—like there aren't fifty people watching, like our daughter isn't giggling beside us, like the whole world has narrowed to just this moment.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, Elena is jumping up and down.
"ONE kiss!" she announces. "I counted! Now you have to do the rings!"
"Rings first, then more kissing," Antonio promises her.
We exchange bands—his is new, a simple gold ring that matches mine. When I slide it onto his finger, he inhales sharply.
"We're really married now," he murmurs. "Again."
"We were always married."
"Not like this." He brings my hand to his lips. "Not by choice."
"Always by choice. I just didn't realize it until later."
The priest pronounces us husband and wife.
The guests cheer. Elena throws the remaining petals with enthusiasm that suggests she's been practicing.
Cerberus barks once—approval or complaint, hard to tell.
Pavarotti, who escaped his carrier and somehow made it into the ceremony, yowls his response from somewhere in the rafters.
And in the third row, Mrs. Romano whispers something I can't hear but somehow understand: Piccola Ballerina. Look at you now.
Later, after the cake (seven layers, Elena's requirement) and the dancing (Antonio held me like I might shatter, then spun me until I couldn't breathe from laughing), we stand on the balcony watching stars emerge.
Connor's toast had been filthy—something about beasts and beauty and exactly how many Italian curse words Antonio had used when waiting for news from Greece.
Naomi's had been worse: "To the only woman stubborn enough to love a man who literally imprisoned her, and the only man stupid enough to think that would work.
You deserve each other. I mean that as a compliment. "
Elena fell asleep an hour ago, exhausted from excitement, clutching a napkin full of cake crumbs. Signora Martha carried her to bed. Cerberus followed, taking his post outside her door.
The guests have trickled away. The fortress is quiet.
I feel Antonio's arms wrap around me from behind, his chin resting on my head.
"Mrs. Romano," I say into the darkness. "You brought her here."
"She argued with your father for you. Before the auction." His voice rumbles through his chest into my back. "She had no power, no leverage, nothing—and she still fought. I wanted her to see you chose this. Chose us."
"She's staying?"
"As long as she wants. There's a cottage in the village. Signora Martha's already terrorizing her with welcome casseroles."
I laugh, but it catches in my throat. "She called me Piccola Ballerina. Like my father did. But she never stopped. Unlike him. Even when no one else saw me as anything but a pawn."
"I know." He presses a kiss to my hair. "Now she gets to call you that forever."
We stand in comfortable silence. Below us, the garden candles are guttering out one by one.
Somewhere in the fortress, Pavarotti is probably hunting something he shouldn't be.
Somewhere in the world, girls are being sold and bought and broken—and somewhere else, we're helping them put the pieces back together.
It's not enough. It will never be enough.
But it's what we can do. And tonight, that's everything.
"Wife," Antonio says, testing the word.
"Husband." I smile against his chest. "Again."
"Forever this time."
"Forever," I agree.
His kiss tastes like champagne and cake frosting and the future we're building together.
One day at a time. One choice at a time. One life at a time.
Ours.