Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Isabella
The hallway to my father’s office is silent. No guards. No voices. Just my heels clicking out a warning I’m too stubborn to heed.
He never calls for me, not even when my mother died. But after the parade of suits that came through this house this morning, all pretending not to notice me, I already know I’m not going to like whatever this is.
My chest tightens as I approach the door. It’s slightly ajar, cracked open just enough to pull me in, reminding me that what awaits on the other side has already been decided.
I push it open and step inside.
The air in my father’s office is thick with cigar smoke. A massive oil painting hangs above the fireplace. His father—the Don Serrano—immortalized in gold leaf and arrogance. Eyes cold, mouth tight, stare locked into whoever’s dumb enough to sit beneath him.
He’s been dead for over a decade, but the bastard still manages to judge every poor fuck who walks into this room.
It’s more than art. It’s a message—a reminder that in this house, blood isn’t just family; it’s currency.
My father sits behind the desk, suit crisp, tie perfectly knotted. Every inch of him exudes control and calculation. He doesn’t bother to look at me, just flicks his fingers in a lazy motion, dismissive as if swatting a fly.
“Sit.”
I sit in the chair across from him because I’ve learnt what happens when you hesitate in this house. Obedience maintains peace. Silence keeps you alive.
I’m only his daughter by blood. Nothing else.
I understood that early. When my mother died, I was nine and suddenly unseen.
No hugs. No comforting words. No one checking if I ate, slept, or cried myself to sleep at night.
I raised myself in the quiet corners of this house, learnt how to stiffen my spine and keep my mouth shut.
Learnt how to make my face unreadable so no one could see where to hit.
Grief didn’t get space here. Weakness sure as shit didn’t.
My brother got everything I didn’t.
Luca Serrano.
The golden son. The one my father looked at with pride instead of indifference. He was taught how to pull a trigger, how to collect debts, how to make men talk when they didn’t want to. Father clapped him on the shoulder for it. Called him a leader. Called him necessary.
Me… I became just background noise.
A daughter who learnt to stay quiet. A girl who was taught that her worth was measured by what she could be traded for, not what she could do. I wasn’t raised to rule or fight. I was raised to endure.
So I sit here now, hands folded in my lap, jaw clenched, eyes steady. I don’t ask why I’m here. I already know.
Whatever deal was made today, whatever blood was promised behind closed doors, I am the fucking price.
He finally looks up, and a twitch appears at the corners of his mouth—half amusement, half irritation, as if my existence is both mildly inconvenient and somehow my fault.
“You’re getting married,” he says.
My blood runs still.
For a moment, I think I misheard him. Maybe he said someone’s getting married. Maybe one of my cousins got knocked up again, and this is the cleanup crew in action. It wouldn’t be the first time the family wrapped a shotgun wedding in velvet and called it tradition.
He watches me for a moment before sliding a folder across the desk.
Serrano crest stamped at the top. I open it slowly, as if peeling back skin. And there it is.
My name is on the top line. The marriage agreement is written in black ink. Below it, there is the signature of Lorenzo De Luca and an empty line waiting for my signature.
Lorenzo fucking De Luca.
That name hits harder on paper than it did when he passed me in the hallway, all broad shoulders and silent danger.
The air escapes from my lungs in fragments.
He’s tall and broad, built with the kind of arrogance that doesn’t need words to be felt.
He walks like he owns the ground beneath his boots, as if every hallway is just another territory to conquer.
That jaw alone could make you sin. Covered in stubble that says he gives zero fucks what anyone thinks.
I’ve seen him before today—one wedding, two funerals. Always sharply dressed, with piercing eyes, and a mouth that never smiles. The kind of man women stare at too long and then act like they didn’t. The kind of man who could ruin you with just a look and leave you craving more.
Yeah. I have wondered how he fucks.
If he’s rough. If he uses that mouth the way his eyes promise he could.
But wondering is one thing. Marriage is another.
I shoot to my feet so quickly, my blood rushes. Rage flows through me as if it’s been waiting years to finally burst out.
“You want to chain me to him?” My voice is sharp and wild. “Are you insane?”
“Sit down, Isabella.”
“No.” The word bursts out of me. “I’m not signing this,” I say sharply. “I don’t care that he signed it. I don’t care about the deals made behind closed doors while I was locked away.” My pulse pounds so loudly I can barely hear myself, but I keep speaking. “I am not doing this.”
He sighs, the dramatic kind parents do when their kids won’t eat their vegetables. Never mind that he’s trying to feed me to the damn wolves.
“You can sign it here,” he says, voice smooth and cold. “Or I’ll sign it for you.”
And there it is. The truth I always knew but never got served this clean. I was never a daughter in this house. Just a well-dressed pawn. A body to be traded. A signature waiting to be sold to the highest bidder.
“Do I even matter to you?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He doesn’t reply. Of course he doesn’t.
I laugh. Bitter and broken in every place I’ve had to hide.
“Right,” I whisper. “Of course not. And what do I get besides a life I never wanted? A husband I didn’t choose. A cage dressed in wedding lace.”
He tilts his head, unfazed. “You get security, Isabella. Power. The weight of the De Luca name behind you.”
I snort. “I thought that name was rotting in the gutter.”
His mouth twitches. “And yet, every family in this city still flinches when they hear it.”
I pace quickly, tight circles driven by rage. I want to flip his desk, spit in his face, tell him to go fuck himself, along with Lorenzo and the entire damn empire.
But I don’t.
Because I understand how this world operates. Power doesn’t care how loud you scream. It just waits until you’re out of breath, then breaks your ribs and calls it tradition.
I stand, arms crossed, chin held high, letting the silence stretch until it starts to feel uncomfortable.
I already know how this ends. There’s no door wide enough, no road far enough, no fake name that stays in this family long.
I could run. But they always catch you. History has made that painfully clear.
The Serranos never lose things. They simply reclaim them.
And they would reclaim me, again.
I swallow the scream that’s burning in my throat.
When I finally speak, my voice is steady. Not because I’m calm, but because I’ve taught myself how to sound calm when my world is collapsing.
“I know I’m not getting out of this,” I say. “I know you’ve already decided.”
I hold his gaze, because I refuse to look away. Refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“I could run,” I say.
My father’s mouth curves just slightly. “And how did that go the last time?”
The words hit harder than any slap ever could. My chest burns, and before I can stop it, tears well up in my eyes.
Ethan.
I don’t say his name out loud, but it echoes through my mind. Ethan with his soft laugh and reckless hope. Ethan who loved me enough to believe we could outrun blood, guns, and men who never forget.
We made plans. God, we made so many fucking plans. Late at night, we talked about cities where no one knew my last name, about mornings without guards and locked gates, about a life where love wasn’t a liability.
I was so in love that I let myself believe it.
I wish every day I had said no to the dream of us because if I had, he’d still be breathing. He’d still be walking this earth instead of living only in the space behind my ribs where grief never shuts the fuck up.
My breath catches. I swallow hard, holding back tears because crying has never changed a damn thing in this house.
“If you’re going to cage me,” I say, voice razor-sharp, “at least have the decency to admit that’s what you’re doing.”
He leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Freedom was never something you were promised, Isabella. You were born into obligation. This is your role. This is the cost.”
His words settle like ice under my skin. No matter how much I plead, there is no stopping this, just like there was no stopping it the night I begged for Ethan’s life.
“Fine,” I breathe, voice tight in my chest. “I’ll wear the ring. But I won’t wear the chains.”
His smile spreads slowly. Cold. Smug. The type of smile that lacks warmth, only the satisfaction of a man who believes he’s won.
If he wants me to do this, I’ll do it on my own terms. I look him straight in the eye, jaw clenched, spine stiff.
"But I want complete control of the wedding."
It’s already forming in my mind. A black wedding dress. Why not? I’m not walking down the aisle, I’m being marched to my own damn funeral. Might as well dress the part.
“No,” he says flatly. “Your aunt will be in control, just like she has been for every Serrano wedding before this one.”
Of course she will. That woman plans weddings like they’re state-funded musicals—gold-trimmed everything, towering cakes no one touches, smile-plastered brides pretending they haven’t been sold like livestock wrapped in silk.
Every detail is exaggerated. Overwhelming. As if marrying into a family of killers should feel like a fucking fairy tale. As if the bride is meant to appear thrilled while her freedom is being buried in diamonds.
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just spite.
“Fine,” I say, voice clipped. “But I choose my own dress.”