Isabella
The summons comes after breakfast. Giuseppe, my father's bodyguard, appears at my bedroom door with a terse message. "Your father requires your presence."
I follow him down the winding staircase to the study.
The space is suffocating—heavy curtains drawn, keeping out the sun, antique furniture from the old country, and air thick with cigar smoke.
My father sits in his leather armchair, tumbler of scotch balanced on the armrest.
My mother stands beside him, hands folded in front of her, eyes fixed downward.
"Isabella." My father gestures to the sofa across from them. "Sit."
I obey, smoothing my skirt beneath me.
My mother doesn’t look up once.
She’s like a statue with perfect posture, perfect hair and makeup, perfect docile demeanor.
Most see a perfect wife and miss the emptiness in her eyes.
She’s a shell of a person, and I’m terrified I’ll become her.
Was she ever different? I search my memory for traces of personality in her past. Nothing comes. Just years of "yes, Marco" and "of course, Marco" and "whatever you think best, Marco."
"The arrangements have been made," my father announces, swirling his scotch. "You'll marry Alessandro Dante at the end of the month."
Though I've been expecting this, hearing it stated so plainly is a shock. "Don Alessandro has agreed?"
"Of course he has." Father's smirk holds an air of triumph, as if he’s beaten Don Dante. "It's a sensible arrangement for both families."
I notice Mother's fingers tightening almost imperceptibly. It’s the only sign she's even listening.
"You understand what's expected of you." Not a question but a statement. "You'll be his wife, but you're my daughter first. Your loyalty remains with this family."
"What exactly does that mean?" I ask.
"It means… " He leans forward. "You'll report everything. His business, his associates, his weaknesses. You'll be our eyes and ears in the Dante household."
The anger and frustration building inside me are becoming harder to contain. I'm not just currency to be traded. I'm to be a spy as well.
"And if I refuse?"
Mother flinches visibly.
Father's expression hardens. "You won't." He drains his glass. "You're a Vitale. This marriage secures our future. Don't mistake this for a choice, Isabella."
I look at my mother again, seeing the woman who surrendered her will decades ago. Is this my fate?
My heart beats wildly as I gather courage. "Father, please. This arrangement with Alessandro Dante… I haven't even met him. He's nearly twice my age, and I know you’d rather take his business than align with him.”
Father's eyebrows lift fractionally. I've surprised him by speaking up.
"What I mean is… How can I marry someone who's been our enemy? Someone who would sooner see us dead than—"
"Enough." Father's booming voice echoes through the room.
I press on, hands trembling. "But what if he discovers why I'm really there? What if he—"
"I said enough." He rises from his chair, looming over me. "This isn't a negotiation, Isabella. The arrangements are finalized."
Mother shrinks further into herself, becoming nearly invisible. No help there. Not that I expected any.
"I'm not refusing," I clarify quickly. "I just want to understand what happens if things go wrong. What if I can't be what he wants? What if I can't get close enough to learn anything useful?"
Father's expression softens into something that scares me more than his anger. He has a brutal coldness to his smile.
"My beautiful daughter." He steps closer, placing his hand beneath my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his. "You will be everything Alessandro wants. You'll warm his bed, bear his children, and whisper his secrets into my ear. That is your duty."
His fingers tighten, pressing into my jaw. "And should you fail in this duty, you won't just be disappointing me. You'll be betraying your entire family."
The threat is unspoken but crystal clear.
"Do I make myself understood?"
"Yes, Father." I hate myself for surrendering. I know it’s how my mother lost herself. One surrender at a time.
He releases me, satisfied. "Good girl. Now, the Don arrives in thirty minutes. Make yourself presentable."
I stare at him, momentarily speechless. "Today? You've arranged for me to meet him today?"
"Did you expect a formal courtship?" Father laughs, as if he’s amused by my naivety. “This isn't some fairy tale, Isabella. He's coming to inspect the merchandise."
Merchandise.
The word cuts me down, slicing away at the human being I am.
I might as well be a cargo container of imported goods.
"Go," Mother whispers, finally looking at me. Her eyes hold a warning. Don't fight this.
I rise with as much dignity as I can muster and exit without another word. The moment I'm out of sight, I bolt up the stairs, slamming my bedroom door behind me.
I let out a frustrated growl as I kick off my shoes.
One hits the wall, knocking a framed photo to the floor.
The glass shatters.
A perfect metaphor for my life.
I stand in the middle of my room, shaking with anger.
How can this be my life?
In thirty minutes, I’ll meet the man who will own me.
What are my options?
I could run.
The thought is quickly extinguished by reality.
Where would I go?
Father's reach extends throughout the city.
Beyond it too.
I have no money, no connections outside the family.
I could refuse.
Stand my ground and say no.
But I don’t even want to imagine the punishment my father would hand down.
I could fake illness.
Buy myself some time...
No.
Delaying the inevitable only prolongs the torture.
I have no way out of this.
I need to accept my fate and make the best of it.
My reflection stares back at me from the vanity mirror.
I see a young woman who in another world would be preparing to go to college, find a job, meet her husband on her own, and marry for love.
But I won’t have any of that because my life isn’t my own.
Is this all I'm worth?
A financial exchange?
A spy in Alessandro's bed?
Alessandro has a reputation for being as cruel and ruthless as my father.
He’ll probably treat me the same way, wearing me down until I’m nothing.
No one.
The thought of becoming like my mother terrifies me more than death.
All I can imagine is a man not unlike my father; grizzled by the brutal world he lives in, incapable of empathy or emotion beyond greed and bloodthirst.
Twenty minutes now.
Twenty minutes to decide who Isabella Vitale truly is.
I yank open my closet doors, staring at the rows of designer clothing my father has chosen for me over the years.
Each piece represents the image he wants me to project—demure, elegant, expensive.
The perfect Mafia princess.
Tonight, I'll become exactly what they expect, but on my terms.
I select a deep emerald silk dress that hugs my curves without being vulgar.
The color brings out the green in my eyes, making them appear unnaturally bright.
The neckline dips low enough to hint at what lies beneath without revealing too much.
I step into the dress with utmost resentment toward my father, my mother, Don Dante… to the whole world because I have to do this.
At my vanity, I apply foundation to my face, but it doesn’t cover the anger burning there.
I line my eyes with kohl, extending it into a sharp wing at each corner.
The effect is feline, predatory.
"You can do this," I say to my reflection. "Adapt. Survive."
I glide on lipstick in a dark blood-red shade. The color of my world.
I fasten my mother's diamond earrings, given to her by her mother when she turned eighteen and was betrothed to my father.
Now they come to me.
Another transaction completed.
Another woman sold.
But I won't disappear like she did.
My hair falls in loose waves down my back.
I consider pinning it up, then decide against it.
Let Alessandro see what he's getting.
Let him wonder if I'm as untamed as my appearance suggests.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes.
He'll be here any minute.
I rise from the vanity, smoothing my dress one final time.
The mask is complete, but beneath it, I'm plotting.
I might be forced into this marriage, but I won’t let Alessandro Dante or any man take my soul.
One last deep breath.
I straighten my spine, lift my chin. “You’re not surrendering. You’re surviving,” I remind myself.
I turn away from the mirror and toward my bedroom door, toward my future.
Alessandro Dante doesn't know it yet, but he's not getting the obedient wife my father promised.
He's getting me.
I descend the stairs slowly, as if I’m hoping something will happen to stop this.
But each step down follows the last.
My mind whirls with what’s to come.
What is Alessandro Dante really like?
In my mind, I've conjured a grotesque figure.
A smarmy man with dead eyes and slicked back hair who stinks of whiskey and leers at women like they’re his to possess.
I reach the bottom step, closing my eyes to gather strength.
This is it.
The moment I meet the man who will own me.
I round the corner into the foyer and stop dead.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Alessandro Dante stands with his back to the fireplace, one hand casually tucked into the pocket of trousers that fit him like they were crafted by the gods themselves.
His impeccably tailored charcoal gray suit stretches across broad shoulders.
He turns, and his face steals what little breath I have left.
He's devastatingly handsome with sharp cheekbones and jawline.
His dark hair is swept back from his forehead, revealing gray eyes that track my entrance.
Not grotesque.
Not smarmy.
Not anything I prepared myself to face.
No. He's magnetic.
Our gazes lock across the room, and the corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
Not quite a smile.
More of an acknowledgment.
My father says something. Alessandro nods, but his eyes never leave mine.
A strange heat unfurls in my stomach, part terror, part something else I’ve never felt.
This man is my enemy.
My future husband.
And he is nothing like the monster I was ready to fight.
I force myself to breathe. To remember.
This man is my jailer, not my savior.
The intelligence burning in those dark eyes has orchestrated destruction.
The mouth that quirks slightly at the corner has ordered executions.
"Isabella." My name in his mouth sounds different. Richer. It sends strange sensations through my body.
I dip my head in respect. "Don Dante."
He studies me, his expression unreadable. Is he pleased with his purchase? Disappointed? Does it matter?
My father watches our exchange.
I recognize the gleam in his eye.
He's tallying profits, estimating returns.
I am nothing but a transaction to him.
Yet for all my preparation to resist becoming a shadow person like my mother, I find myself wondering who Alessandro Dante truly is beneath his perfect facade.
Is he the monster I’ve heard about?
Or is he something else entirely?