Alessandro
I'm drowning in a room full of people I hate, watching the woman I've claimed handle them all with grace.
Isabella moves through the rehearsal dinner crowd like she was born for this, which, I suppose, she was. If I didn't know better, I'd never suspect the fire that burned beneath her skin just days ago.
But I do know. That's the problem.
She catches me watching her and raises a single eyebrow. I look away first, hating myself for it.
"You two certainly have the 'happily married' act down already," Marco jokes, appearing at my side. "Cold as ice in public. Very traditional."
I take a slow sip of whiskey. "Tradition is important in our world, isn't it?"
"Indeed." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Just know that while Vitale women are the epitome of grace and sophistication in public, they know how to behave in private as well."
My grip tightens on the glass as I ponder if he’s talking about family dinner or in bed. “I have no concerns, Marco.” Of course, that’s a lie. I have many concerns about Isabella, but not about whether she’ll behave at dinner or in my bed.
He chuckles. "Of course, of course. Just making conversation."
When he finally leaves, I catch Isabella watching us, curiosity flickering across her face before she masks it.
I force myself to look away. I can’t indulge her curiosity about me, just as I can’t indulge mine about her. I can't have her thinking there's anything real between us beyond the contract we'll sign tomorrow. Distance is the key.
This is business. Politics. Nothing more.
So, why can't I stop watching her?
She saunters over to me. "The rehearsal went well.”
I grunt in response, keeping my eyes fixed anywhere but on her. What I want to say is that I think all this pomp and circumstance is shit. I don’t need to rehearse standing at the altar. I don’t need a dinner to commemorate it. I just need to say “I do” and sign the fucking license.
The waiter motions for us to sit as the meal is ready. I do the minimum of guiding Isabella to her seat, careful not to touch her.
Marco raises his glass. "To the future Don and Dona Dante!"
Glasses clink.
I sit next to her, my elbow nearly touching hers. I shift away under the guise of adjusting my chair.
"I was thinking," she begins quietly while others chat around us, "about our living arrangements after—"
"It's all been arranged," I cut in. "My housekeeper prepared the east wing."
Her fingers tense around her fork. "The east wing. Not your—"
"Separate accommodations would be best." I take a deliberate sip of wine, refusing to meet her gaze.
Someone asks about honeymoon plans. I answer before she can speak. "We’ll have a week in Capri."
"I wasn't aware." Isabella holds a brittle edge to her voice.
I signal the waiter for more wine. "It’s all about tradition and show."
Throughout dinner, she tries again. Comments about the food.
Questions about the ceremony. Each time, I respond with clipped sentences or deflect by engaging others at the table.
I know I’m being a dick, but the sooner she understands that she’s not going to have a relationship with me like my brothers have with their wives, the better.
By dessert, she's stopped trying. The light in her eyes has dimmed, replaced by something harder. Good. Let her learn now what this marriage truly is.
Yet with each rebuff, something twists in my gut that feels too much like guilt. It's necessary, I remind myself. It's protection.
After dinner, the wedding party continues to chat and mingle in the room. For fuck’s sake, I just want to go home.
"Should we start taking bets on how long before you crack that ice queen persona?" Adriano sidles up beside me as I watch Isabella across the room, chatting with Eva. "Or did you get cold feet about the whole marriage thing and freeze her out first?"
I drain my whiskey. "Shut up."
"Ah, there's the warm brotherly love I've missed." Adriano signals the bartender for two more drinks. "Seriously, though, what's with the North Pole routine? The girl looks like she's waiting for you to announce her execution date."
"It's not a routine. It's clarity."
Adriano raises an eyebrow. "Clarity?"
"She needs to understand what this is. A business arrangement." I take the fresh drink. "She's barely eighteen. She has her head filled with fairy tales about love and happily ever after." I purposefully leave out that my brothers and sisters are the source of her flights of marital fancy.
"And God forbid anyone believe in those," Adriano mutters.
"In our world? Yes, God fucking forbid." I lower my voice. "She's Marco Vitale's daughter. You think I can just forget that, trust her?"
Adriano follows my gaze to where Isabella laughs at something Eva says. Her smile transforms her entire face, making her look even younger, making me feel even more perverted for taking her virginity.
"She's just a kid," I continue. "She doesn't understand what she's walking into."
"Maybe," Adriano concedes. "Or maybe you're the one who doesn't understand."
I scoff. "Please, enlighten me with your infinite wisdom."
"Look at them." He nods toward Eva, whose hand rests protectively over her swollen belly as she talks with Isabella. "Four years ago, I would've put a bullet in Eva's head if I'd known who she really was. Now she’s the mother of my child and carrying another one."
Something uncomfortable twists in my chest. "That's different."
Adriano laughs at me. "Is it? Or are you just afraid?"
I shoot him a glare. "I'm not afraid of anything."
"Bullshit." Adriano's eyes harden. "You're terrified of falling for her. I can’t wait to tell Luca.” His gaze scans the room looking for my other brother who is deep in conversation with my sister, Valentina, and her husband, now Luca’s underboss, Cristian.
I tense. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" He leans closer. "You think I don't see it? The way you look at her when you think no one's watching?"
"I look at her like what she is, a potential threat."
Adriano laughs. "Sure. That's why you can’t stop looking at her."
Across the room, Isabella catches my gaze. For a split second, something vulnerable flashes in her eyes before she turns away.
"All I'm saying," Adriano continues, "is that maybe letting someone in wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. It doesn't make you weak."
"It makes you vulnerable," I counter. "And I can't afford that. Not when Vitale is involved. How can you not see that?"
He claps me on the shoulder. "Think about it. Life's too short to spend it alone because you're afraid of what might happen."
"I'm not afraid," I repeat, but I sound like a petulant child.
Adriano shrugs and rejoins Eva, wrapping his arm around her waist, his entire demeanor softening as he touches her. She leans into him instinctively, like she belongs there.
Like they're two pieces of the same puzzle.
I look away, hoping to stop the uncomfortable feeling threatening to spread through my chest.
Isabella is still watching me, her expression carefully blank now. The enemy's daughter. My soon-to-be wife. A potential weakness I can't afford.
So why does keeping my distance feel like the hardest battle I've ever fought?
The night slips away, guests trickling out of the restaurant with well-wishes. Finally, I can leave too.
Isabella stands near the coat check, speaking with Eva. My sister-in-law embraces her warmly before Adriano guides her toward the exit with a protective hand at her back. Isabella remains alone in a sea of departing guests.
I should leave without a word. Maintain the distance I've worked so hard to establish tonight. Instead, I find myself crossing the room, drawn to her like a moth to flame.
"I'll have my driver take you home," I say, stopping beside her.
She doesn't look up, focusing on gathering her clutch and wrap. "No need. My father's car is waiting."
"It's late." The words come out rougher than intended.
"I'm aware of the time." Her voice is cool, perfectly modulated. No hint of the passion that had consumed us both on that rooftop.
I clear my throat. "Sleep well, then."
Finally, she turns, and I expect anger, hurt, something that matches the irritation prickling my skin. Instead, her eyes pass over me like I'm a stranger barely worth acknowledging.
"Goodnight, Alessandro."
She brushes past me, her shoulder not quite touching mine as she glides toward the exit. No lingering glance. No final word.
I stand frozen, an unfamiliar tightness in my chest. This was exactly what I wanted. How convenient that it only took a few hours for her to learn her lesson well.
Too well.
Back at home, I head to my office and pour three fingers of scotch for me and my brothers. Adriano and Luca make themselves comfortable, loosening ties and unbuttoning collars now that the rehearsal dinner's formalities are behind us.
"To tomorrow." Luca raises his glass. "When the Dante empire grows stronger."
We drink in silence, the burn of alcohol doing little to ease the tension inside me.
"Your bride seems charming," Luca says, breaking the quiet. "Katerina likes her too. So why, exactly, are you being such a dick?"
I shoot him a warning glare. "Mind your own marriage."
"Alessandro secretly likes her." Adriano smirks, sprawling deeper into his chair. "That's why he's being a dick. Our brother doesn't know how to handle actual feelings."
"You can both fuck off," I mutter, refilling my glass.
Luca leans forward, his expression turning serious. "Look, Isabella is young—"
"I don't need to be reminded of that," I snap.
"Getting sensitive about the age gap?" Adriano's grin widens. "Feeling old around her, Brother?"
"I'm thirty-three, not dead," I growl.
Luca shakes his head. "That's not my point. She's young, which means she's still forming loyalties. If you play this right, she could become a valuable asset against the Vitales."
I stare into my drink, considering his words. "It goes both ways. She could be Marco's eyes and ears in our operation."
"Except for the fact that Marco’s a shitty father,” Adriano counters.
Luca nods. “If you're a good husband, if you gain her trust and affection, she might share information that ensures the Vitales never get a foothold in our business."
"He's right. I've seen how she looks at you when you're not watching. There's potential there,” Adriano agrees.
"Potential for disaster," I mutter, but the certainty in my gut wavers.
The truth is, I've already proven I lose control around her. One night on that rooftop was all it took to make me crack. To lose control over my actions.
“Being an asshole isn’t the answer either,” Luca argues.
Adriano chuckles. "Freezing her out or making her frightened of you isn’t going to work on her, I don’t think. She’s made of stronger stuff. Just like Valentina.”
"I don't want her frightened," I balk.
"Then what do you want?" Luca asks.
That's the question, isn't it? The truth is I want to have lively conversations and to fuck her. But I can’t risk losing control of myself. Not with the family’s survival on the line.
I drain my glass instead of answering. "It's late. We should get some rest before tomorrow."
My brothers exchange a look that I ignore.
"Just a thought," Luca says, rising to his feet. "Maybe try not treating your wife like the enemy until she actually proves herself to be one."
"Or at least wait until after the honeymoon," Adriano adds with a wink.
“Get the fuck out of my office.”
They smirk at me as they leave me alone with my thoughts, which invariably circle back to Isabella. To her perfect composure tonight. To the flicker of hurt I glimpsed before she hid it. To the way she walked away from me without a backward glance.
I make my way to my room, shedding my clothes and climbing under the sheets. But I can’t sleep. Instead, I lie awake thinking about how tomorrow, I marry Isabella Vitale.
The thought should repel me. Instead, I find myself picturing her face. Not the one she wore tonight, but the way she looked on that rooftop, breathless and wanting. The way she laughed when I first kissed her. The way her body fit against mine, as if designed specifically for me.
She will be mine. My wife. For the rest of my life. The enormity of that reality settles over me.
Sleep claims me just before dawn, granting only a few fitful hours before my alarm goes off. Before I know it, I'm standing at the altar, watching the doors for my bride's arrival.
When they open, a hush falls over the crowd. Isabella appears on her father's arm, a vision in white lace that makes my breath catch. She's beautiful. Stunningly so. But as they make their slow procession toward me, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the blankness in her eyes.
When Marco places her hand in mine, I feel the frosty stiffness in her fingers, the way she barely touches me even as she takes my arm.
I did this. With every cold word, every dismissive glance, I built this barrier between us. She’s giving me what I want, but that realization doesn’t bring me relief. It highlights just how bad this marriage is going to be.
This isn't going to be a marriage of passion and desire like I briefly allowed myself to imagine. It's going to be a prison for both of us, filled with distance and mistrust.
Maybe Luca is right. Maybe my best defense isn't pushing her away but pulling her close. Making her loyalty mine instead of her father's. The more I think about it, the more I believe it could work. She was putty in my arms on that rooftop. Not just her body, but also her heart.
If I play this right, she can be my pawn instead of Marco’s.