Alessandro
On the drive to Don Vitale’s home, all I felt was dread moving closer to a commitment I never wanted.
What am I going to do with a wife?
A wife who was raised by the man who wants to bring me down.
I ruminated over what my father would think about this decision I’ve made.
Lorenzo Dante was many things, ruthless, unforgiving, but he was never a fool.
And this arrangement with the Vitales feels close to foolishness.
"The girl could be just like her father," I’d argued.
My consiglieri had countered, "Or she could be our greatest asset. Marco Vitale's own daughter, bringing us information from within."
Both arguments hold weight. Both leave me uneasy.
In the end, this marriage isn't about love.
It's about strategy.
About keeping your enemies closer than your friends.
About preventing another war when our ranks are still recovering from the Bratva bloodbath.
As I’d entered Marco’s home, I reminded myself that his daughter was young, only eighteen.
She’d be easy to dominate and manipulate.
Hell, I could probably send her to Europe for a month or two to shop.
She’d be my wife, but not underfoot.
Not someone I needed to deal with day after day.
With a roll of my shoulders, I’d let Marco’s butler lead me to his study.
"Alessandro." He extended his hand. "Welcome to our home."
"Let's skip the pleasantries."
His smile faltered. "My daughter will join us shortly. First, we should discuss the details of the arrangement."
I cut him off. "The details are simple. We marry. Our families stop killing each other. Anything beyond that is unnecessary complication."
This entire performance—the formal introduction, negotiations over dowry, discussions of wedding dates—it was all theater.
A waste of my time when I should be rebuilding what the Bratva took from us.
"I believe tradition calls for—"
"I don't care about tradition," I interrupted. "Name the date. I'll be there." If it’s to be my fate to marry a Vitale, I'll do it on my terms.
Marco's jaw tightened as he gestured toward a woman standing silently in the corner, his wife, I presumed.
I hadn't noticed her when I entered.
She blended into the background like she's trained herself to disappear.
"My wife, Camilla," Marco introduced her without looking in her direction.
She nodded, eyes downcast. "Don Dante."
“Mrs. Vitale.” I bowed my head toward her because while I don’t mind being an asshole to Marco, I try to be more respectful to women.
"Your father would have understood the practicality of this marriage," Marco said, the mention of my father sending a spike of anger through my chest.
"My father would have burned this house to the ground with you in it if you'd crossed him the way you've crossed me."
Marco smirked, reminding me that I was fucked if I didn’t deal with him. "Yet here you are, agreeing to join our families."
"Times change. Circumstances change." I stepped closer, enjoying how he instinctively leaned back. "But people rarely do, Marco. I haven't forgotten a single transgression."
The tension crackled between us until a soft sound in the doorway drew our attention away.
I turned and for the first time since entering this house, something genuinely surprised me.
Now I stand, taking in the woman who will be my wife.
My first thought is that while she works to appear obedient, the fire in her eyes tells me she’s not a meek woman like her mother.
My second thought is that Isabella Vitale is stunning.
Her dark hair cascades in waves past her shoulders, framing a face that belongs in Renaissance paintings.
Her green eyes hold mine, openly assessing me.
"Isabella." Her name feels like a song as it rolls off my tongue.
She dips her head in respect. "Don Dante."
She crosses the room without hesitation. She’s not afraid of me. Not that she should be.
Sure, I have a lethal reputation, but not toward women.
Never toward women.
Still, from a young, innocent woman being sent to the marriage bed of her father’s rival, I’d have thought I’d see apprehension.
All I see is curiosity and perhaps interest.
I extend my hand, curious how she'll respond.
Her hand meets mine, her grip firm. The contact sends an unexpected current up my arm that I promptly ignore.
"Perhaps you'd like to show Don Dante the gardens, Isabella," her father suggests, though it's clearly a command.
"Of course." She turns to me. "Don Dante.”
“Under the circumstances, you can call me Alessandro.”
She gestures with her hand to the door like a game show hostess. “Alessandro.”
Hearing my name on her lips sends yet another unwanted spark straight to my dick.
What the fuck?
As we step outside, away from her father's watchful eyes, I notice how her shoulders relax infinitesimally.
"You’ve been told why I'm here," I state rather than ask.
"To secure a peace that benefits our families." She glances sideways at me. "And to acquire an asset."
I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "Is that what you consider yourself? An asset?"
"It's what my father considers me." She stops walking, turns to face me fully. "What I consider myself is irrelevant to this arrangement, isn't it?"
There's no self-pity in her voice.
Just pragmatism that I wasn’t expecting, especially from a woman so young.
She is not a naive child.
She understands the game, understands her place in it.
I find myself intrigued by her.
"May I speak candidly, Don Dante?" Isabella continues walking, and I follow her out a pair of French doors.
"Alessandro,” I remind her. “And yes, please speak candidly.”
"I have no illusions about this arrangement. I know I'm being traded like a commodity to secure peace between our families." She gestures toward a stone bench, and we sit with socially accepted distance between us. "But I refuse to be simply a trophy."
Her directness is refreshing, although potentially dangerous.
Most women in our world know to smile and nod, to play the dutiful wife without questioning.
Other men might remind her that she has no say in her role, that she does what the Don says.
I could put her in her place with a single word.
But I don’t. "What do you want from this arrangement, Isabella?”
"A partnership," she answers without hesitation. "Not equality. I'm not naive. But respect."
A breeze stirs her hair, carrying her scent to me, and my stomach clenches tight at the sweet scent mixed with spice.
"That's reasonable."
Her lips curve slightly. "I thought you might appreciate directness over simpering."
"And what do you imagine your role would be, if not decorative?"
"The same as yours. Survival." Her lips curve into a smile, but it’s not genuine. It’s one her father or mother has taught her to show.
"I was raised to be the perfect Mafia bride.
I speak four languages. I can discuss art or politics with your business associates.
I know when to speak and when to remain silent. I can be whatever asset you require."
I can envision her beside me at family gatherings, charming our allies while absorbing every whispered secret.
The perfect counterpart, pretty enough to disarm yet intelligent enough to glean intelligence. The thought is appealing.
"And what do you want in return?" I ask, because there's always a price.
"Protection." She says it simply. "Not just physical safety, but protection from becoming like my mother. I will respect and support you, but I won’t give up who I am… give up my soul."
The request surprises me. Not freedom. Not love. But dignity.
I shouldn't be attracted to this woman. Every instinct warns me against it.
Yet I find myself drawn to her sharp mind and honesty.
It's a liability I cannot afford, particularly with a Vitale.
I shake away the haze of her allure from my brain. "I'll go through with this marriage, but understand that I trust no one from your family. Including you."
"I understand." She stands, smoothing the skirt of her dress. I can’t help but wonder if she does it on purpose to draw my gaze to her hips. She has a body made for wet dreams, and she no doubt knows it. Is she going to use it to distract me?
I rise, standing over her, a reminder to me more than her about who holds the power.
She gives me a knowing smile. "Trust is earned, Don Dante. We'll have a lifetime for that."
A lifetime.
The words settle heavily in my chest.
This woman will be my wife, the mother of my children, potentially.
My greatest vulnerability or my greatest strength.
Possibly both.
"Then we have an understanding," I say.
"We do." She extends her hand to seal our agreement, formal as any business contract.
I take it, noting how perfectly her hand fits in mine.
We walk back to the house, maintaining a careful distance that belies our future as husband and wife.
I watch Isabella's profile as she moves next to me.
What lies beneath her polished exterior?
Is she really just a pawn in a life-and-death game I play with her father?
Or does her father offer her to me as a spy?
She slants her gaze to me, a smile playing on her lips that makes my chest feel odd.
It sends a new worry through me.
Is she a woman capable of making me forget who I am and what I must protect?
This wasn't how I imagined my life unfolding.
Marriage was always a distant concept, something for later, after I'd cemented the Dante legacy.
Now it rushes toward me like an oncoming train.
At the same time, I find myself oddly accepting of this situation.
Isabella Vitale is not what I expected.
She's bold where I expected submission.
Intelligent where I expected vapidity.
It will make her a valued ally unless she’s being sent to undermine me.