Chapter 5 5

• “Stand still.”
• Mother tugged again at the hem of the dress like she could magically will it longer. Spoiler: she couldn’t.
• “Mother…” I stared at the mirror, my voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t wear this. I look like…”
• “A woman,” she interrupted. Her gaze met mine through the glass, sharp and cold. “And that’s exactly what you need to look like tonight.”
• I flinched. “I look like a hooker.”
• “Hookers don’t wear custom Valentino.”
• My stomach churned. The black dress clung to me like it had teeth, the golden bustier shimmering like a warning. I wasn’t built for this kind of attention slim hips, small chest, scared heart. This wasn’t dressing up. It was wrapping bait in velvet and gold.
• “You have a wasp waist,” Mother added, placing her hands on either side of it. “Your legs look a mile long. Lorrenzo will appreciate it.”
• “I’m fifteen,” I said quietly.
• “You’re betrothed,” she replied coldly, handing me the five-inch heels like they were shackles. “And you’ll wear the shoes.”
• I slipped them on with trembling fingers. Maybe I’d reach his chin now. Maybe.
• “Head high, Isabella.” She fixed a strand of my hair like it mattered. “Paolo Vallaro said you were the most beautiful girl in Chicago. Show Lorrenzo that the women in New York are nothing compared to you.”
• I didn’t ask if she’d read about the women he had known. I already knew the answer.
• “Mother…” I tried again, but she took a step back.
• “You’re ready.” She smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “Now go. The men are waiting.”
• My heart thudded painfully as I turned away. The hallway outside my room stretched endlessly, lined with portraits of dead men. Each one a reminder that in this house, we didn’t belong to ourselves. I reached the lounge doors and paused. On the other side was my future. A deal. A name. A cage.
• Male laughter echoed behind the doors. Low. Dangerous.
• I could still run.
• But I didn’t.
• I opened the door.
• The room fell silent.
• Six men stared at me like I was meat on display my father’s prize, their prize. My skin prickled beneath their gaze.
• “Isabella,” Father said, stepping forward, hand firm on my back like I was livestock he was presenting. “This is my daughter.”
• Lorrenzo Alessandro looked at me like I was a question he didn’t want the answer to. Unreadable. Unmoving.
• He didn’t say a word.
• “Beautiful, isn’t she?” Paolo Vallaro chuckled.
• “I didn’t promise too much, did I?” My father’s voice brimmed with pride.
• I wished the floor would crack open and eat me alive.
• “I ” My voice failed.
• “You didn’t,” Lorrenzo said at last. His voice was deep. Cold. Like frost settling over my skin.
• I couldn’t breathe.
• Off to the side, Marcus stood stiff in his black suit, eyes begging to run to me. But he didn’t move. He knew better.
• Raffaele leered at me. He was newly initiated, smug in his tailored suit and rotting soul. I avoided his gaze, but it clung to me like oil.
• Lorrenzo stepped forward. Every inch of him screamed danger tall, broad, carved from something ancient and merciless. He didn’t smile. He didn’t bow. He simply looked down at me, and I felt small. Not physically. Existentially.
• “You remember me?” he asked.
• I nodded. My throat was tight. “Hard to forget.”
• A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes.
• Father laughed. “They already met in the corridor earlier. Bit of a rocky start, eh?”
• Lorrenzo didn’t answer.
• “Shall we sit?” Paolo gestured to the lounge. “We’ve much to discuss.”
• Father guided me again, placing me directly beside Lorrenzo on the velvet settee. Like we were already married. Like my silence meant consent.
• “I can stand,” I said.
• “No,” Lorrenzo said without looking at me. “You’ll sit.”
• So I did.
• I sat like a good little lamb, tucked between wolves. My hands trembled in my lap. My legs felt like glass.
• His voice was close to my ear now.
• “You clean up well, Isabella.”
• I turned my face slightly, forced the bravest words I could summon.
• “And you look exactly like someone I should never trust.”
• His lips curled. Not a smile. A threat.
• “Good girl.”
• “Isabella.”
• My father’s voice dropped to a warning growl, lips twitching in annoyance. His eyes were locked on our hands mine and Marcus’s, small fingers tangled in desperate defiance.
• Marcus had slipped in behind me without anyone noticing. Well… almost anyone.
• Lorrenzo noticed.
• His gaze tracked the connection between me and my five-year-old brother, then slid slowly, deliberately up my legs, stopping just beneath the hem of the too-short dress. I shifted under the weight of his stare, and he looked away, expression unreadable.
• “Perhaps,” Antonio Alessandro said smoothly, “the future bride and groom would like a moment alone?”
• I flinched. The words felt like a verdict. A sentence.
• Lorrenzo didn’t object.
• Father smiled like someone had just handed him a briefcase full of cash. “Yes. A few minutes would be wise.”
• “Should I stay?” Umberto asked from the corner, unsure. I threw him a pleading smile. Stay. Please.
• Father shook his head. “They’ll be fine. Give them space.”
• Antonio winked at Lorrenzo as he passed. Something cold slithered down my spine.
• They left.
• All of them.
• Except Marcus.
• “Marcus.”
• My father’s voice sliced through the air like a whip.
• Marcus didn’t let go of my hand right away. His eyes fierce, stormy, far too knowing locked on Lorrenzo with the kind of challenge only a child who still believed in monsters could give.
• And Lorrenzo… smirked. Barely. But I saw it.
• Marcus finally released me, shooting Lorrenzo one last deadly glare before disappearing through the door.
• The door closed.
• Silence fell like ash.
• I didn’t move. Neither did Lorrenzo.
• “What… what did your father’s wink mean?” I asked, my voice dry, unsure.
• He ignored the question, walking toward the window. The shadows swallowed half his face. “Did you choose the dress?”
• I blinked, startled that he’d spoken. “No. My father did.”
• His jaw tightened. Just slightly. “Thought so.”
• I stared at the black of his suit. Black shirt. Black tie. Black jacket. Black like the mood he carried. Like the soul people whispered about.
• Then he reached into his jacket.
• My breath caught. Was he ?
• A small black box appeared in his hand.
• Oh.
• Of course.
• The ring.
• He turned to face me, eyes stormy and sharp. I didn’t step forward. I didn’t even breathe.
• Inside the box sat a ring white gold, cold and impersonal, crowned with a diamond that could probably pay for someone’s silence for life.
• He didn’t speak.
• Didn’t kneel.
• Didn’t soften.
• He just held out his hand.
• I hesitated.
• His brows lifted not with impatience, but something colder. Like amusement.
• I gave him my hand.
• He slipped the ring onto my finger like he was claiming property at an auction. His fingers brushed mine cold, calloused, real.
• I tried to say thank you, because that’s what I was supposed to do. My voice sounded small. Insignificant.
• His eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they darkened.
• He offered his arm.
• I linked mine through it, mechanical and silent, letting him lead me out of the lounge. The hallway felt colder now. Longer. Every step toward the dining room felt like I was walking toward the gallows.
• He didn’t speak.
• Neither did I.
• When we reached the dining room, the women had arrived, seated like well-trained ornaments beside their men. The Alessandros hadn’t brought any female relatives. Maybe they were smarter than us. Maybe they knew better.
• Lorrenzo dropped my arm the second we entered, like I burned him.
• I stumbled, caught myself, and made a beeline for my mother and sisters.
• “Beautiful,” my mother said, nodding toward the ring. Her eyes didn’t meet mine.
• “She’s practically a jewel box,” Alessia murmured, voice low enough only I could hear. She looked like she wanted to say more.
• I shook my head don’t and she rolled her eyes.
• Dinner passed in a blur of business talk and clinking cutlery. The men discussed territory, alliances, blood. The women sat still and pretty.
• My hand trembled in my lap.
• The ring felt too
• heavy.
• Too tight.
• Too final.
• I looked across the table at Lorrenzo, who hadn’t looked my way once since putting the ring on me.
• He didn’t have to.
• He’d already marked me.
• And everyone in the room knew it.