The rain fell in heavy sheets that night, as though the heavens themselves mourned the choice being forced upon me. I stood before the long dining table of the Rossi estate, hands clenched so tightly together that my nails dug crescents into my palms. The air smelled of cigars, expensive wine, and something darker—power.
Across from me sat men in black suits, their eyes sharp, their silence louder than thunder. And at the head of the table, like a king on his throne, sat Adrian Rossi—the man I was being sold to.
"You understand the arrangement," my father's voice broke the silence, weary but determined. "This marriage will wipe away what we owe. Our family will be safe."
Safe. The word tasted bitter. I wanted to scream that safety built on chains was no safety at all. But my mother's hand tightened on mine, and in her tearful gaze I saw her plea: Don't fight this. Don't make it worse.
Adrian leaned back in his chair, shadows carving his face into something both cruel and mesmerizing. He wasn't old—maybe late twenties—but his eyes were unreadable, hard as onyx, cold as the storm outside. He carried himself like a man used to obedience, and it made my heart pound in fear and defiance all at once.
"Does she agree?" His voice was low, smooth, but carried the weight of command.
My father hesitated, then looked at me. "Isabella?"
The world tilted. It should have been my choice. My life. My future. Yet here I was, a bargaining chip passed across a mafia table like property. My throat felt tight, but the silence stretched, demanding an answer.
"Yes," I whispered, though every part of me wanted to say no.
Adrian's gaze flicked over me, sharp and calculating, as if he were deciding whether I was worth the cost. Then he stood. The room seemed to shrink around his towering frame. He didn't smile, didn't soften. Instead, he extended his hand—an offer, a command, a trap.
I placed my trembling hand into his, and in that instant I realized: there would be no escape.
The wedding was arranged in days, not weeks. No flowers, no fairy lights, no romance. Just vows spoken in a cold church, witnesses with hard eyes, and a gold band slipped onto my finger by a man who didn't look at me once.
"You are mine now," Adrian murmured as he leaned close for the kiss that sealed our union. His lips brushed my cheek, not my mouth, but the claim was clear. A chill ran down my spine.
That night, I sat on the edge of a massive bed in his mansion, staring at the city lights through tall windows. My gown had been stripped away, replaced by silk that felt like borrowed skin. The door opened, and Adrian entered, removing his jacket with precise, controlled movements.
I swallowed hard. "Are we… supposed to—?"
His head tilted, eyes catching mine. "Supposed to what?"
"Consummate," I managed, cheeks burning.
For a moment, silence hung between us. Then, unexpectedly, a dark chuckle escaped his lips. "You think I want a wife forced into my bed? No, Isabella. I don't need unwilling brides." He loosened his tie, gaze never leaving mine. "But don't mistake mercy for weakness. You belong to me. Whether I touch you tonight or not, you're still mine."
His words were a chain around my throat, both a relief and a prison.
As he turned away, slipping into the shadows of the adjoining room, I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My heart thundered, torn between hatred, fear, and a strange, dangerous curiosity.
Who was this man I had been bound to? A monster? A savior? Or something far worse—someone who could break me without ever lifting a hand?
I didn't know then. But as the storm raged outside and the weight of the ring pressed against my finger, I swore to myself one thing:
If this was a cage, then I would find a way to either survive it… or shatter it.
And thus began my life as the secret bride of the mafia.