The storm raged through the night, its relentless fury lashing against the Romano estate as if nature itself wished to tear the house apart. The sound of rain hammered against the tall windows, thunder rolling like cannons in the distance. Inside, however, there was no noise save for the faint dripping of water from the coats of Dante's men, and the uneven rhythm of Isabella's breathing as she stood frozen on the staircase.
The velvet box remained open in Dante's hand, the diamond within glinting like a cruel beacon. She could not take her eyes off it, yet she could not bring herself to reach for it. Her hands shook violently at her sides, her knuckles white as she clutched the railing. The vow hung between them, heavy, inescapable.
"You think this is survival?" Isabella finally forced out, her voice raw, trembling yet laced with venom. "This is imprisonment. You want me bound so you can parade me like some trophy, to show the world that you destroyed the Romanos."
Dante's eyes flickered, though his expression remained unreadable. He closed the box with a soft click, his movements deliberate, and slid it back into his jacket pocket. "The world already knows the Romanos are destroyed," he said. "This is not about parading you, Isabella. It is about possession. What belongs to me stays with me."
The words sent a jolt through her, both of rage and a deeper, unnameable fear. She wanted to strike him, to scream until her throat tore, but her body remained locked in place, unable to fight the iron weight of his presence.
"You don't own me," she whispered.
A shadow of a smile touched Dante's lips, slow and merciless. "Not yet."
Her chest constricted as his words sank deep. She wanted to deny him, to spit out her defiance, but her father's absence screamed louder than her rage. He was gone. The men surrounding her were not her allies but soldiers of her enemy. The house she once believed was untouchable now echoed with the heavy boots of strangers. Her world had ended, and Dante Moretti stood in the ruins, claiming what was left.
The silence pressed until Isabella could no longer bear it. She descended the stairs slowly, her bare feet brushing against the polished wood, her gown trailing like a wounded flag. Dante did not move as she approached, his eyes following her every step with calculated stillness. His men watched from the shadows, their hands resting on weapons, but their attention flickered between their leader and the woman who dared to stand before him.
When she reached the last step, Isabella lifted her chin, summoning every shard of courage left within her. She stood only inches from Dante now, forced to tilt her head slightly to meet his gaze. His proximity was suffocating, the heat of him wrapping around her like chains, the scent of his cologne—smoke and cedarwood—making her dizzy.
"Tell me why," she said, her voice tight. "Why me? Why this?"
Dante's jaw flexed. For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze locked on hers as though weighing whether she deserved the truth. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, resonant, each word delivered like a verdict.
"Because power requires blood. Your father spilled mine when he broke his vow. Now, balance must be restored."
Her brows furrowed. "So this is revenge?"
"It is order."
The simplicity of his answer chilled her. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. His calm was more terrifying than rage could ever be.
"You could have killed me," Isabella said. "If order is what you wanted, you could have ended this tonight. Why bind me instead?"
Dante stepped closer. The distance between them vanished, and Isabella felt her back brush against the carved wood of the banister. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that seared her skin.
"Because death is fleeting. Marriage is forever."
Her breath caught. For a moment, her body betrayed her, heat rising against her will. She despised herself for it, despised him for forcing it. She shoved at his chest, but the motion was futile; he didn't stagger, didn't even flinch. His body was solid, unyielding, as immovable as the vow he intended to impose.
"I will never love you," Isabella spat.
Dante's eyes darkened, his lips curving faintly. "Good. Love is weakness. I don't need your love. I need your vow."
His words struck harder than any physical blow. She had grown up believing in love—the fragile, foolish kind her mother used to whisper about before her death, the kind written in poetry and painted in frescoes. Now it was stripped away, crushed under the heel of power.
"You're a monster," she whispered.
"I'm a man who keeps his word," Dante replied. "And soon, so will you."
The storm outside grew louder, lightning flashing through the tall windows, illuminating the severity of his face. Isabella's body trembled, but her spirit clung to defiance. If he thought she would surrender easily, he would have to drag her into the fire himself.
The heavy doors of the ballroom creaked as one of Dante's men approached. "Boss," the soldier said quietly, bowing his head slightly. "The car is ready."
Dante did not look away from Isabella. "Bring her."
Her eyes widened, her chest tightening. "No—"
Two men stepped forward at once, their movements smooth but absolute. Isabella stumbled back, but there was nowhere left to retreat. Rough hands closed around her arms, not cruel, but firm enough to leave no doubt that resistance would fail. She thrashed against their grip, her voice breaking as she cried out.
"Let go of me!"
Her bare feet scraped against the marble floor as they pulled her forward. Panic clawed at her chest. She wrenched against their hold, but their strength was overwhelming. Every attempt at freedom only proved how powerless she had become.
Her gaze snapped to Dante, who stood unmoved, his expression unreadable as his men dragged her toward him. "You think I'll bend to you like this?" she cried. "You think you can steal me from my home and call it a vow?"
Dante stepped aside as they forced her past him, his eyes catching hers for a single, burning moment. "No, Isabella," he said softly. "I don't think. I know."
Her body jolted with rage and terror as they pulled her through the front doors. The storm crashed down upon her, icy rain slapping against her skin, soaking her gown until it clung to her trembling frame. The night smelled of smoke and steel, the air thick with thunder.
A sleek black car waited in the circular drive, its headlights cutting through the storm like blades. The door stood open, an invitation or a threat—it hardly mattered. Isabella fought as the men pushed her toward it, her cries lost to the howling wind.
"Get in," one of them commanded.
"No!" she screamed, digging her heels against the slick stone, though her strength failed against their relentless grip.
Her body collided with the leather seat as they forced her inside. Cold, damp, she pressed herself against the far corner, her chest heaving, her wet hair plastered to her face. The men shut the door, sealing her in the darkness. A moment later, the opposite door opened, and Dante slid in beside her, his presence filling the confined space like smoke filling a lung.
The driver started the engine. The car roared to life, tires hissing against the rain-slick drive. Isabella's heart hammered in her chest as the mansion she had called home for twenty-seven years faded into the storm, swallowed by shadows.
She was leaving as a prisoner.
She was leaving as the promised bride of her enemy.
And as the car cut through the night, Isabella pressed her trembling hands to her chest, her vow unspoken yet already written in fire.