The rain fell in relentless sheets, turning the city into a blur of gold lights and dark shadows. Isabella Romano pulled her coat tighter and quickened her pace, her shoes slapping against the wet pavement. Nights like this always unsettled her, but lately, unease clung to her like a second skin.
Home wasn't what it used to be. Her father had been restless, whispering into phones, slamming doors, pacing the small living room at odd hours. Whenever she asked, he brushed her off. But one name she heard again and again, enough to carve itself into her memory.
Moretti.
The name itself carried a weight, the kind of name people avoided speaking aloud. Everyone in the city knew the Moretti family. Dangerous, untouchable, ruthless.
By the time she turned onto her street, her socks were soaked and her umbrella had nearly given up. She sighed with relief when her small house came into view—until she noticed something wrong.
The front door was open.
Her chest tightened. Her father never left it open.
"Papa?" she called softly as she pushed it wider.
The living room was dim, lit only by the standing lamp near the wall. And then she froze.
Three men in black suits stood like statues by the walls, silent, watchful. But her eyes locked on the man seated in her father's favorite chair, as if it belonged to him.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair slicked back. His gray eyes were like storms, cold and merciless. His expensive suit wasn't just clothing—it was armor.
Her father was on his knees at the man's feet.
"Papa?" Isabella whispered, her voice trembling.
Her father's head snapped up. His face was pale, drenched in sweat. "Isabella, go upstairs. Now."
The stranger lifted one hand lazily, and her father fell silent. His gaze shifted to her, sharp as a blade.
"So," the man murmured, his voice smooth yet dangerous. "This is your daughter. The only thing you've managed to protect."
Her father's hands shook. "Please, Adrian. She has nothing to do with this."
The name struck her like a blow. Adrian Moretti.
The Mafia King himself.
Adrian rose from the chair with a slow, deliberate movement that made the air heavy. Every step he took toward her seemed to shrink the room. Isabella's pulse raced, but her legs refused to move.
"You've had years to repay your debt, Romano," Adrian said, his tone calm, deadly. "Time is up."
Debt? Isabella's mind reeled. What debt?
Adrian's gaze lingered on her face, then slid lower, studying her as if she were something he could already claim. His lips curved in the faintest smirk.
"Innocent," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, louder, with finality:
"From tonight, she belongs to me."
Her father's voice cracked. "No—please, not her. Take me instead. She's all I have."
Adrian didn't even glance his way. "You lost that choice the moment you borrowed my money."
Isabella stumbled back, shaking her head. "What? No! You can't just—"
Adrian closed the distance between them in a stride. His cologne hit her first—dark, rich, intoxicating. He lifted her chin with a finger, forcing her to meet his icy gaze.
"Your father sold his soul to me long ago," he said softly, dangerously. "Now, he's sold you."
Tears stung her eyes, but she glared at him. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
Adrian's smirk deepened, cruel and knowing. "Dolcezza, you don't have a choice."
Her father broke down completely, sobbing into his hands. The suited men didn't move; they didn't need to. Adrian's presence filled the room, suffocating, inescapable.
"Prepare her things," Adrian ordered, his eyes never leaving Isabella. "She's coming with me."
"No!" she cried, backing away.
But Adrian caught her wrist with terrifying speed, his grip firm but not brutal, his thumb brushing against her skin as if testing her pulse.
Her breath hitched. His eyes burned into hers, gray storms promising both ruin and obsession.
And in that moment, Isabella realized the truth: her life was no longer her own.
She was the Mafia King's bride.