POV: Isabella
Sleep never came. I watched the gray dawn bleed into the sky over the Brooklyn rooftops, my body stiff and cold in the chair I'd been rooted to all night. The card was on the table in front of me. The Upper East Side. A universe away.
My mind was a frantic animal, throwing itself against the walls of a trap. Run. The instinct was primal. I could pack a bag, grab the $427 hidden in a book on my shelf, and buy a bus ticket to anywhere. But Dante's words were chains. Your father's life will be forfeit. Papa was a weak man, a selfish man, but he was my father. The one who'd read me stories when I was small, who'd cried at my NYU graduation. His love was flawed, but it was real. Could I let him die for his stupidity?
Fight. Hire a lawyer? With what money? Go to the police? I laughed, a hollow, broken sound in the silent apartment. The police in this city either feared the Salvatore family or were on their payroll. I'd be signing my own death warrant and his.
Pay. Five million dollars. The number was a joke. I made $38,000 a year at the gallery. I'd need to work 131 years. I'd already called in every favor and maxed out every credit card just keeping us afloat after Papa's last disaster. There was nothing left.
The sun rose higher. With it came a crushing sense of inevitability. This was the choice that wasn't a choice at all. It was a slow walk to the gallows, dressed up as a decision.
A soft knock at the door made me jump. It wasn't the thunderous boom of last night. It was familiar. I opened it to find Mrs. Chen, my elderly neighbor from across the hall, holding a steaming bowl of congee. Her wise, wrinkled face took in my torn clothes, my blood-and-charcoal-stained hands, and the devastation in my eyes.
"You didn't come for tea last night," she said simply, walking in without invitation. She set the bowl on the table, her eyes noting the card, the empty whiskey glass, and the silence from my father's closed bedroom door. "Trouble has come."
I didn't have the strength to lie. The story spilled out in ragged pieces—the debt, the visit, the ultimatum. Mrs. Chen listened, her expression unchanging. When I finished, she placed a cool, dry hand over mine.
"The wolf is at the door, Xiao Hua," she said, using her nickname for me. Little flower. "You cannot reason with a wolf. You cannot outrun a wolf that has already caught your scent. You can only decide how you meet its teeth."
"What does that mean?" I whispered, tears finally threatening.
"It means you are going to this man. I see it in your eyes. You go to save your father." She squeezed my hand. "So, you must go not as a lamb to slaughter, but as a gardener entering a wild, thorny place. You look for the soil. You look for the light. You look for what you can grow, even there."
"He wants to own me."
"Men like him think they want to own everything," she said with a shrug that held the weight of decades. "But a wildflower transplanted does not change its nature. It may wilt at first. It may struggle. But if the roots are strong, it will grow. It will eventually change the landscape around it." She pushed the bowl toward me. "Eat. You will need your strength."
Her words were a lifeline, not of hope, but of perspective. I wasn't going to my death. I was going into a hostile terrain. I had to survive it.
After she left, the bedroom door creaked open. Giovanni emerged, looking a decade older. The bruises on his face had turned purple. He couldn't meet my eyes.
"Bella…" he began, his voice thick.
"Don't," I cut him off, the anger returning, hot and clean. "Just don't."
"I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. I never meant… I just kept thinking one big win, and I could give you everything. Give you the life you deserve."
"The life I deserved was one where my father was present! Where I wasn't working three jobs since I was sixteen to cover his losses! Where I didn't have to choose between his life and my freedom!" The words tore out of me, sharp and bleeding. "You gambled away my future, Papa. Not just yours. Mine."
He crumpled, sobbing into his hands. "I know. I am a weak, stupid man. If I could take your place, I would. I would walk into hell for you."
"But you won't," I said, the bitterness a tonic. "Because he doesn't want you. He wants me. Your weakness has made me valuable."
The hours bled away. I showered, scrubbing the blood and charcoal from my skin until it was raw. I packed a small bag—not for running, but for my new prison. Practical clothes, my sketchbook, and a single photo of my mother from before she left. My cat, Dante, wound around my legs, oblivious. The irony of his name now felt like a cruel joke.
At 3 PM, the knock came again. Not Mrs. Chen's. Firm. Authoritative.
It was Marco, the underboss. Alone this time. He looked even larger in the daylight, his scarred face impassive. He held a sleek leather folio.
"Miss Romano," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble. "May I come in?"
I stepped aside. He entered, his eyes doing a quick, professional sweep of the apartment. He didn't sit.
"The Don has asked me to deliver the contract and ensure you understand the terms before tonight." He opened the folio and extracted several thick, creamy pages of legal documents. He laid them on the table. "You should read it."
My hands trembled as I picked it up. The language was dense and formal but brutally clear.
ARTICLE I: UNION. The marriage between Dante Salvatore and Isabella Romano is a binding contract for a period of five (5) years, after which it may be dissolved or renewed at the sole discretion of Mr. Salvatore.
ARTICLE II: RESIDENCE. The Wife shall reside full-time at the primary residence of the Husband, 1017 Fifth Avenue, and may not spend nights away from said residence without express written permission.
ARTICLE III: CONDUCT. The wife shall conduct herself in a manner befitting the Salvatore family name. She shall obey reasonable directives from the husband regarding her safety, schedule, and public appearance.
ARTICLE IV: CONSUMMATION. The marriage is to be consummated within seven (7) days of the ceremony, to be verified by a family physician if necessary.
ARTICLE V: COMPENSATION & CONSEQUENCES. Upon execution of this contract and completion of the marriage ceremony, the debt of Giovanni Romano (Schedule A, $5,000,000) is permanently extinguished. Giovanni Romano will receive a monthly stipend for living expenses. Should the wife violate any material term of this agreement or attempt to nullify the marriage, the debt shall be reinstated with 50% interest, and all protections for Giovanni Romano and Isabella Romano Salvatore shall be void.
It was a bill of sale. I was the product. My obedience was the warranty. My father's life was the return policy.
"Verified by a physician?" I spat, humiliation burning my cheeks.
"Standard for contract marriages ensuring legitimacy," Marco said, his tone neutral. "It protects both parties."
"It degrades one party!"
He met my gaze then, and for a moment, I saw something other than cold efficiency. A flicker of what might have been pity, or perhaps just weariness. "The Don does not do things by halves, Miss Romano. He is securing an asset. This is the paperwork."
"I am not an asset."
"You are now." He held out a pen. "Sign on the highlighted lines."
My father watched from the doorway of his bedroom, silent, weeping. I thought of Mrs. Chen. Look for the soil. Look for the light. There was no soil here. Only cold, hard concrete. But I had to find a way to put down roots anyway.
I took the pen. It was heavy and expensive. The final signature would be in my own handwriting. My own consent. That was the most devastating part of all.
I signed. Isabella Romano. The name that would be gone tomorrow.
Marco gathered the documents, his job complete. "A car will come for you at 7:30 PM sharp. Bring what you need. Everything else will be provided." He started for the door, then paused. He didn't look back when he spoke, his voice lower. "A word of advice, from one person who didn't choose this life to another who didn't either. The quicker you learn the rules, the easier it will be. He values strength, but he respects intelligence. Don't mistake his control for cruelty. And don't… don't make yourself a target. The world he lives in is full of people who will see you as a weakness to exploit."
Then he was gone.
The apartment was silent again, but it was a different silence. It was the silence after the guillotine blade had been tested. The waiting was over. The deal was struck.
I spent the last hour holding my cat, memorizing the cracks in my ceiling, the smell of turpentine and old books, and the view of Mrs. Chen's geraniums on the fire escape. My freedom.
At 7:25 PM, a long, black sedan with tinted windows pulled up to the curb. It looked like a hearse.
I kissed my father on the forehead. He clung to me. "Forgive me, Bella. Please."
"I don't know if I can," I said honestly, and walked out.
I didn't look back.
The driver was silent. The ride across the bridge into Manhattan was a blur of lights and shadows. My phone buzzed once—a text from an unknown number. The area code was 212.
Unknown: The contract is filed. Your father's first stipend has been delivered. Welcome to the family, Isabella.
Unknown: Tomorrow, you become Mrs. Salvatore. I suggest you wear white… even if we both know this is no fairy tale.
I stared at the words, my reflection pale and ghostly in the dark window. The city lights streaked past, beautiful and indifferent. I was crossing a river into a new country, and there was no return ticket.
The car slowed, turning onto a tree-lined avenue of majestic limestone mansions. It came to a smooth stop before the most imposing one, a fortress of old money and power, lit like a museum exhibit.
The back door opened from the outside. Marco stood there, waiting.
I took a deep, shuddering breath, clutching my small bag.
I didn't meet the wolf's teeth as a lamb.
I met them as a gardener, clutching a single, stubborn seed, stepping into the thorns.