The Salvatore mansion wasn't a home; it was a statement. A fortress of limestone and wrought iron that loomed over Central Park, its windows glowing like watchful, golden eyes. Marco led me through a side entrance—no grand front door for the purchased bride—and into a marble foyer that stole my breath. A soaring ceiling, a double staircase that curved like a pair of embracing arms, and a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the temperature.
"The family is gathering in the library for the ceremony," Marco said, his voice echoing in the vast space. "Sofia will be down to help you."
"Sofia?"
"Don Salvatore's sister."
Before I could process that, a woman appeared at the top of the stairs. She was beautiful in a soft, approachable way, with Dante's same dark hair but warm brown eyes, and a smile that seemed genuine. She hurried down, her simple silk dress flowing around her.
"Isabella? I'm Sofia." She took my hands, her grip warm. "I'm so… welcome." The hesitation told me she couldn't bring herself to say, "Happy to have you." She saw the bag in my hand, my worn jeans, and the defiance and terror warring in my eyes. "Come with me. We have a room ready for you to dress."
She led me up the grand staircase and down a long, carpeted hall lined with intimidating portraits of severe-looking men and women—the Salvatore ancestors. She opened a door to a bedroom that was larger than my entire apartment. It was decorated in creams and golds, opulent and impersonal, like a five-star hotel suite.
Lying across the vast bed was a dress. It wasn't a traditional wedding gown. It was a column of ivory silk, sleeveless, deceptively simple, and undoubtedly worth more than my college tuition. Next to it sat a pair of elegant heels and a small velvet box.
"Dante selected it," Sofia said softly, following my gaze. "He has… very specific tastes."
"I bet he does," I muttered.
Sofia either didn't hear or chose to ignore it. "The ceremony will be small. Just family, the priest, and a few trusted consiglieri. It will be quick." She paused, wringing her hands. "Isabella… my brother… He's not what he seems. He's built walls so high even I can't always see over them. But he's not a monster. Remember that, okay?"
Her plea felt like a lifeline thrown into a stormy sea. I nodded, unable to speak.
When I was alone, I changed. The dress fit as if I'd been measured in my sleep—which was a disturbing thought. It was beautiful, cold, and restrictive. I opened the velvet box. Inside were diamond stud earrings and a simple, breathtaking necklace—a single teardrop diamond on a platinum chain. The ultimate collar. I left them in the box.
A different knock sounded—firm, expecting entry. The door opened before I could answer.
Dante stood there.
He was in a tuxedo, and the sight was devastating. The black wool hugged his powerful frame, the white shirt a stark contrast against his olive skin and dark eyes. He looked like a king or a devil dressed for a royal ball. His gaze swept over me in the dress, and a flicker of something—approval, possession—crossed his face before it shuttered again.
"You didn't wear the jewels," he observed, stepping inside and closing the door.
"They're not mine."
"Everything in this house is yours now," he said, his voice low. "Including the jewels. Including the dress. You will wear what I provide."
"Am I allowed to breathe without your permission, too?" I shot back, the fear fueling my anger.
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips. "Careful, Isabella. We're not married yet." He walked to the bed, picked up the necklace, and turned to me. "Turn around."
"I can put it on myself."
"Turn around."
The command was absolute. Every cell in my body screamed to refuse, but Marco's warning echoed. Don't make yourself a target. I turned, facing the window, my heart pounding. I felt him step close, his warmth at my back, his fingers brushing my neck as he fastened the clasp. The diamond settled cold against my sternum. His hands lingered on my shoulders for a moment, heavy and warm.
"There," he said, his breath stirring my hair. "Now you look like mine."
The ceremony was in the library, a room of dark wood, leather, and thousands of silent books. About fifteen people stood in a semicircle. I recognized Marco. There were other men with similar watchful eyes and expensive suits. An elderly priest stood by the fireplace, looking uncomfortable.
Sofia gave me a small, encouraging smile from the front row. Next to her sat a frail, elderly man in a wheelchair—Don Moretti, I would later learn, the only other family head in attendance, a sign of respect.
There was no music. No flowers. No father to give me away. I walked the long aisle of Persian rugs alone, every eye on me. Dante waited, his expression impassive.
The priest's words were a blur of Latin and English, a transaction sanctified by God. "Do you, Isabella, take this man…" I heard my voice, flat and distant, say, "I do." Dante's "I do" was a vow of ownership, clear and firm.
"You may kiss your bride."
Dante turned to me. His hands came up to cradle my face, but there was no tenderness in the gesture. It was a claiming. He bent his head, and his lips met mine.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a brand. His lips were firm, demanding, and utterly possessive. He kissed me as if sealing the contract with his flesh, as if imprinting his will onto mine. A shockwave of sensation—anger, humiliation, and a terrifying, unwelcome jolt of heat—shot through me. I stood frozen, my hands at my sides in fists, until he pulled away. His dark eyes held mine, and in their depths, I saw a promise. This is just the beginning.
"I present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Dante Salvatore," the priest said, his voice lacking any joy.
A smattering of applause, polite and subdued. Then, the men approached, one by one, to kiss my cheek and offer stiff congratulations to Dante. "A beautiful wife, Don Salvatore." "A wise alliance." Their eyes assessed me like a new piece of artillery.
The reception was in a grand, echoing ballroom. A long table was set with crystal and silver, but the atmosphere was of a board meeting. I was placed at Dante's right. Sofia sat on my other side, a buffer.
Plates of exquisite food appeared—food I couldn't taste. Wine was poured—wine I didn't drink. Conversations swirled around me in low tones about shipping lanes, city council votes, and "the Volkov problem." I was a ghost at my own wedding feast.
Dante's hand settled on the back of my chair, his thumb occasionally stroking the bare skin of my shoulder. A casual, possessive touch that screamed "mine" to everyone in the room. Every time he did it, I flinched.
He leaned close, his lips near my ear. His scent, sandalwood and danger, enveloped me. "You're not eating."
"I'm not hungry."
"You will eat. You'll need your strength." The implication hung in the air, dark and unavoidable.
Later, as the men congregated with cigars and grappa, Sofia guided me to a quiet alcove. "It's… overwhelming," she said.
"That's one word for it."
"They're testing you," she whispered. "Seeing if you'll break, if you'll cry. Don't give them the satisfaction."
"Is that how you survived? By never giving satisfaction?"
Her warm eyes grew sad. "I survived because Dante built this cage for me, too. But he loves me. His love is just… heavy." She squeezed my arm. "He doesn't know how to be any other way."
The evening dragged on. Dante never left my side for long. He would return, his hand finding the small of my back, introducing me. "My wife, Isabella." The words were a decree.
Finally, as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed midnight, Dante stood. A silence fell.
"Thank you for honoring us tonight," he said, his voice carrying easily in the hushed room. "My wife and I will retire."
It was a dismissal. The men stood, nodding. Sofia gave me one last, worried look.
Dante's hand was firm on my elbow, guiding me from the ballroom, back through the marble foyer, and up the grand staircase. My heart began to thunder, a wild, trapped bird beating against my ribs. We passed the room where I'd dressed. We didn't stop.
He led me to the end of the hall, to a set of double doors. He pushed them open.
It was the master bedroom. It was immense, dominated by a huge, canopied bed. The decor was masculine—dark woods, deep burgundy, and more books. One entire wall was glass, overlooking the dark expanse of Central Park. A door stood ajar, leading to a lavish bathroom. Another was closed—his closet, I presumed.
He released my elbow and walked to a sideboard, pouring two fingers of amber liquor into a crystal glass. He didn't offer me one.
"This is your room now," he said, his back to me. "You'll find everything you need. Your belongings from Brooklyn will be brought tomorrow."
I stood just inside the doorway, the diamond necklace feeling like a noose. "And where will you be?"
He turned slowly, taking a sip of his drink. His dark eyes traveled over me in the wedding dress, and the look in them was no longer coolly possessive. It was hot, intense, and hungry.
"Where I belong," he said, placing the glass down. "With my wife."
He began to walk toward me, each step measured and deliberate. The air grew thick, charged with a terrifying anticipation. He stopped a foot away, his gaze holding me pinned.
"The contract was signed," he said, his voice a low rasp. "The vows were made. The reception is over." He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of the diamond necklace down to where it rested between my breasts. A traitorous shiver raced through me.
"Now," he said, his eyes burning into mine, "we make this marriage real."