The silence in the Rossi estate was not peaceful. It was thick. Suffocating. A silence that pressed against the walls like a held breath before a bullet shattered bone.

Isabella stood in front of the gilded mirror in her father's study, numb fingers curled at her sides. The dress clung to her like a whisper of silk and smoke, hand-stitched, pearl-threaded, white as death. A wedding dress, yes, but not her choice. Nothing about this day was hers.

Behind her, the double doors creaked open.

"You're not crying," her father said flatly.

She didn't turn. "Would you have preferred tears?"

Dominic Rossi let out a sigh, heavy and hollow, the kind a man exhaled when he had already buried his shame beneath his ambition. "Tears waste time. Luciano Moretti doesn't tolerate weakness."

At the name, her pulse faltered. Moretti.

The devil himself.

Isabella had heard of him, no, everyone had. The Morettis ruled the East like kings dressed in suits, their empire laced with blood, gold, and silence. Luciano, the eldest son and current Don, was the kind of man who didn't ask for things. He took them. Businesses. Bloodlines. Bodies. And now-her.

She turned slowly, her gaze locking with her father's. "What exactly did you trade me for?"

He flinched, just slightly. A tell. Weakness she never would've seen as a child, but now she saw everything.

He stepped closer, lifting her veil with hands that trembled slightly at the fingertips. "Protection, Isabella. You'll be safe under him. Untouchable."

Her laugh was dry and quiet. "Like a glass doll in a cabinet."

He didn't answer.

A knock sounded behind them, sharp and final.

"Time," came a man's voice.

Isabella's breath caught as her father opened the door. Her brother, Luca, stood waiting, flanked by Moretti's men, men in black, men with guns under their coats and dead eyes.

And in the distance, at the end of a long marble aisle draped in blood-red roses, stood the man himself.

Luciano Moretti.

He didn't smile when he saw her. He didn't offer his hand. He merely stood with his shoulders like steel and eyes like frost. Watching. Measuring. Possessing her before he even touched her.

The room fell away.

The music played.

And Isabella walked toward a man who was not her husband, but her captor.

The ceremony was fast. Painless. Cold.

No vows. No flowers in her hand. No kiss.

Luciano slid the ring onto her finger with a gaze that burned through her skin. The gold was heavy. Custom. Marked with the Moretti insignia. A brand.

"You may now belong to your husband," the priest said.

Not kiss.

Belong.

She felt it like a blade between her ribs.

They walked back down the aisle together, side by side, a perfect image of union. But Isabella could feel it already, the rope tightening around her throat, one knot at a time.

The reception was held at Villa Moretti, a modern fortress carved into the cliffs above the Adriatic. The sea crashed far below, echoing through the stone like a warning.

Luciano hadn't spoken a word to her since the ceremony.

He sat at the head of the long dining table, flanked by capos and family members, a glass of dark red wine in one hand and his gaze fixed on her every time she moved.

Isabella drank champagne until the bubbles dulled the sound of her own thoughts.

Halfway through dinner, a toast was called.

"To the bride," someone said.

Luciano stood, lifting his glass. All conversation ceased.

"To obedience," he said, voice smooth and terrifying.

She looked up at him. So did everyone else.

Luciano's eyes burned into her. "And to the woman who now wears my name, my ring, and very soon, my mark."

The room exploded in clinking glasses, laughter, wolfish smiles.

Isabella's heart thudded. His mark?

She didn't ask. She didn't dare.

Later, he led her through winding halls to a massive bedroom, black, gray, and marble, no trace of warmth.

The door shut with a click behind them.

Luciano turned to face her, slowly loosening the cuffs of his shirt. His movements were deliberate, elegant, and dangerous.

"Undress," he said.

Isabella's breath caught. "What?"

"You heard me."

Her spine straightened. "If you want me naked, you can do it yourself."

His eyes darkened, not with anger, but interest.

He stepped closer, stopping inches from her. She could smell him, sandalwood, smoke, something expensive and masculine.

"I could," he murmured. "But I want to see if you understand what it means to belong."

She didn't move.

He tilted his head. "Your father sold you for protection. You wear my name now. That means your body is mine. Your mouth. Your pain. Your pleasure. All mine."

Her hands shook at her sides, but she didn't step back.

"Then take it," she whispered. "Show me how a man conquers what he bought."

His jaw clenched, and in a flash, he spun her around and pushed her against the nearest wall.

"Careful, Isabella," he murmured against her ear, breath hot. "You're playing a game you don't understand yet."

She gasped as his hands slid down her hips, but he didn't lift her dress. He didn't even unzip it. Instead, he leaned closer, brushing his lips against the bare skin behind her ear.

"I don't take everything at once," he whispered. "I strip it from you. One inch at a time."

Her whole body was trembling now, heat pooling low in her belly despite the fury in her chest.

He pulled back, staring into her eyes. "You'll beg for my touch long before I give it to you. That's how this works."

She swallowed hard.

Then he stepped away.

"Sleep on the left side of the bed," he said, removing his jacket. "Don't lock the bathroom door. And if you leave this room without my permission, you'll regret it."

Isabella stood frozen, her mind spinning.

He wasn't going to touch her?

He was going to own her without even taking her?

The realization unsettled her more than she expected.

Luciano moved to the armchair in the corner, poured himself a drink, and picked up a file.

As if she no longer existed.

She lay awake in bed that night, the expensive sheets soft against her skin, her body still dressed in a wedding gown she couldn't remove alone.

He hadn't even looked at her again.

Hadn't touched her since the wall.

And yet, she felt his presence everywhere.

In the slow tick of the clock.

In the hush of the room.

In the ache between her thighs that she hated herself for.

He wanted obedience.

He wanted surrender.

But she had something he hadn't taken yet.

And she'd find a way to make him pay for it.

Even if it meant losing herself in the process.