Rejected by the Son I Chose the Don

Isabella POV

The air in my mother's old bedroom tasted of dust and decay. It was a fitting perfume for a bride being sold to a slaughterhouse.

I stood before the clouded mirror, staring at the stranger in the reflection. The wedding dress, a vintage lace confection that had cost my father his last shred of liquidity, hung heavy on my frame. It was beautiful, yes, but it felt less like a gown and more like a shroud.

"Isabella."

My father didn't knock. He stood in the doorway, his face gray and lined with the stress of a man who had gambled everything on a losing hand. "The car is here."

"Is Alex in it?" I asked, my voice devoid of hope.

He looked away. "There... has been a change of plans. Alex is detained by urgent family business. A Capo has been sent to escort you."

I let out a dry, humorless laugh. Detained. In our world, that usually meant burying a body or dodging a bullet. But for Alex Moreno, the spoiled prince of the Chicago Outfit, it likely meant he couldn't be bothered to wake up on time.

Sending a Capo to collect a bride was an insult. It screamed to the world that I was nothing more than cargo, a piece of collateral to be signed for and delivered.

"Let's go," I said, picking up the heavy skirt. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Not today.

Holy Name Cathedral was a cavern of stone and stained glass, filled to the brim with the most dangerous predators in the city. The air hummed with tension, a low vibration that rattled my bones as I walked down the aisle.

Alone.

There was no groom waiting at the altar. Just the priest, looking nervous, and the empty space where Alex Moreno should have been standing.

The whispers started before I even reached the front. They slithered from the pews like vipers.

"Where is he?"

"Look at her face. She knows."

"The Carlson girl is damaged goods before the ring is even on."

I kept my chin high, my eyes fixed on the crucifix hanging above the altar, praying for strength or perhaps a lightning bolt to strike me down.

As I took my place, a hand gripped my arm. Faye Nichols, my only friend in this shark tank, leaned in close. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with panic.

"Izzy," she hissed, her voice barely audible over the rising murmur of the crowd. "You need to know. It's not family business."

My heart stuttered. "What is it?"