Chapter 3 3

Isabella POV

Dante stepped back, unlocking the heavy mahogany door.

Nonna Elena Moretti entered, leaning heavily on a silver-tipped ebony cane. The air in the room instantly plummeted to freezing. She was a woman carved from Sicilian stone, her obsidian eyes sharp enough to flay a man alive. She swept her gaze across the room, her eyes lingering on me for a fraction of a second before dismissing me entirely as if I were nothing more than a stain on the rug.

She turned to her son. *"Un codardo senza spina dorsale,"* (A spineless coward), she spat in rapid, harsh Sicilian, her voice vibrating with ancient fury. *"Tuo figlio ci ha disonorato."* (Your son has disgraced us.)

Dante remained impassive, a towering monolith of dark power.

Elena didn't wait for his response. She pivoted toward the corner of the room where Sharon 'The Fixer' stood in the shadows. "Sharon. Go to the press downstairs. Announce that the wedding is canceled. Tell them we discovered impure blood in the Rossi lineage. The Moretti family is cleansing its house."

My blood ran cold. It was a death sentence. She wasn't just canceling the wedding; she was going to nail me and my entire family to a cross of public shame to protect her grandson's cowardice.

"No."

The single word left my lips before I could stop it. It was a suicidal move to interrupt a Mafia Elder, but silence meant death.

Elena slowly turned her head, her eyes narrowing into lethal slits. "You dare speak, little girl?"

"Canceling the wedding admits you were deceived," I said, forcing my chin up, refusing to let my voice tremble. I looked straight into the matriarch's eyes. "It is a public confession of weakness. The other families will see that a Moretti heir ran away."

I took a step forward, my heavy silk dress rustling. "The wedding must proceed. But the groom is not that coward." I shifted my gaze to Dante, then back to Elena. "It is him. Don Moretti."

Elena's grip on her cane tightened, her knuckles turning white.

"This isn't damage control," I pressed on, using the very Mafia logic that governed their bloodline. "This is a ruling. You don't pay for your son's mistake-you declare to New York that the Morettis only accept the absolute strongest. You replace a useless prince with a queen of pure Sicilian blood. That is power."

Silence crashed down on the room. Elena's expression shifted from disgust to a profound, calculating shock. She stared at me, truly seeing me for the first time, weighing the audacity of my gambit. Slowly, she turned her gaze to Dante.

Dante's slate-gray eyes were already fixed on me, burning with a dark, predatory approval.

"Marco is a failed investment," Dante said, his voice a low, lethal rumble that commanded the room. He looked at his mother. "But this marriage solves the Pietro problem. My cousin is waiting downstairs to capitalize on this humiliation. If I take the girl, I cut the vultures out entirely. I solidify the line."

He stepped closer to me, his massive presence suffocating. "She has the spine. She has the blood. She is fit to be a Moretti."

The hatred for internal traitors outweighed Elena's adherence to tradition. She struck her cane against the floorboards-a judge's gavel falling.

*"Che sia fatto,"* (Let it be done), Elena commanded. She snapped her fingers at Sharon. "Get Atticus. Now."

Within minutes, Atticus 'The Shark' Romano, the family Consigliere, slipped into the room. He carried a black leather folder. There were no negotiations, no reading of terms. We all knew the only two clauses that mattered in this world: absolute loyalty and absolute silence.

Atticus flipped to the last page. I took the gold fountain pen and signed *Isabella Rossi* for the last time. My hand did not shake. Dante took the pen from my fingers, his skin brushing mine-a spark of dangerous heat-and signed his name with brutal, slashing strokes.

Through the thick walls, the faint, haunting chords of the pipe organ began to play. The wedding march.

Elena stepped into my space. She grabbed the delicate lace of my veil, yanking it straight with a violent tug. She leaned in, her ancient breath ghosting over my cheek.

"You are a Moretti woman now," she whispered, her voice a razor blade. "Your womb belongs to this family. Give us an heir without bringing shame to our name. If you fail, I will personally drown you in the Hudson River."

I held her gaze, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "I understand."

Dante stepped beside me, offering his arm. The fabric of his tailored suit was rough against my bare skin as I slipped my hand through the crook of his elbow. We turned toward the heavy mahogany doors, ready to face the five hundred guests waiting for a groom who no longer existed.