Chapter 1 Enemy at the Altar

The wedding was beautiful.

A grand cathedral draped in ivory and blood-red roses, golden chandeliers scattering fractured light across gleaming marble floors, and a symphony so hauntingly sweet it could fool the world into believing love had brought them here.

But Isabella De Luca knew better.

She stood at the back of the cathedral, veiled and statuesque, clad in a gown that cost more than most people's homes. Custom satin clung to her like a noose, the corset cinched so tightly it bruised her ribs. Her dark hair was swept into an elegant chignon. Pearls graced her throat. A knife hugged her thigh - just in case.

This wasn't a wedding. It was a ceasefire masquerading as romance.

The enemy stood at the altar-handsome as sin and twice as dangerous.

Matteo Alonso looked carved from shadow and command. His tailored black suit hugged his broad frame, a blood-red tie knotted with surgical precision. His jaw was cut sharp, his posture soldier-straight, his face unreadable. Cold. Calculated. Unyielding.

Their eyes locked as the cathedral doors opened.

She didn't smile.

Neither did he.

Her father's arm was firm as granite beneath hers, his stride deliberate as they walked the aisle lined with enemies wearing masks of civility. Alonso men on one side. De Luca loyalists on the other. Everyone pretending this alliance was celebration.

But they all knew.

This wasn't love.

This was survival.

Matteo didn't offer his hand when she reached him. He simply looked her over with those storm-dark eyes and gave a slight nod.

"You're late," he murmured.

"And you're still breathing. Pity," she replied, her voice silk-sharp.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Whether it was irritation or amusement, she couldn't tell.

The priest began to speak. Words of unity. Eternity. Sanctity.

Isabella barely heard them.

She studied the man beside her, memorizing the shape of the threat. Matteo's profile was all edge and intensity, like it had been forged in a crucible of war. No softness. No warmth. When his hand brushed hers as they turned to face each other, she flinched-not from fear, but from the lightning snap that struck her spine.

Damn him.

When it came time for vows, Matteo's voice was steady as stone.

"I, Matteo Alonso, take you, Isabella De Luca, to be my wife. From this day forward, I bind myself to this alliance. In loyalty. In war. In blood."

No love. No tenderness.

Only control.

Isabella tasted iron behind her smile and answered in kind.

"I, Isabella De Luca, take you, Matteo Alonso, to be my husband. From this day forward, I enter this bond. In fire. In pride. In blood."

The priest hesitated-just a flicker-before continuing.

"You may now kiss the bride."

The room held its breath.

Matteo stepped forward, slow and deliberate. His hand rose to her jaw, fingers cool against her flushed skin. Her heart thundered-not from affection, but from fury.

He tilted her face upward.

"Smile," he whispered, lips barely brushing hers. "Or they'll think we hate each other."

"We do," she breathed.

Then his mouth met hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a power play, a challenge.

His grip tightened at her waist. Her fingers curled against his chest. Cameras flashed. Applause swelled. But Isabella felt only the heat of hatred and the iron cage snapping shut around her.

The reception took place in the ballroom of an old Romanesque mansion Matteo had claimed as his base in Chicago.

Tension buzzed beneath the veil of elegance. Champagne flowed. Music played. Enemies laughed and danced in a diplomatic masquerade.

Isabella stood poised, every inch the mafia queen, her eyes sharp beneath the diamonds. Matteo lingered at her side like a looming shadow. They danced once-for appearances-his hand pressed to the small of her back, breath grazing her ear.

"You've got a sharp tongue," he said quietly. "You might want to be careful where you aim it."

She smiled without warmth. "You carry a sharp blade. Maybe you should be careful where you point it."

He gave a short laugh. "You don't scare easy."

"I was raised by men who slit throats and smiled at the blood. What makes you think I scare at all?"

The music ended. They stepped apart like strangers sharing a battlefield.

From across the ballroom, Isabella watched him speak with Nico Bianco-his consigliere. Words passed. Glances. Subtle signals she recognized all too well.

He was planning something.

And so was she.

Later that night, Matteo led her to the master suite of his estate. The room was cavernous-dark wood, cold marble, and a bed big enough to host a war.

He stood by the window, his back to her.

"You'll have your own wing. Guards will be stationed. No one enters without my permission."

"Romantic," she said flatly.

He looked over his shoulder. "This is a truce, Isabella. Not a love story."

She stepped closer, voice edged with fire. "Then stop looking at me like I'm a prize you've already won."

His eyes darkened. "I don't want to win you. I want to survive you."

A tense silence crackled between them-tight, electric.

Without another word, she turned and walked into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind her.

Alone in the dark, Isabella finally allowed herself to exhale.

She wasn't safe.

She wasn't free.

But she wasn't broken.

Not yet.

And if Matteo Alonso thought this marriage would tame her...

He had no idea the storm he'd just married.