His Arranged Desire

Chapter One

Isabella POV

The glow of my bedside lamp spilled across the pages of the book in my lap, its soft light carving a small oasis in my otherwise suffocating world. Reading was the only place I could escape-the only time I wasn't Giovanni Romano's daughter, the pawn in his bloody empire.

The book was a dark romance about the two main character who was deeply in love with each other but couldn't be together because their families were at war.

The book piqued my interest when i heard that the male lead later died while sacrificing his love for her.

I have always liked knowing how books end before reading them so as to brace myself for any surprise.

I turned another page,deeply engrossed with the book, but the knock on my door broke the illusion. It was soft, hesitant. Only one person in this house knocked like that.

"Come in, Mama," I said, already setting my book aside.

My mother slipped inside, her silk robe trailing after her like a whisper. She always moved gently, like she was afraid of taking up too much space. Her dark hair was pinned back, but a loose strand curled against her cheek. Her eyes-warm, always warm-would have calmed me if not for the way they darted, nervous, toward the hallway.

"Your father..." She hesitated, pressing her lips together. "He's asking for you in his study."

The words made the air shift, heavy and charged. My chest tightened. Father never asked for me unless it meant something serious.

I rose from the bed, smoothing down my nightgown, though my pulse was already racing. "Do you know why?"

Her hands fluttered at her sides, then stilled. She was trying not to show it, but I caught the flicker of apprehension in her eyes. The same look she had when Father dismissed her at dinner, or when she tried to soften his words and he silenced her with a glare.

"I don't," she whispered, though the tension in her voice betrayed her. "But, Isabella..." She stepped closer, her hands gently cupping my face. "Remember what I told you. In this family, strength is survival. Don't let him see fear."

My throat tightened. She had told me this all my life, in a hundred little ways. That one day my path would be decided for me. That marriage would not be a choice, but a weapon. I had prepared for it in theory. Not in practice.

I forced a small smile, covering her hands with mine. "Don't worry, Mama. I'll be fine."

But the look in her eyes said otherwise. She smoothed my hair, kissed my forehead, and let me go-though I knew she wanted to hold on.

I straightened my spine as I left my room, walking down the long corridor toward my father's study. The closer I got, the colder the air seemed to grow.

By the time I reached the heavy double doors, I already knew.

Something was about to change

The double doors loomed before me like the gates to a prison. I hesitated only a second before pushing them open.

The study smelled of smoke and power. Dark mahogany shelves lined the walls, paperwork scattering on yhe black desk. A decanter of amber liquid gleamed on the desk, beside a half-empty glass. My father sat behind it, his broad shoulders rigid, his eyes sharp as blades.

"Close the door," he said without looking at me.

I obeyed, the soft click echoing in the silence. He finally lifted his gaze, pinning me in place. My father's stare always carried weight, but tonight it was heavier, like he was already holding me in chains.

"Sit."

I sank into the chair across from him, spine straight, chin lifted. My mother's voice echoed in my mind: Don't let him see fear.

He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "You've grown into a fine woman, Isabella." His tone was flat, clinical, as if he were assessing an investment. "And now, it's time you served this family."

The knot in my stomach tightened. Here it comes.

"You'll be married."

My breath stilled. He had spoken of this before, vaguely, in the way men speak of storms that might come someday. But hearing the words spoken now-final, absolute-was like a blade sliding between my ribs.

"To who?" My voice was steady, though my heart hammered.

He leaned back, setting his glass on the desk with a sharp clink. "Adrian Moretti."

The name struck like thunder. Adrian Moretti. Don of the Moretti family. A man whispered about in fear, a man whose enemies never lived long enough to speak again.

My lips parted, but no sound came. Then, finally: "Why him?"

My father's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "Because he holds something this family needs. Power. Protection. An alliance that will silence our enemies before they grow too bold."

The words pressed down on me, crushing, but beneath the steel I caught a glimpse of something else: desperation. My father needed this marriage. Needed Adrian Moretti. That realization twisted my stomach further.

I shook my head, forcing words past the tightness in my throat. "I don't want this. You can't-"

His palm slammed down on the desk, the sound sharp enough to make me flinch. "You don't get to want, Isabella. You don't get to choose. That's the curse of being born in this world. You're a Romano. And a Romano obeys."

I swallowed hard, fighting the burn in my eyes. "So I'm nothing to you but a piece of property? A bargaining chip?"

His expression didn't flicker. "You're my daughter. Which means you'll play your role, no matter how much you dislike it. You'll marry Adrian Moretti, and you'll do it with grace. Because if you fail-if you embarrass this family-blood will spill."

I stiffened, the implication clear. He wasn't just threatening Adrian's enemies. He was threatening me, my mother-anyone he needed to.

I rose from the chair, my legs stiff, my body trembling with a rage I dared not show. If I stayed another second in that room, I would scream.

My father's voice followed me as I reached for the door. "Remember, Isabella. You carry this family's honor. Do not forget who you are."

I slammed the door shut behind me, his words clinging like shackles around my throat.

The hallway stretched out before me, long and suffocating. My breaths came shallow and sharp as I forced one foot in front of the other, fighting the heat in my eyes.

I turned the corner and nearly collided with my mother. She must have been waiting, hovering in the shadows for me to emerge. Her face tightened the instant she saw me.

"What did he say?" she whispered.

I shook my head, pressing past her, but her gentle hand caught my arm. I froze, unable to look at her because if I did, I would break.

"Mama," I whispered, my voice raw. "He's... he's marrying me off. To Adrian Moretti."

Her breath caught, soft but sharp, like she'd been struck. For a moment, she didn't speak. Her fingers tightened on my arm before loosening again, as if she feared holding me too tightly would make me shatter.

"Oh, Isabella." She drew me into her arms, her embrace warm, fragile, and full of all the love my father had never shown. I let my forehead press against her shoulder, my body stiff but desperate for the comfort.

I wanted to scream that I hated him. That I would never go through with it. That I would run, disappear, burn this house to the ground before letting Adrian Moretti put a ring on my finger.

But I didn't. Because the truth weighed heavier than my defiance. My father had decided my fate. And no amount of screaming would undo it.

After a long silence, my mother's voice brushed against my hair, quiet but steady. "I warned you this day would come, my love. But I prayed it wouldn't come so soon."

I pulled back, searching her face. She looked at me not with pity, but with sorrow. She knew. She had lived it herself.

"Why him?" I asked, though the question wasn't really for her.

She hesitated, eyes flicking toward the study doors before returning to me. "Because your father needs him. And when men like your father need, it is the women who pay the price."

Her words sank deep, an ache settling in my chest.

I went to my room without another word, shutting the door behind me. The book I'd left open on my bed waited, but the words no longer held escape. Not tonight.

I crossed to the window, pressing my palms to the cool glass. The night stretched beyond the estate walls, dark and endless. Somewhere out there, Adrian Moretti lived, breathed, ruled. A man whispered about like a ghost, a shadow.

And now, he was mine.

No-I was his.

The realization coiled inside me like a trap snapping shut.

I didn't know him. I didn't want him. But already, Adrian Moretti owned me.

And there was no way out.

Anger flared in me, hot and helpless. But beneath it was something colder: dread. Because for the first time, I understood.

There would be no escaping this.

Adrian POV

The man knelt before me, trembling, his forehead slick with sweat despite the chill of the warehouse. Gasoline fumes mixed with the coppery tang of blood, clinging to the air like a curse.

I stared down at him, my gun heavy but steady in my hand. He couldn't even look at me-his eyes darted to the ground, to the shadows, anywhere but at the man who held his life in his hands.

"You thought you could steal from me," I said, my voice low, smooth. No anger, no heat. Anger was for men who lacked control. "From me."

He babbled something, words tripping over each other. Excuses. Pleas. Lies.

I didn't let him finish.

The shot cracked like thunder, echoing off the metal walls. His body collapsed sideways, blood pooling beneath him, soaking into the concrete. My men didn't flinch. They never did. This was routine.

I handed the gun to Marco without looking at him. My consigliere wiped it clean, efficient as always.

"Clean it up," I said. My tone was calm, but final. "And let it be known-betrayal earns only one reward."

Two men dragged the body away. The rest scattered to handle the mess. I buttoned my coat and stepped into the night air, the cold biting my skin. Out here, beneath the shadowed sky, power didn't just feel like mine-it was mine.

Still, it wasn't enough. Power never was.

The black car waited, engine purring softly. I slid into the back seat, the leather cool against my palms. Marco was already there, a file resting on his lap. He passed it to me.

"Romano made an offer," he said.

I arched a brow, flipping the folder open. Giovanni Romano. The man who fancied himself untouchable. Inside were the expected details-numbers, contracts, promises. And at the center of it all, a photograph.

A young woman.

Giovanni's daughter.

The picture was a candid shot. She was leaving a university building, books in her arms, her hair tumbling over her shoulder. She wasn't looking at the camera. Her expression was soft, unaware.

I studied her for exactly three seconds before closing the file with a snap.

"And what does he want in return?" I asked.

"Marriage," Marco said. His voice was steady, but I caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes. "He wants you to take his daughter as your wife."

I leaned back, fingers tapping lightly against the closed folder. Marriage. A chain disguised as an alliance.

I wasn't a man who believed in love. Love was weakness. Attachment. A liability. My mother's death had taught me that much. Affection only gave people weapons to use against you.

But marriage as business? That was different.

"What do we gain?" I asked.

"Romano's shipping ports. Political favors. Consolidated control of the East Side. The alliance would make you untouchable."

I considered it in silence. Giovanni thought he was playing a clever game, offering his daughter like a pawn. What he didn't realize was that pawns, once moved, never left the board.

"I don't care who she is," I said at last. "If taking her gets me what I want, then it's done."

Marco nodded once, satisfied.

I reached for the glass of bourbon waiting beside me, the amber liquid catching the faint glow of the city lights. I swirled it once, watching the way it clung to the glass before slipping back down.

"She'll be mine," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. Not with warmth. Not with desire. With possession. With inevitability.

And through her, so would everything her father thought belonged to him.

I took a slow sip of the bourbon, the burn sharp on my tongue, and allowed myself the smallest curve of a smile.

Power. That was all that mattered.

And this marriage was the next step to owning it all.

Chapter 3

Isabella's POV

My father's voice carried down the hallway, sharp and commanding, even before I reached the dining room. He had been on edge all day, barking orders at the staff, ensuring every corner of the house gleamed like a shrine.

When he finally summoned me, his expression was carved from stone.

"Tonight is important, Isabella," he said, his dark eyes drilling into mine. "Adrian Moretti is coming. We will be discussing business. You will be present. You will be silent. And you will look the part."

My stomach tightened. The name alone was enough to steal my breath. Adrian Moretti. The Don whispered about in the same tone as death itself.

I opened my mouth, but my father cut me off with a glare. "No arguments. Go. Dress appropriately. Elegant. Refined. You'll make a good impression."

I clenched my fists at my sides, forcing my voice into a steady tone. "Why does it matter what I wear?"

"Because he is an important man," my father snapped. "And important men expect respect."

Important. That word was just another mask for dangerous.

When I turned away, my mother was waiting at the base of the stairs, her hands wringing the silk of her robe. Her eyes softened when she saw me, and she reached out as if she could take some of the weight from my shoulders.

"Come," she said gently. "I'll help you get ready."

In my room, she chose a dress from my wardrobe-a deep emerald green that clung to my figure without being indecent. The fabric shimmered under the light, elegant but strong. She smoothed the shoulders with delicate fingers, her touch lingering longer than necessary.

"You look beautiful," she whispered. "Remember, strength is in how you carry yourself. Do not let him see fear."

Her words echoed the same warning she'd given me my whole life, but tonight they felt heavier.

By the time the sound of engines rumbled outside, my heart was beating hard against my ribs. I entered Papa's office with my father at my side, my mother trailing behind us.

Twenty minutes, and he is still not here.

So here we are sitting in Papa's office waiting for the old man who obviously couldn't tell time to meet me.

"Papa...." i was cut off by a guard.

" Don Moretti is coming"

Papa instantly got up to fix himself which i scoff to.

I closed my eyes until i heard the door open.

Adrian Moretti stepped inside, the air shifting with him. He was taller than I expected, his presence filling the space like a storm. His suit was black, tailored to perfection, his dark hair slicked back. His eyes-sharp, piercing-swept the room before landing on me.

He was deadly handsome and sexy, i'd give you that, which was not what i expected.

His sculpted body allowed me to see his muscles bulging from that undershirt.

I gulped without realising it.

His facial expression serious. Not even a slight smile.

For one long, unbearable moment, he stared. Not like a man admiring a woman, but like a predator measuring prey. Cold. Possessive. Certain.

My breath caught, though I forced my chin up, refusing to shrink beneath his gaze.

Then, just as quickly, his attention flicked away, dismissing me entirely as he greeted my father.

"Giovanni," he said, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "Let's not waste time."

I stood silently, just as ordered, but every nerve in my body burned.

This was the man I was meant to marry.

And he hadn't even looked at me as if I were human.

The dining room had never felt so suffocating. The chandelier's light gleamed off the polished mahogany table, turning every crystal glass into a prism of sharp, glittering edges. My father took his place at the head, Adrian to his right. I was instructed to sit silently beside my mother, a decorative piece rather than a participant.

Dinner was served, though no one seemed interested in food. My father launched straight into business, his tone clipped, rehearsed.

"The docks are expanding," he said. "New shipments from Palermo. I'll need protection, smooth passage. In exchange, your cut will double."

Adrian leaned back in his chair, knife and fork untouched. His gaze was fixed on my father, sharp and unyielding.

"Double," he repeated softly, as though tasting the word. "That depends. You've had problems with loyalty before."

My father stiffened, his jaw tightening.

Adrian's voice dropped lower, colder. "Men who betray deserve one punishment. You know my way of handling such... inconveniences."

I tried not to shiver. Everyone in the room knew what his "way" meant. Blood. Finality.

My father chuckled awkwardly, raising his glass. "That is precisely why I need you, Moretti. You inspire fear. You command respect. With you beside me, there will be no disloyalty."

Adrian's eyes flicked to me then, briefly, as if to remind me that I, too, was part of this transaction. His stare was searing, yet empty, and I felt pinned beneath it until he turned away again.

"And in return?" Adrian asked smoothly.

My father hesitated, then set his glass down. The sound of crystal meeting wood was deafening in the silence.

"In return," he said slowly, "you'll have access to my docks. My men. My influence. And..." His eyes slid toward me, hard as stone. "My daughter."

The word landed like a blade.

Adrian didn't so much as blink. His expression remained unreadable, but I saw the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth-a wolf satisfied with his meal.

"A marriage," he murmured, as if the idea were nothing more than a ledger entry. "Efficient. Practical. Beneficial for both families."

My pulse roared in my ears. A marriage? Spoken as if I were a coin tossed into a deal?

Adrian turned to my father fully now. "I agree. But understand this-if I take her, she becomes mine. No interference. No hesitation. She will belong to me in every sense of the word."

I gasped softly, my fingers tightening around the edge of the tablecloth. His voice was calm, almost indifferent, yet the weight of his claim pressed down on me like chains.

My father only nodded, pride gleaming in his eyes. "Of course. She'll make you a fine wife."

Adrian's gaze drifted to me one last time, lingering just long enough to send a chill down my spine. There was no warmth, no affection-only calculation, as though he were already deciding how best to use me.

He looked at me once again before sighing " i will take her"

Rage overtook me.

Was I something in the store he could just take.

Dinner ended with toasts and shallow laughter, but I couldn't taste a single thing. By the time I returned to my room, my heart felt hollow.

I had been traded away.

And Adrian Moretti had accepted without hesitation