THE MAFIA'S FORBIDDEN WIFE

Isabella POV The mirror did not lie, even when I wanted it to. I stood in front of it in the dressing room of the Romano penthouse, the city lights of New York blurred behind the heavy glass, and studied the woman looking back at me. Dark hair pinned into an elegant twist. Soft makeup that made my mouth look fuller, my eyes larger. A deep green dress that clung to my waist and fell like water over my hips. Beautiful. Expensive. Owned. Twenty-five years old and already someone else’s finished product. Marco had chosen the dress. He always did for nights like this. Business dinners. Quiet shows of power. Nights when the Romano Family reminded the city and anyone watching that they were still the ones who mattered. I ran my hands down the fabric, feeling the soft resistance of silk against my palms, and tried to remember the last time I had worn something only because I wanted to. I couldn’t. The door opened without a knock. I didn’t have to turn to know it was him. Don Marco Romano stepped into the room with the same controlled presence he carried everywhere. Forty-six, broad-shouldered, dark hair marked with the slightest silver at the temples. His tuxedo was perfect. His expression was calm. He looked at me the way he always did, like I was something valuable he had already paid for in full. “You look lovely,” he said. His voice was low, certain. The kind of voice that never needed to raise itself to be obeyed. “Thank you,” I answered. He crossed the room and stopped behind me. In the mirror I watched his hands settle on my bare shoulders, warm and heavy. His thumbs brushed the sides of my neck in a gesture that might have looked tender to anyone else. I felt the quiet claim in it. “The Vitales will be watching tonight,” he said. “So will others. You will stay close to me.” “I know.” He turned me around with gentle pressure until I faced him. His eyes moved over my face, my mouth, the necklace he had fastened around my throat earlier. A single diamond that felt more like a collar than a gift. “You are mine, Isabella.” The words were soft. They always were. “I take care of what is mine. Remember that.” I nodded. It was easier than speaking. Marco leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead, chaste and final. Then he stepped back, offered his arm, and waited. I took it. The familiar weight of his forearm under my fingers settled into place like a chain I had worn long enough to forget how to remove. We left the penthouse together. The private elevator carried us down in silence. Two of his men waited in the lobby, dark suits, expressionless faces, the quiet readiness that followed Marco everywhere. One of them opened the car door. I slid into the back seat of the black sedan, the leather cool against the backs of my thighs. Marco followed. The door shut with a solid, expensive sound that sealed us in. As the car pulled into the night traffic, I stared out the window and let my mind drift to the only place it ever found relief. I thought of the Capo who never looked at me longer than necessary. Luca Moretti. I had noticed him months ago, the way a starving person notices food. Tall, controlled, always a half-step behind Marco in public and somehow still separate. He spoke only when spoken to. He moved like a man who measured every action before he made it. The other men respected him. Some feared him. Marco trusted him. I wanted him to look at me. It was a dangerous, stupid want. I knew exactly what men like my husband did to people who touched what belonged to them. I had seen the aftermath once, blood on marble, a body removed before morning, silence that swallowed the entire house for days. Marco had held me that night and told me I never needed to be afraid, as long as I remained his. I remained his. But the want did not leave. The restaurant was one of those places that did not bother with signs. Private entrance, private staff, private everything. Marco’s hand rested on the small of my back as we walked inside, a warm, steady pressure that guided me without force. People stood when he entered. Conversations softened. I kept my eyes lowered the way I had been taught and let him lead me to the long table already half-filled with men who mattered. I sat where he placed me, at his right side. And then I looked up and found Luca Moretti standing near the far wall. He was in a black suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. His dark hair was pushed back roughly, as if he had run a hand through it and forgotten about it. He was speaking quietly to another Capo, but something made him glance toward the table at the exact moment my eyes reached him. Our gazes met. It lasted only a second. Maybe less. But in that second something sharp and electric moved through my chest, so sudden I almost forgot how to breathe. Luca’s expression did not change. His face remained unreadable. Yet he did not look away immediately. For the smallest stretch of time he simply held my stare, as if he had not expected me to be looking either. Then he turned back to the man beside him and continued speaking. My pulse did not settle. Marco’s hand found my thigh under the table, a possessive weight. I kept my face calm. I smiled when someone spoke to me. I answered questions in the soft, polite voice expected of the Don’s wife. All the while I felt Luca’s presence across the room like a hand at the back of my neck. Dinner moved in slow courses. Wine. Quiet laughter that never reached the eyes. Talk of shipments and territories and names I was not supposed to remember. I performed my role perfectly. I always did. But something had shifted. When the evening finally began to thin and men started rising from the table, Marco leaned close to my ear. “I need a moment with Sal Vitale,” he said. “Stay here. Luca will see you to the car when it is time.” My heart stumbled. I nodded once. Marco squeezed my thigh once more, then stood and walked away with the older Vitale man toward a private room at the back. The space around me loosened. Conversations broke into smaller groups. I remained seated, hands folded in my lap, and tried not to look toward the wall where Luca still stood. I failed. He was already watching me. This time he did not look away. He murmured something to the man beside him, then crossed the room with unhurried steps. Each one made the air in my lungs feel thinner. When he stopped beside my chair, I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Up close he was even more carefully controlled, dark eyes, a faint scar near his left eyebrow, the quiet tension of a man who never fully relaxed. “Mrs. Romano,” he said. His voice was low. Rough around the edges. “The Don asked me to take you to the car.” Mrs. Romano. The name sat between us like a warning. I rose. My chair made almost no sound against the floor. Luca stepped back just enough to give me space, but not enough that I could ignore the heat of him. We walked toward the exit side by side, close enough that the sleeve of his jacket nearly brushed my arm. I could smell his cologne, something clean and dark, with a trace of smoke underneath. Neither of us spoke until we reached the private hallway that led to the rear entrance. Then, quietly, without looking at me, he said, “You should be more careful.” I stopped walking. Luca took one more step before he realized I was no longer beside him. He turned. The hallway was empty. Soft light. Distant kitchen noise. The two of us locked in a silence that suddenly felt too small. “Careful about what?” I asked. His jaw tightened. For a moment I thought he would refuse to answer. Then he stepped closer, close enough that I had to look up again, and lowered his voice even further. “About the way you look at me.” The words landed like a hand around my throat. Heat flooded my face, my chest, the pit of my stomach. I should have denied it. I should have laughed, or apologized, or walked away. I did none of those things. Instead I held his stare and said, just as quietly, “Then stop noticing.” Something dark and startled moved through his eyes. For the first time since I had known him, Luca Moretti looked anything but controlled. His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingered, then rose again. The space between us felt charged, dangerous, alive. He inhaled once, sharp and controlled, as if steadying himself. Then he leaned in just enough that his breath touched my temple when he spoke. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.” Behind us, a door opened. Footsteps and voices spilled into the hallway, Marco’s voice among them. Luca stepped back instantly, the mask sliding into place so smoothly it was as if the last thirty seconds had never happened. But his eyes stayed on mine a fraction longer than they should have, and in them I saw the warning, the hunger, and the beginning of something neither of us would be able to stop. Marco’s footsteps grew closer. And Luca said, under his breath, so low only I could hear it “Don’t look at me like that again.”