The Enemy's Bride

THE ENEMY'S BRIDE By Val Clarke CHAPTER ONE THE DEAD MAN'S PHOTOGRAPH POV: Isabella De Luca My mother had been dead for six years when I discovered she had been keeping secrets from the grave. I found the photograph inside a locked drawer in my father's private study. It was an ordinary photograph at first glance. Slightly faded, its edges worn with age. My mother stood in the middle, younger than I remembered her, wearing a white dress and smiling at someone outside the frame. Beside her stood a young man. He was handsome, perhaps in his early twenties, with dark hair, sharp features and an expression that suggested he had never trusted a camera. I turned the photograph over. Five words had been written across the back in my mother's unmistakable handwriting. If he dies, trust nobody. I read them again. Then a third time. My fingers tightened around the photograph. "Who are you?" The question escaped my lips before I realised I had spoken aloud. I examined the man's face again. Something about him looked familiar, although I was certain I had never met him. I turned the photograph towards the light. There was a date beneath my mother's handwriting. October 14. Eight years ago. Two years before her death. A strange chill moved through me. I had entered my father's study looking for the architectural documents for a hotel project. Instead, I had found a photograph that raised questions I had spent six years believing I no longer needed to ask. My mother, Sofia De Luca, had died in a car accident. That was the official explanation. My father had told me she lost control of her vehicle on a rainy evening while returning from a charity event. I remembered the funeral. The black dresses, the endless condolences, the smell of lilies and the way my father stood beside the coffin without shedding a single tear. I had been twenty-one. Old enough to understand death. Young enough to believe everything my father told me. I looked towards the study door. My father was not supposed to return until evening. I should have put the photograph back. Instead, I slipped it into my handbag. Something told me I would need it. "You're late." I looked up from my phone. Nadia Romano stood beside the entrance of the restaurant, holding a glass of champagne. Her blonde hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her red dress made her impossible to miss. "I own the company," I reminded her. "I am allowed to be late." "Your clients might disagree." "They love me." "They tolerate you because you're talented and occasionally terrifying." I laughed, taking the glass she offered. Nadia had been my closest friend since university. She was one of the few people who could tell me when I was being unreasonable without risking permanent damage to our friendship. We had arranged dinner to celebrate the completion of my latest interior-design project. A luxury hotel overlooking the Bellavita coastline. It had taken four months, three difficult contractors and one particularly unpleasant client to finish. I deserved this evening. For approximately twenty minutes, I managed to forget about the photograph. Then Nadia noticed my expression. "All right. What happened?" "Nothing." "Isabella." I sighed. "Have you ever discovered something about someone you thought you knew completely?" She lowered her glass. "That depends. Are we talking about an embarrassing secret or a criminal one?" "Neither. I hope." I reached into my handbag and brought out the photograph. Nadia examined it. "Your mother?" "Yes." "And the handsome stranger?" "That's the problem. I don't know." She turned the photograph over. Her expression changed. "Where did you get this?" "My father's study." "Does your father know you have it?" "No." Nadia looked at the photograph again. "Isabella, perhaps you should ask him." "I intend to." "Then why do you look like someone has just informed you that you're being buried alive?" I took the photograph back. "Because I have a feeling he won't tell me the truth." Before she could respond, my phone vibrated. One message. From my father. Come home immediately. We need to discuss something important. I frowned. "Everything all right?" Nadia asked. "My father wants me home." "Now?" "Apparently." She leaned back. "That sounds ominous." I put the photograph away. "I'll call you tomorrow." "Promise?" "Promise." As I stood, another message appeared. Do not make me ask twice, Isabella. I stared at the screen. My father rarely spoke to me that way. Something was happening. And judging by the tone of his messages, I was about to become part of it. The De Luca estate stood on a hill overlooking the western coast of Bellavita. It was an enormous property surrounded by stone walls, iron gates and carefully maintained gardens. I had grown up there. Yet, as I stepped out of my car that evening, I felt like a visitor. Two armed guards stood near the entrance. Neither smiled. Inside, the house was unusually quiet. I handed my coat to a waiting housekeeper and headed towards the main sitting room. My father stood beside the fireplace. Vittorio De Luca was sixty-one, but he carried himself like a man who considered age an inconvenience. His dark hair had begun turning silver at the temples. His expensive suits were always perfectly tailored, and his expression rarely revealed what he was thinking. He looked at me. "Sit down." I remained standing. "What's happening?" "Is it impossible for you to sit when I ask?" "Is it impossible for you to explain why you summoned me like a disobedient employee?" His jaw tightened. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he gestured towards the sofa. I reluctantly sat. He remained standing. "There is a matter concerning our family that requires your cooperation." I folded my arms. "That sounds expensive." "It concerns your future." "My future is doing quite well without interference." "Isabella." "What?" He inhaled slowly. "You're getting married." I blinked. Then I laughed. It was not because I found anything amusing. It was because I genuinely believed I had misheard him. "Excuse me?" "Your marriage has been arranged." I stared at him. "You're joking." "I'm not." "Then you have finally lost your mind." His expression hardened. "Watch your tone." I stood. "You cannot possibly be serious." "The arrangement has already been discussed." "With whom?" He hesitated. It was brief, but I noticed. "Who?" "Moretti." The name settled between us. For a moment, I heard nothing. Not the grandfather clock behind me. Not the distant movement of servants. Not even my own breathing. Then I laughed again, this time without humour. "Moretti?" "Yes." "As in Dante Moretti?" My father said nothing. I took a step backwards. "Absolutely not." "You haven't heard the details." "I don't need the details." "Isabella, listen to me." "No. You listen to me. I am not marrying a Moretti." His eyes narrowed. "This is not a discussion." "Then you should have invited someone who has no intention of disagreeing with you." I reached for my handbag. My father spoke before I could turn. "Do you know what happened to Matteo Moretti?" I stopped. The photograph inside my handbag suddenly felt heavier. "His death was all over the newspapers." "Then you know his family has never forgotten it." "Why are you bringing this up?" "Because Dante believes I was responsible." I slowly turned towards him. "What?" "Eight years ago, Matteo died in an explosion at one of the Moretti warehouses. Dante has spent years believing I ordered it." "And did you?" My father's silence lasted a second too long. "That's irrelevant." "No, Father. It really isn't." He moved towards his desk. "The Morettis have agreed to an alliance. Your marriage will secure peace between our families." "Peace?" I almost choked on the word. "You want me to marry a man who believes you murdered his brother?" "He has agreed to the arrangement." "That doesn't mean he wants peace." My father looked directly at me. "Dante Moretti wants you as his wife." A strange feeling settled in my stomach. Not fear exactly. Something colder. "Why?" "Because he believes the marriage will benefit both families." I studied his face. My father was a terrible liar when he was frightened. And for the first time in years, I could see something resembling fear in his eyes. "What aren't you telling me?" "Nothing." "You're lying." "Enough." He opened a folder on his desk and removed a document. "These are the preliminary marriage arrangements. You will have your own residence within the Moretti estate, and your business interests will remain separate." I stared at him. "You've already drawn up the papers?" "The lawyers are handling the details." "You arranged my marriage without speaking to me?" "I am trying to protect this family." "From what?" He did not answer. Instead, he said something that made my blood run cold. "Dante Moretti is coming tomorrow evening. You will meet him." I shook my head. "I have no intention of meeting him." "Then I suggest you reconsider." "Or what?" His expression changed. For the first time, my father looked at me not as his daughter but as someone standing on the opposite side of a negotiation. "Some decisions are bigger than your personal happiness, Isabella." I stared at him. "Then marry him yourself." I turned and walked out before he could respond. I locked myself inside my bedroom. For several minutes, I simply stood beside the window, looking towards the dark coastline. Dante Moretti. I knew the name. Everyone in Bellavita knew it. He was thirty-four, wealthy beyond imagination and rumoured to control businesses that did not officially exist. People described him as cold, ruthless and dangerously unpredictable. There were stories about men who had offended him and were never seen again. I had always dismissed some of those stories as exaggerations. Now I was apparently expected to marry the man. My phone vibrated. An unknown number. I considered ignoring it. Then another message appeared. I believe we need to discuss our upcoming marriage. My stomach tightened. I typed a response. Who is this? The reply arrived almost immediately. Your future husband. I stared at the screen. Another message followed. Dante Moretti. For several seconds, I did not move. Then I typed: I haven't agreed to marry you. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then appeared again. His response was short. Your father says otherwise. I felt anger rise in my chest. Then perhaps you should marry my father. He seems more interested in the arrangement than I am. This time, his response took longer. When it finally arrived, I wished I had not looked. Careful, Isabella. I have a feeling you're going to be very difficult to live with. I almost laughed. Almost. I typed one final message. You have no idea. I placed the phone on the bedside table. Then I remembered the photograph. I removed it from my handbag and examined the young man's face again. My mother's handwriting stared back at me. If he dies, trust nobody. I turned the photograph over once more. And that was when I noticed something I had missed earlier. In the lower-right corner, almost hidden by the faded edge, was a name. MATTEO. My fingers went cold. Matteo Moretti. The dead brother. My mother had known him. And judging by the date on the photograph, she had known him long before his death. I looked towards my phone. A final message from Dante Moretti appeared. One more thing, Isabella. Tomorrow, when we meet, I suggest you leave the photograph at home. My heart stopped. I read the message again. He knew. Somehow, Dante Moretti knew I had found the photograph. And suddenly, I was no longer certain that my father's study had been the only place someone had been keeping secrets.