Italian vows

The Marriage Written Before Love The first thing Isabella Romano took note of around the Palazzo De Luca was the silence. Not the serene kind, the kind that wrapped around you like velvet and alleviated the nerves, but a ponderous, careful hush. The sort that had a place to control. Ancient control. The kind that did not require declaring itself since it had been complied with for generations. She stood fair within the amazing entrance, her heels clicking once against the marble floor; some time recently, the sound vanished into the unfathomably over. Chandeliers hung like solidified star groupings. Dividers carried representations of men who looked as if in spite of the fact that they had never been told no. Each detail whispered the same truth. This would swallow her entirely if she permitted it. Isabella fixed her grasp on the little clutch in her hand, feeling her heartbeat against her wrist. She had dressed carefully, carefully but controlled, unassuming but unwavering. This evening was not about magnificence. It was almost survival. “Bella.” She turned at the hearing of her sister’s voice. Vittoria Romano stood a few steps behind her, her expression composed but her eyes burning with concern. Vittoria had continuously been the more grounded one, louder, bolder, more willing to battle the world head-on. Isabella had learned in step to persevere. “You don’t have to do this,” Vittoria whispered, closing the distance between them. “We can still walk out. I don’t care what Dad says.” Isabella constrained a grin, lean but steady. “Yes, you do,” she answered delicately. “And so do I.” Because strolling out implied ruin. Their father’s trade was, as of now, hanging by a string. One more obligation called in, one more favor denied, and the Romano title would disintegrate into unimportance. The De Lucases had advertised an arrangement, clean, exact, merciless. A marriage. Not a proposition. A transaction. Vittoria came to her hand, crushing it firmly. “Promise me one thing.” Isabella met her sister’s look. “What?” “Don’t disappear,” Vittoria said. “Don’t let them eradicate you.” Isabella needed a guarantee. She genuinely did. But the truth held up horrendously in her chest: she had no thought of that guarantee being one she seemed to keep. Before she could reply, strides resounded from the terrific staircase. Measured. Sure. Unhurried. The room appeared to move around them, as though each particle of dust recognized who was approaching. Alessandro De Luca. Isabella had seen him confront someone recently on magazine covers, monetary pages, whispered talk passed between Rome’s top. The beneficiary. The ruler of a realm built on impact and terror. A man who moved markets with a phone call and devastated adversaries with silence. But none of that arranged her for reality. He plummeted the stairs with easy elegance, one hand resting softly on the support, his dim suit superbly custom-fitted to his wide outline. His nearness was commanding without being uproarious. He didn’t surge. He didn’t need to. The world held up for him. His look found hers nearly immediately. It was not inquisitive. Not surprised. It was assessing. Isabella felt it like a physical touch, following her pose, her expression, her resolve. She refused to see the absence, indeed, as her heart thundered against her ribs. When he came into his footsteps, he halted a courteous removal. “Isabella Romano,” he said, his voice profound, smooth, and hazardously calm. “Welcome.” She slanted her head marginally. “Alessandro De Luca.” No warmth passed between them. No grins. No untrue pleasantries. Good. “I believe the travel was comfortable,” he continued. “Rome activity is never comfortable,” Isabella answered equally. “But survivable.” A glint of something delighted, maybe, crossed his eyes some time recently, but it vanished. “I respect honesty,” he said. “It’s rare.” “So I’ve heard.” Silence extended between them, thick and ponderous. Vittoria moved adjacent to Isabella, clearly awkward, but Alessandro’s consideration never wavered. “This way,” he said at last, motioning toward a long hallway lined with plated entryways. “My mother and the attorneys are waiting.” There it was. No address. No choice. As they strolled, Isabella took in each detail, the overwhelming wraps, the cleaned floors, the black-out fragrance of costly cologne and ancient stone. This was not a domestic. It was a fortress. They entered a formal sitting room where Lucia De Luca sat like a ruler, anticipating tribute. Exquisite, balanced, her look sharp as an edge, she examined Isabella with open scrutiny. “So,” Lucia said coolly, rising from her seat. “You are the Romano girl.” Isabella made her look. “I am.” Lucia’s lips bent faintly. “You’re… more youthful than I expected.” “I discover desires are frequently misleading,” Isabella replied. Alessandro’s jaw fixed nearly imperceptibly. Interesting. Lucia signaled toward the table where thick records lay flawlessly organized. “Shall we begin?” The attorneys talked for what felt like hours. Terms. Clauses. Conditions. Words outlined to tie lives as firmly as legitimate ink seem manage. No outrage, not separate for a long time. Open solidarity. Private discretion. Isabella marked where educating, her hand unfaltering despite the weight pressing down on her chest. With each signature, she felt something closing around her future. Finally, the papers were slid toward Alessandro. He didn’t hesitate. When he marked, it was an unequivocal final. “It’s done,” Lucia said, fulfilling her tone. “You will be hitched inside the month.” Within the month. Isabella swallowed. The room started to purge, legal counselors gathering their things, Lucia pardoning herself with a last evaluating look. Vittoria was introduced delicately but immovably, her stressed eyes waiting on Isabella until the entryway closed behind her. And at that point, it was fair for the two of them. Isabella breathed out gradually. “Efficient,” she said. Alessandro expelled his coat, hanging it over the back of a chair. “Efficiency is how domains survive.” “And love?” she inquired quietly. His look snapped at hers. “This arrangement,” he said, venturing closer, “has nothing to do with love.” “Good,” Isabella answered, even though her beat enlivened. “Because I don’t propose to drop in on you.” He ceased less than a meter away, his nearness overpowering in its calm intensity. “Neither do I,” he said. “We will regard each other freely, remain out of each other’s way secretly, and fulfill our obligations.” “And if one of us fails?” she asked. His expression solidified, shadows obscuring his eyes. “Failure,” he said equally, “is not an option.” A chill ran down her spine. Isabella fixed, assembling her gaze with faithful resolve. “Then let’s be clear, Alessandro De Luca. I may be your spouse on paper, but I am not your possession.” For the first time, his composure cracked. Not anger. Interest. “Good,” he said gradually. “I’d abhor being bored by my claimed wife.” They stood there, bound by ink and desire, outsiders tied together by promises not spoken. Outside, Rome breathed antiquated, interminable, indifferent. Inside the Palazzo De Luca, a marriage had been decided. But love? Love had not been invited. Not, however.