BOUND BY SHADOWS

CHAPTER THREE: VOWS AND CHAINS

Dante followed her gaze. "Sofia Vitale. No one you need to worry about."

But the way Sofia Vitale looked at Isabella suggested otherwise.

The rest of the party passed in a blur of introductions she wouldn't remember and congratulations that rang hollow. Dante stayed close, his hand possessive on her back, playing the attentive fiancé for the crowd.

It was almost midnight when Mrs. Chen appeared at her elbow. "Miss Romano, your room is ready if you'd like to retire."

"My room?" Isabella looked at Dante. "I'm not staying here."

"Of course you are." He said it so matter-of-factly, as if there was no other possibility. "The wedding is in two weeks. You'll live here until then. It's expected."

"I didn't agree to—"

"You agreed the moment you walked through those doors." His eyes held no sympathy. "Mrs. Chen will show you to your quarters. Your belongings will be brought from your father's house tomorrow."

"I want to say goodbye to him."

"No."

The word hung in the air between them, absolute.

"You're keeping me prisoner?"

"I'm keeping you safe. There's a difference." He gestured to Mrs. Chen. "Show Miss Romano to the east wing. Post security outside her door."

"For my protection?" Isabella's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Among other things." Dante turned away, already dismissing her. "Goodnight, Isabella. I'll see you at breakfast. Eight o'clock. Don't be late."

Mrs. Chen led her through a maze of corridors, up a different staircase, to a wing of the house that felt emptier, quieter. The room she opened was larger than Isabella's entire apartment a four-poster bed, an antique wardrobe, a sitting area with a view of the gardens.

A cage. A beautiful, luxurious cage.

"There are clothes in the wardrobe," Mrs. Chen said. "If you need anything, press the call button by the bed. Breakfast is served in the morning room at eight. I suggest you don't keep him waiting."

Then she was gone, and Isabella heard the distinct sound of a lock clicking into place.

She tried the door handle. Locked from the outside.

She ran to the windows. They opened, but it was a three-story drop to the garden below.

Isabella sank onto the bed, still wearing her black dress, and finally let the tears come. For Alessandro. For her father. For the life she'd had just two days ago.

But beneath the grief, something harder was forming.

Dante Salvatore thought he'd caged her. He thought he'd won.

He had no idea what she was capable of.

She reached into her purse and pulled out Alessandro's switchblade, running her thumb over the engraved handle. A. Romano.

"I'll make him pay," she whispered to the empty room. "I promise, Ale. I'll make him pay for what he did to you."

Outside her locked door, she heard footsteps. Heavy. Patient. A guard making his rounds.

Two weeks until the wedding.

Two weeks to plan.

Isabella lay back on the bed, still clutching the knife, and stared at the ceiling.

The game had begun.

And this time, she was playing for keeps

The two weeks before the wedding passed in a blur of suffocating routine.

Isabella woke each morning at seven to find a breakfast tray outside her locked door. At eight, Mrs. Chen would unlock it and escort her to the morning room where Dante read the newspaper and drank espresso in complete silence. At nine, a stylist would arrive to discuss wedding details Isabella had no say in. Afternoons were spent in her gilded cage, staring out windows at gardens she couldn't walk through alone.

Every night, she tested the lock. Every night, it held.

Dante barely spoke to her during those two weeks. He was a ghost who appeared at breakfast, sometimes at dinner, always watching her with those unreadable honey eyes before disappearing into meetings or business she wasn't privy to. The only time he touched her was when others were watching a possessive hand on her back, fingers intertwined with hers for photos the family publicist insisted on taking.

Each touch felt like a brand.

Isabella spent her captivity learning the mansion's layout, memorizing guard rotations, cataloging exits. She befriended the younger maids who were less loyal to the Salvatores, gleaned information from overheard phone calls. She was building a map, gathering intelligence.

Waiting for her moment.

Sofia Vitale appeared twice once at a "family dinner" where she watched Isabella with the cold calculation of a snake eyeing a mouse, and once in the garden where Isabella had finally been allowed to walk under guard supervision. Sofia had smiled, all poisoned honey.

"Enjoy your wedding, piccola," she'd said, running a manicured nail along a rose bush. "Marriage to a Salvatore doesn't last long. His last fiancée barely survived six months."

Isabella's guard had pulled her away before she could ask what that meant. When she'd questioned Enzo later, he'd gone quiet, then changed the subject.

Dante had been engaged before. And something had gone very, very wrong.

Now, standing in front of a full-length mirror in a wedding dress that cost more than her father's house, Isabella barely recognized herself.

The gown was a masterpiece off-shoulder ivory silk that hugged her curves before flowing into a cathedral train. Delicate lace sleeves. A bodice encrusted with crystals that caught the light like tears. Her dark hair had been styled in an elegant updo, with loose tendrils framing her face. The makeup artist had made her look ethereal, untouchable.

A beautiful lie.

"You look like a princess, Miss Romano," the stylist gushed, adjusting her veil.

I look like a sacrifice, Isabella thought.

Mrs. Chen appeared in the doorway, her expression softer than usual. "It's time."

The wedding was being held in the mansion's private chapel because of course the Salvatores had a private chapel. As Isabella descended the grand staircase, she could hear music playing, voices murmuring. Two hundred guests. All watching. Waiting.

Her father stood at the bottom of the stairs in an ill-fitting suit, his eyes red-rimmed. He'd aged a decade in two weeks.

"Bella," he whispered, reaching for her hand. "You look just like your mother on our wedding day."

Isabella pulled away. "Don't."

"I know you hate me. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness—"

"You're right. You don't." She forced herself to meet his eyes. "But I'll play my part today. For Alessandro. Not for you."

Luca flinched but nodded. He offered his arm, and she took it only because refusing would cause a scene.

The chapel doors opened.

The interior was breathtaking all soaring ceilings and stained glass windows that painted colored light across white marble floors. Candles flickered on every surface. White roses and calla lilies adorned every pew. It should have been romantic.

It felt like a funeral.

The guests turned as one. Isabella recognized faces from the engagement party crime family patriarchs, their wives dripping in diamonds, younger men who were probably soldiers or capos. All of them complicit in a world built on blood and violence.

And at the altar, waiting with his hands clasped in front of him, stood Dante.

He wore a black tuxedo that fit him like it had been sewn onto his body. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his expression unreadable as always. But when his eyes locked on hers, something flickered there. Not warmth. But recognition. Acknowledgment.

We're both prisoners here, that look seemed to say. Both playing roles.

Isabella's steps felt too slow and too fast all at once. The music swelled. Her father's hand trembled on her arm. And with each step down that endless aisle, she felt Alessandro's switchblade pressing against her thigh where she'd strapped it beneath her gown.

One chance. That's all she'd need.

They reached the altar. Her father placed her hand in Dante's, and the contact sent an unwelcome jolt through her. His hand was warm, strong, and utterly steady.

The priest an elderly man with kind eyes who had no idea what this wedding really was—began speaking. Latin phrases, traditional vows, words about love and devotion that meant nothing here.

Isabella barely heard him. She was too focused on Dante, on the fact that she was close enough now. Close enough to hurt him the way he'd hurt her.

"Dante Salvatore," the priest intoned, "do you take Isabella Romano to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do you part?"

Dante's eyes never left hers. "I do."

Two words that sealed her fate.

"Isabella Romano, do you take Dante Salvatore to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do you part?"

Until death do us part.

How fitting.

"I do," she whispered.

"Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." The priest smiled. "You may kiss your bride."

Dante's hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing her cheek in a gesture that would look tender to anyone watching. But Isabella saw the warning in his eyes.

Remember your role.

He leaned in, and his lips met hers.

The kiss was nothing like she'd expected. Not brutal or possessive. Instead, it was controlled, measured—barely more than a brush of lips that somehow felt more intimate than it should. He tasted like mint and espresso and something darker she couldn't name.

When he pulled back, the guests erupted in applause.

Mrs. Dante Salvatore.

The name felt like a noose.

The reception was held in the mansion's ballroom, transformed into something from a fairy tale. Crystal chandeliers. A live orchestra. Tables laden with food that probably cost more than most people made in a year. Champagne flowed freely, and the guests laughed and danced as if this were a normal wedding.

As if Isabella hadn't just signed away her freedom.

She and Dante sat at the head table, playing their parts. He was attentive without being warm refilling her champagne, his hand occasionally finding hers for the benefit of watching eyes. To everyone else, they probably looked like a real couple.

But in the quiet moments between toasts and speeches, the silence between them was deafening.

"You haven't eaten," Dante observed, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat anyway. You look like you're going to faint."

"Concerned for my wellbeing?" The sarcasm was sharp. "How touching."

His jaw tightened. "I'm concerned about you collapsing during our first dance and making a scene."

"Then maybe you should have married someone who actually wanted to be here."

"Maybe." He took a drink of his whiskey. "But we don't always get what we want."

Before Isabella could respond, Marco appeared at their table, leaning heavily on his cane. His illness was more pronounced tonight his skin ashen, his movements careful.

"My son, my new daughter." He smiled, but there was something sad in his eyes. "You've made an old man very happy today."

"Papa, you should rest," Dante said, standing. "Dr. Russo said—"

"Dr. Russo can go to hell." Marco waved him off. "This is my son's wedding. I'll rest when I'm dead." He turned to Isabella. "Dance with me, cara. Before I no longer can."

It wasn't a request.

Dante looked like he wanted to protest, but Marco was already offering his arm. Isabella took it, letting the dying patriarch lead her to the dance floor as the orchestra began a slow waltz.

"You hate us," Marco said quietly as they swayed. It wasn't a question.

Isabella considered lying, then decided he'd see through it. "Yes."

"Good. You should." He maneuvered them across the floor with surprising grace for a sick man. "But perhaps not for the reasons you think."