Crimson Vows

**Isabelle Romano had sworn she would never go back.** Not to New York. Not to the family. And certainly not to the life that bled her childhood dry. But here she was, standing at the edge of the Moretti estate, a fortress of glass and stone towering over the Hudson like a beast waiting to devour her. Her heels clicked against the marble as two men in black suits led her inside. Neither spoke. Neither needed to. Their silence was a language she understood well—obedience, fear, and the unspoken rule: *Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.* The house reeked of power. Clean lines, cold lighting, no trace of warmth. Like its owner. Dominic Moretti. The name alone made her skin crawl. He was the last person she expected to see again—let alone be *married* to. But then again, in the mafia, marriage wasn't a union. It was a contract. A blood price. Her father had called her two nights ago. His voice was rasping, old, distant—full of the guilt of a man who had given up everything, including his daughter, to stay alive. > “It’s the only way to avoid war,” he had said. > “You’ll be saving lives, Isabelle.” But Isabelle knew better. He wasn’t asking for her help. He was offering her up. A pawn to be moved across a blood-soaked chessboard. --- Dominic stood at the far end of the grand hall, flanked by his consigliere and younger brother, Luca. He was dressed in black, as always—no tie, just an open collar that gave him a deceptively relaxed air. His gray eyes found her instantly. They were colder than she remembered. “Isabelle,” he said, voice smooth, unreadable. “Dominic.” She kept her spine straight, her expression blank. “Didn’t think you’d come to greet your bride personally.” A smirk ghosted his lips. “I’m not a man who leaves important things to chance.” **Important things.** As if she were a delivery to inspect. She clenched her fists but said nothing. He stepped forward slowly, his gaze never wavering. She hated how he could make the air feel heavier with just his presence. “I’m sorry it had to be like this,” he said quietly. “No, you’re not.” “You’re right,” he admitted without flinching. “But I *am* sorry your father didn’t give you a choice.” The words landed like stones. Because in some twisted way, they mirrored her own thoughts. Her father had always made choices *for* her. And now, once again, she was the price he was willing to pay to save his crumbling empire. “You look... different,” Dominic said, his voice softer now. “I left this world. People change when they leave hell.” His jaw tightened. She saw the flicker of something in his eyes—anger? Regret? It was gone too quickly to be sure. --- The wedding was set for three days later. Not in a church. Not in some romantic villa in Italy. But in the Moretti gardens—private, secure, and surrounded by armed men. Because love wasn’t invited. But enemies? They’d always find a way. --- That night, Isabelle sat alone in the guest wing of the estate. Her room was palatial, too clean, too perfect. A gilded cage. She stared at the diamond ring in its velvet box on the table. It wasn’t hers yet, but its presence loomed like a noose. A knock came. She turned, expecting a maid or Luca. But it was Dominic. He leaned against the doorframe like he owned it. Like he owned *everything*. “I thought we should talk,” he said. She didn’t move. “There’s nothing to say.” “There’s everything to say. But I’ll settle for five minutes.” She considered slamming the door in his face. But curiosity—it was a wicked thing. She stepped aside. He walked in like he had every right to be there. “Why me?” she asked as he sat down on the edge of the chair. “There are other daughters. Why drag me back from a life I actually chose?” He looked at her for a long moment. “Because I need someone who knows this world but doesn’t want to rule it.” She blinked. That was not the answer she expected. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Because I don’t want a queen who plays games. I want someone who challenges me. You always did.” She almost laughed. “So this is what, a compliment wrapped in a prison sentence?” “It’s survival. For both of us.” They stared at each other, the tension stretched tight between them. She broke first. “I hate you,” she whispered. He nodded. “I can live with that.” And the worst part was—she believed him. --- As Dominic left, she sank onto the bed. He was wrong about one thing. This wasn’t survival. This was war. And she wasn’t going to lose it. Not again