My Husband Is a Mafia

The Vows She Never Chose The church smelled of lilies and old incense, but to Isabella Romana, it might as well have reeked of betrayal. Her veil clung to her lips as she breathed unevenly, each step down the aisle an act of surrender. She could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes pressing on her family, allies, men with guns hidden beneath their tuxedos. They weren’t here for a love story; they were here to witness a contract sealed in silk and blood. Her father’s hand was heavy on her back, guiding her forward. His grip wasn’t tender. It was firm, a reminder: This is the path you walk, Isabella. Not for you for us. Bella’s chest tightened, but her face remained still, trained into the kind of practiced smile she had worn at every society function since childhood. She was Romana by blood born into wealth, raised in privilege, but groomed to be useful. She had always known her life would never truly belong to her. But she hadn’t known it would belong to him. At the end of the aisle stood Damiano Moretti. The world whispered his name like a curse. To the outside, he was a successful businessman, the untouchable head of an empire. But everyone in this church knew the truth. He wasn’t just the Don of the Moretti family he was its crown, its blade, its shadow. He looked impossibly composed, hands clasped in front of him, his black suit tailored so sharply it could cut. His dark hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face cheekbones carved like marble, a jaw that spoke of control. His eyes, black as onyx, fixed on her with unnerving calm. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. Bella’s throat went dry. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to turn around and flee before those doors shut forever. But her father’s hand pressed harder against her back, a silent threat cloaked as guidance. The organ swelled, echoing through the vaulted ceilings. Bella’s dress whispered against the polished floor as she finally reached the altar. Damiano extended his hand. Her pulse thundered. She stared at it, at the long fingers, the faint scars, the raw strength beneath his skin. A hand that had signed contracts and pulled triggers. A hand that could destroy her. “Isabella,” her father murmured behind her, low enough that only she heard. It wasn’t encouragement. It was a command. Her body obeyed before her mind could. She placed her trembling fingers into Damiano’s. His grip tightened instantly, firm, unyielding. Not cruel, but not gentle either. It was the grip of possession, of ownership. She was his now no matter what her heart wanted, no matter what her soul screamed. The priest began to speak, but the words blurred into a meaningless drone. Bella’s gaze remained locked on Damiano’s profile, searching for something anything beyond the mask he wore. But his face was carved in stone, unreadable, detached, as though this entire ceremony were an inconvenience he tolerated. Her vows were placed on her lips like ashes. I do. She barely recognized her own voice as it echoed in the silent church. When it was Damiano’s turn, he said the words with chilling steadiness. “I do.” No hesitation. No tremor. Just absolute finality. The priest pronounced them husband and wife. Applause rippled through the pews, hollow and orchestrated. Bella’s hands shook inside her gloves, and she forced them still before anyone could see. Then Damiano turned to her. He lowered his head, brushing his lips against hers. It was not a kiss. It was a seal. A claim. His mouth was cold, his touch commanding, and when he pulled back, the weight of what had just happened crushed her lungs. The church bells rang, loud and triumphant, but to Bella they tolled like funeral chimes. She glanced once at her father in the front pew. He was clapping, smiling, nodding to allies as if this union were a grand victory. He didn’t see her as a daughter now. Only as a shield, a bargaining chip, a means to strengthen the Romana name. Damiano’s hand settled at the small of her back, urging her to face the guests. She stiffened at the heat of his palm through the delicate fabric of her gown. He leaned closer, his lips near her ear, his voice a low murmur only she could hear. “Smile, Bella.” It wasn’t a suggestion. So she did. She forced her lips into a curve as they descended the altar together, side by side, their steps in unison. To the world, they were perfection beauty and power, angel and devil bound in holy matrimony. To Bella, every step was another nail in her coffin. As they exited the church, photographers snapped their union, immortalizing the lie. Damiano kept his hand at her waist, steady and unrelenting. She could feel the strength in his touch, the control in his stride. He wasn’t just guiding her. He was dragging her into his world, and there was no return. The crowd outside roared with cheers. Confetti rained like snow. Bella lifted her chin, her face flawless beneath her veil, but inside, she felt the walls of her life collapse. For the first time, she dared to look up at Damiano. He didn’t glance at her. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, sharp and calculating, as if she weren’t a bride but a weapon added to his arsenal. And Isabella Romana knew then, as the cameras flashed and the bells rang, that her marriage wasn’t a beginning. It was the end.