My Husband Is a Mafia

Continuation 1

The Mansion of Shadows

The limousine purred to life as the church bells faded into the distance. Bella sat stiffly in the leather seat, her gloved hands folded tightly in her lap, her veil pushed back but her face still hidden by shadows. The city lights bled through the tinted windows, blurring into streaks of gold and white as the car sped toward the outskirts.

Beside her sat Damiano Moretti.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at her. One arm rested against the window, his profile sharp against the faint glow of passing streetlamps. He looked like a man carved from iron, silent but crushingly present. The air between them was thick, suffocating, every second dragging like a chain.

Bella’s throat ached with unsaid words. She wanted to scream, to demand why it had to be her, why her father had offered her up like cattle to slaughter. But her voice refused to surface. She had seen enough of Damiano Moretti to know: questions were dangerous.

Instead, she fixed her gaze on her reflection in the dark glass. The girl staring back at her looked foreign. Pale, tense, eyes wide with a fear she tried to hide. A bride dressed in lace and diamonds, but inside, she was nothing but a prisoner.

Minutes bled into silence until the car slowed, and Bella’s heart clenched. Through the windshield, she caught her first glimpse of the Moretti estate.

The mansion loomed like something out of legend massive iron gates swung open at their approach, revealing a driveway lined with black pines that clawed at the night sky. Beyond, a fortress of stone and shadow rose, its windows glowing faintly with golden light. It was beautiful, yes, but not in a way that invited warmth. It was the beauty of power, of wealth, of danger carefully concealed behind elegance.

The limousine came to a halt before the grand steps. Guards stood at attention, men in suits with earpieces and hard expressions. Their eyes followed Bella as she stepped out, Damiano’s hand at her back once more, firm and unrelenting.

The doors of the mansion swung open.

Inside, marble stretched beneath her heels, polished to mirror-like sheen. Chandeliers spilled golden light across hallways lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors Morettis long dead, yet still watching. The air smelled faintly of leather, tobacco, and the metallic trace of something darker, something Bella couldn’t name.

She paused in the vast foyer, overwhelmed. The silence in this house was heavy, as if every corner held secrets, as if the walls themselves whispered.

“This is your home now.”

Damiano’s voice snapped her back. He stood a step ahead, watching her with unreadable eyes. His words weren’t gentle. They were final.

Bella swallowed hard. “It feels like a museum.”

His lips curved faintly, though it wasn’t a smile. “A museum of survival, perhaps.”

He began walking again, and she had no choice but to follow. Their footsteps echoed through corridors so long they felt endless. Every door they passed was closed, every shadow stretched too far. Bella felt small here, swallowed whole by an empire that wasn’t hers, that would never be hers, no matter what the vows had said.

Finally, they reached a staircase, its banister carved from dark wood, curling like a serpent upward. Damiano ascended without pause, and Bella trailed behind, her gown heavy against the steps.

At the landing, he stopped before a set of double doors, pushing them open to reveal a bedroom vast enough to swallow her childhood home.

Bella’s breath caught.

The walls were draped in deep charcoal and gold, the bed massive with silk sheets the color of midnight. A fire crackled faintly in the marble hearth, its warmth chasing away none of the cold in her chest. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the grounds below, a sea of darkness beyond the glass.

She stepped inside, her heels sinking into the plush rug. For a moment, she felt dizzy, as though the room itself tilted around her. This wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a cage gilded in wealth.

Her veil slipped from her hair, falling silently to the floor. She didn’t reach for it.

Damiano entered behind her, closing the doors with a click that echoed far louder than it should have.

Bella’s pulse quickened. She turned, her voice low, fragile. “Do I have a choice in any of this?”

For the first time, he looked directly at her, his gaze pinning her in place. “No.”

The bluntness of it hit harder than a slap.

Damiano took a step closer. He was taller than she expected, broad-shouldered, his presence suffocating. Yet his movements weren’t rushed. They were deliberate, controlled, as if every gesture carried meaning.

“You were given to me,” he said quietly, “to secure peace. To protect your family. To strengthen mine. This isn’t a fairy tale, Isabella.”

Her lips parted. “Then what is it?”

His jaw tightened. “It’s survival.”

The words cut, cold and absolute. Bella’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Survival. That was all she had been reduced to. Not love. Not choice. Just survival in the hands of a man who held her life like glass in his palm.

Damiano’s gaze lingered on her face, and for a flicker just a flickershe thought she saw something behind the stone mask. Weariness, maybe. Pain. But it was gone in an instant, shuttered away like a secret.

“You’ll learn the rules soon enough,” he said. “Until then, keep your head down. And remember—your loyalty is no longer to your father. It is to me.”

Her chest heaved with silent rage, but she didn’t answer. She couldn’t. If she spoke, the truth might spill out—the truth that she already despised him, that she wanted nothing more than to tear the vows from her throat.

Damiano moved past her then, undoing his cufflinks, placing them neatly on the dresser. He shrugged off his jacket, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath. He moved with the calm assurance of a man who owned everything in this room, including her.

Bella stood rooted, her pulse a frantic drum. The fire crackled. Shadows danced. Her gown felt like chains around her ankles.

When Damiano finally turned back to her, his voice was quieter, but no less sharp.

“Rest, Bella. Tomorrow begins a different life.”

Then he slipped out onto the balcony, lighting a cigarette, the glow of the ember painting his face in orange. His silhouette was a carving against the night, a king in his fortress, untouchable and cold.

Bella lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, her hands trembling in her lap. The silence stretched, oppressive and heavy, until she thought it might crush her.

She had become Isabella Moretti.

But in that vast, silent room, she had never felt more alone.