32

The gun on the table wasn’t for show. I learned that at 8 years old, watching my father sign it away — our name, our protection, our lives — to the Moretti family. Now, 15 years later, the debt came due. And the price was me. The Moretti estate smelled like old money, leather, and gun oil. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, but the light didn’t reach the corners. Shadows lived here. Men like Donatello Moretti lived here. He didn’t look like a monster. That was the problem. He looked like sin wrapped in a 3-piece charcoal suit. Black hair cut sharp, jawline carved by a blade, eyes the color of a Lagos storm before the first drop falls. He owned half the ports and all the secrets. People whispered his name like a prayer and a curse. “You’re late, Isabella,” he said without looking up. His voice was low, rough, like gravel dragged over silk. “Your father’s time ran out at midnight.” “My father’s dead,” I shot back, chin up even though my knees threatened to buckle. “You can’t collect a debt from a grave.” Now he looked at me. And I remembered why men crossed themselves when they said his name. Donatello stood. Six-foot-two of controlled violence. He circled the mahogany table slowly, predator studying prey. He stopped behind my chair. I didn’t turn. I wouldn’t give him that. “I don’t collect from graves, cara mia,” he murmured against my ear. His breath was warm, his cologne expensive and cold. “I collect from bloodlines. Your father borrowed 20 million dollars from my family. He paid with interest for 15 years. Now the principal is due.” “I don’t have it.” “I know.” His hand rested on the back of my chair, fingers inches from my shoulder. Possession without touch. “So I offer two choices. Choice one: I hand you to the EFCC with all the evidence linking your father’s ‘shipping company’ to my arms trade. You get 25 years. Choice two: You marry me. Today. Your father’s debts become mine. You become mine.” The word hit me like a slap. Marriage. To him. To the man who’d put a bullet in my uncle’s knee for being 2 days late on a payment. I should’ve laughed. Should’ve told him to rot. But the Morettis didn’t bluff. And prison would kill me slower than he would. I closed my eyes. “Marriage.” Silence. Then his fingers finally touched me, tilting my chin until I had to meet his gaze. “Good girl. From this moment, you wear my ring, you carry my name, you sleep in my bed. You obey three rules. One: You never lie to me. Two: You never leave this estate without my men. Three: You never forget who owns you.” “Your name isn’t ownership,” I whispered. His smile was slow, cruel, beautiful. “No. But my ring is. My bed is. My protection is.” He slid a black velvet box across the table. Inside, a diamond the size of my thumbnail sat in platinum. Cold and heavy as chains. “Put it on.” My hands shook as I took it. The metal bit into my skin like it knew it belonged there. “Better,” he said, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles. His lips were soft. His grip wasn’t. “Tonight we consummate the contract. Not because I need to. Because I want the world to know Isabella Romano belongs to Donatello Moretti now. No man will touch what’s mine.” My stomach twisted. Hate boiled under my skin. But so did something else — heat, traitorous and dark, curling low when his thumb brushed my pulse. That night, the estate was quiet. Too quiet. His bedroom was all black and grey, like the man himself. No windows. Only one door. One way in, one way out. “You can fight me,” he said, shrugging off his jacket. “Scream. Cry. It won’t change the contract you signed. But I don’t like broken things, Isabella. I like fire.” I backed toward the bed. “I’m not yours.” “Check your hand.” He unbuttoned his cuffs, watching me like I was the most interesting war he’d ever fight. “That ring says otherwise.” I hated that he was right. I hated that when he pulled me against his chest, his heartbeat was steady while mine shattered. I hated that his kiss tasted like whiskey and control, and that my body answered before my mind could stop it. This wasn’t love. In his world, love was a knife. Possession dressed as devotion. He didn’t want my heart. He wanted my surrender. And God help me, as his hands slid under my dress and his mouth found my throat, I wasn’t sure which scared me more: that I’d give it to him… or that I’d want to. Because in the Moretti world, there were no good men. Only men who burned, and women who learned to love the fire. I was already smelling smoke.