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Chapter 2: The Rules Of Ownership

The ring was cold.

Isabella stared at the platinum band on her finger as the Moretti mansion swallowed her whole. Marble floors, black chandeliers, silence so thick it pressed against her ribs. Twenty million dollars of debt, and this was her cell.

“Your room,” Donatello said. His voice was low, controlled, the kind of calm that came before a storm. “Top floor. East wing. You don’t leave without me.”

She hugged her arms around herself. The black dress he’d forced her into last night clung like a second skin. “Prisoners get rooms too.”

His eyes flicked to her. Dark, sharp, missing nothing. “You’re not a prisoner, Isabella. You’re my wife.”

The word hit her harder than the gun he’d placed on the table yesterday. Wife. Like saying it would make the chains prettier.

He stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell him — cedar, leather, something dangerous underneath. “Three rules. I already told you two. Never lie. Never run. The third is this: never forget who owns you.”

His finger brushed her jaw, lifting her chin. Not rough. Possessive. Like he was reminding her she belonged to him now, every inch, every breath.

Her heart hammered. She wanted to slap his hand away. She wanted to beg him to touch her again. That terrified her more than the debt.

“I’m not yours,” she whispered.

“You signed the contract,” he murmured. His thumb grazed her bottom lip. “In blood, Isabella. In ink. In front of witnesses. You’re mine until death, or until the debt is paid. And we both know you’ll never pay it.”

She pulled back. “Then what happens now, Donatello? You drag me to bed and call it consummation? That’s what mafia husbands do, right?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. A warning. “Don’t use that word with me unless you mean it.”

“Mean what?”

“Consummation.” He said it like a threat. Like a promise. “Because if you say it again, I will make sure you never forget what it means to be Mrs. Moretti.”

Isabella swallowed. Her legs felt weak. She hated how her body reacted to him — the heat crawling up her neck, the way her pulse betrayed her every time he looked at her like she was prey.

“I want to see my father’s files,” she said instead. Desperation made her bold. “I want to know why he owed you twenty million. What did he do?”

Donatello’s expression went blank. The mask dropped over his face, cold and unreadable. “You don’t ask questions about Moretti business. Rule number four.”

“You didn’t say there was a fourth rule.”

“I’m making one now.” He turned toward the door. “Dinner is at eight. You’ll wear red. Not black. Not white. Red. You’ll sit at my right. You’ll smile when my men look at you. And you’ll never, ever, speak to another man in my house.”

She followed him, fury boiling under her skin. “And if I don’t?”

He stopped. Didn’t turn around. “Then I’ll remind you why my men fear me. And why you should too.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded like a lock.

---

Eight o’clock came too fast.

Isabella stood in front of the mirror, staring at the red dress his staff had laid out. Silk. Backless. It dipped low, exposed too much skin, screamed possession without saying a word. She wanted to burn it.

She wore it anyway.

The dining room was massive. Long table, silver candelabras, men in suits lining the walls like statues. Donatello sat at the head, black suit, no tie, sleeves rolled up like he’d just come from handling blood instead of business.

His eyes locked on her the second she entered.

Every man in the room looked down. Every man except him.

“Come,” he said.

She walked. Heels clicking against marble. The dress felt like armor and a target at the same time.

He pulled out the chair to his right. When she sat, his hand brushed her bare back. Just for a second. Just long enough to make her shiver.

“Good girl,” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.

Dinner was silent. Wine poured. Meat cut. No one spoke unless he did. Isabella picked at her food, hyper-aware of his presence beside her — the heat of him, the way his thigh pressed against hers under the table.

When dessert came, he finally spoke. “The contract is signed. But a marriage isn’t real until it’s consummated.”

Isabella’s fork clattered against her plate.

The men around the table suddenly found the walls very interesting.

Donatello didn’t look at them. He looked at her. “Tonight. My room. Midnight.”

“No,” she said before she could stop herself.

His hand covered hers on the table. His grip was firm, warm, immovable. “You don’t get to say no, Isabella. Not to this. Not to me. You chose the ring over prison. That choice comes with a price.”

She met his eyes. Defiance burned in her chest. “I chose survival. Not you.”

“Same thing,” he said softly. Dangerously. “Because I am your survival now.”

He stood, dropping a kiss on the top of her head like she was something precious and breakable. The gesture was more intimate than any threat.

“Midnight,” he repeated. Then he walked away, leaving her with the taste of wine and the weight of his ring burning on her finger.

Upstairs, Isabella locked her bedroom door. It wouldn’t hold him out. They both knew that. She pressed her back against the wood and slid down to the floor, knees to her chest.

Marriage of convenience. That’s what she told herself. A business deal. A transaction.

But when the clock struck eleven-thirty, she was still staring at the red dress. And she was still wondering if she was more afraid of him touching her… or of wanting it.

Because Donatello Moretti didn’t just want her body. He wanted her surrender.

And the worst part? A small, traitorous part of her was starting to want to give it.

Midnight was coming.