THE MAFIA KING RELUCTANT BRIDE

The night my father died, a stranger came to our house and asked for my hand in marriage. I wish I could say that was the strangest thing that happened that evening. It wasn't. My father's coffin hadn't even reached the cemetery when I received a message from an unknown number. Enjoy your freedom while you still can, Isabella Laurent. I stared at my phone, my fingers trembling. Whoever had sent the message knew my name. More frighteningly, they knew my father was dead. I looked around the mansion. Relatives filled the sitting room, speaking in hushed voices while waiters carried untouched refreshments between them. Everyone appeared to be mourning. Everyone except me. I couldn't cry. Not because I didn't love my father, but because something about his death felt wrong. Three days earlier, he had kissed my forehead before leaving for a business meeting. He'd promised to return in time for dinner. He never came home. The police said his car had crashed on a deserted road outside the city. They called it an accident, offered their condolences, and returned his belongings in a sealed bag. But my father had been a careful man. He never drove without his security team, never traveled without informing someone of his destination, and never ignored my calls. Yet that night, his security team had disappeared, his phone had been switched off, and nobody could explain why he had been alone. I had spent three days asking questions. Nobody had given me an answer. "Isabella?" Mrs. Bennett, our housekeeper, approached me. "You should eat something." "I'm not hungry." "You haven't eaten all day." "And my father hasn't been dead for three days by choice." Her expression softened. "Oh, sweetheart." "Please don't." I hated the pity in people's eyes. I hated their whispered condolences and their promises that everything would eventually be fine. Nothing would be fine. My father was dead, and I had a horrible feeling that someone had made certain of it. Before Mrs. Bennett could respond, the front doors opened. Two men entered. They wore black suits and carried themselves with the confidence of people accustomed to being obeyed. The conversations in the room gradually stopped. One of them approached me. "Miss Laurent?" "Yes?" "Mr. Vescari wishes to speak with you." The name meant nothing to me. "Who is Mr. Vescari?" The man exchanged a glance with his companion. Then he answered. "Dante Vescari." Even if I had never heard his name before, I would have understood from their expressions that it was not a name to take lightly. "Tell him I'm busy." "I'm afraid he won't accept that answer." I lifted my chin. "Then he can learn to accept disappointment." For the first time, the man looked surprised. Before he could reply, a voice came from the doorway. "Interesting." I turned. And forgot, for one brief second, what I had intended to say. The man standing there was tall, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, with dark hair and an expression that revealed absolutely nothing. He wasn't smiling. He didn't need to. Something about his presence made the room feel smaller. His gaze settled on me. "Isabella Laurent." "Who wants to know?" One of his men shifted uncomfortably. Dante merely studied me. "Your father and I had unfinished business." "My father is dead." "I'm aware." "Then whatever business you had with him is no longer my concern." He took a slow step forward. "Unfortunately, your father made certain that it became your concern." I stared at him. "What does that mean?" Instead of answering, he removed a folded document from his jacket and placed it on the table beside me. "Read it." I didn't touch it. "You can explain what it is." "A contract." "For what?" His eyes met mine. "Our marriage." For a moment, I genuinely believed I had misunderstood him. Then I laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "You've got to be joking." "I rarely joke." "You walked into my father's house on the day of his funeral and announced that you're going to marry me?" "I said we're going to marry. I haven't announced anything." I stared at him, appalled by his composure. "My father has been dead for three days. I don't know who you are, and I certainly don't intend to marry you." Dante's expression remained unchanged. "Your father signed an agreement with my family twenty years ago. If either family faced destruction, the surviving heirs would unite through marriage." "That's absurd." "Perhaps you should read the document before deciding." I snatched it from the table. The agreement was old, its pages yellowed around the edges. Two signatures appeared at the bottom. My father's. And a name I didn't recognize. Vittorio Vescari. Dante's father, presumably. I looked up. "Why would my father agree to this?" "That is one of the questions I intend to answer." "You expect me to believe that you know nothing about the agreement?" "I know what was written. I don't know why your father believed it necessary." I studied him, searching for the slightest indication that he was lying. I found nothing. That frightened me more than if he had threatened me. "Why me?" I asked. For the first time, something shifted in his expression. "Because your father left something behind that both our families need." "What?" "If I knew, Isabella, we wouldn't be having this conversation." I folded the document. "Then find it yourself." "I intend to." "Good. You can leave now." Dante looked at me for several seconds. Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Your father was murdered." My blood turned cold. "What?" "The police may call it an accident. You may want to believe them. But somebody wanted him dead." I struggled to breathe. "How do you know?" "Because whoever killed him is now looking for you." He straightened and glanced toward the window. A black car was parked across the street. Its engine was running. I hadn't noticed it before. "Who is that?" I whispered. Dante's expression hardened. "Someone who shouldn't be here." He turned to his men. "Get her away from the windows." Before I could protest, a loud crack shattered the silence. The window beside us splintered. Someone screamed. Dante grabbed my arm and pulled me behind the marble pillar as his men rushed toward the entrance. I pressed a hand over my mouth, my heart hammering. "What was that?" "Stay down." Another crack sounded outside. Then silence. Dante released my arm only when one of his men returned. "Sir, the car is gone." "Find it." The man hurried away. I stared at Dante. "Someone just attacked my house." "Yes." "And you knew they were here?" "No. But I suspected someone was watching." I pulled away from him. "Why didn't you tell me?" "Would you have believed me?" I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. He studied my face, and for the first time, his expression seemed almost human. "I'm not asking you to trust me," he said. "I'm asking you to understand that your father's death has put you in danger." "And marrying you will somehow solve that?" "It will give me a legitimate reason to protect you." "How convenient." His jaw tightened. "You have every right to hate me, Isabella. But don't mistake my intentions. I didn't kill your father." "How do I know that?" "You don't." His answer silenced me. Then he stepped back and adjusted his jacket. "You have forty-eight hours to decide whether you'll accept the marriage agreement." "And if I refuse?" "I won't force you to marry me." I blinked. He continued. "But I won't stop investigating your father's death, and I won't pretend the danger disappears simply because you refuse my name." He turned toward the door. "Dante." He stopped. I hated that I had called him. I hated even more that I needed answers from him. "What did my father leave behind?" Dante looked over his shoulder. "Something powerful enough to make two families enemies." Then he walked out. I remained beside the pillar, staring at the shattered window. My father was dead. Someone wanted me dead. And the man who had just offered to marry me might be the only person who knew why. My phone vibrated. Another message. He will never tell you what happened to your mother. I read it twice. My mother had died when I was fourteen. A car accident, according to my father. I looked toward the door through which Dante had disappeared. For the first time, I wondered whether the two accidents that had shaped my life were connected. Then another message appeared. Ask Dante Vescari what happened on October 14, 2006. I dropped the phone onto the table. That was the date my mother died. And suddenly, I knew one thing with absolute certainty. I would discover the truth about my father's death. I would discover what Dante Vescari wanted from me. And if the man who had just demanded my hand in marriage was connected to my mother's death, I would make him regret ever stepping into my house. Even if I had to marry him to do it.