Chapter2
1077 Words
Three days had passed since the bloodbath at the Vittorio family party.
Inside St. Patrick’s Cathedral, unspoken threats filled the air as armed Vittorio and Russo men, in their black suits, hiding weapons underneath, lined the aisles.
The pews weren’t filled. Only trusted capons and family elders were present.
This wasn’t a typical wedding celebration; it was a war council sealed in holy vows.
Isabella, in her white, elegant lace and silk, off-shoulder fitted gown that hugged her curves, the train dragging behind her like a ghost.
Her wavy hair was graciously pinned in loose waves, a veil covering her eyes, tired from the sleepless nights from grieving her father and brother.
She didn’t hold a bouquet; her hand folded into a fist beside her, to stabilize how shaky she was as she walked the long aisle alone.
At the altar, Romano Russo looked so perfect in his black tuxedo, which hugged his muscular structure.
His green eyes focused on her as she walked towards him, unreadable yet intense, his tattoos visible where clothes couldn’t cover.
The perfect predator — handsome, dangerous, untouchable. His nickname, The Ghost, was given to him for the silent way he eliminated threats.
And now, he is going to be her husband.
The priest, an old family ally with anxious hands, read their rites to them quickly. They exchanged their vows, promising to love each other and to be faithful.
Isabellas was barely heard when she said, “I do.” Romano’s was firm, deeper, which made shivers run down her spine.
He lifts her veil, brushing her cheeks with his fingers. For a moment, both eyes locked fully. He pressed his lips to hers in a brief, compulsory wedding couple kiss.
Controlled. Still, in the little moment, heat sparked before he pulled away.
No one clapped. Only the movement of the armed guards as the couple moved to sign the register was heard.
The reception follows in a heavily protected Midtown hotel ballroom.
Every table had a crystal chandelier shining over it, each table full of Italian feasts, yet the joy and laughter felt forced, toasts monitored by security.
Isabella barely made it through the mandatory couple first dance, Romano firm on her waist, guiding her with effortless strength.
“This… changes absolutely nothing,” she murmured, her chin on his shoulder. “I don’t want you. I don’t trust you.”
His grip got a little tighter. “Good. You have to earn trust, princess. And wanting… that’s something we can avoid.”
She feels his warm breath against her ear, his clean masculine scent taking over her senses.
Their bodies close in as they slow dance. Isabella felt the heat seep through his broad chest. She hated how she heard his heartbeat.
Romano leaned forward, “You know your father’s dying wish. We ally to crush the cartels. Play your part, Isabella. Or more blood will be shed – yours too,” Romano said in a low voice.
She pulled herself away, her amber eyes burning as she stared him right in his eyes. “Don’t threaten me, Russo. Don’t think of me as some fragile doll.”
“I never thought you were. That’s why you are dangerous,” he said with a smirk on his lips.
As the dance ended, toasts were raised to their union. Elders gave their warnings about unity and vengeance.
Isabella, across the ballroom, drank champagne to feel less pain, furiously watching Romano as he discussed with his men.
He walked with grace, and his aura of commanding respect effortlessly surged through the room.
The reception ended by nightfall. Isabella and Romano were escorted to the Vittorio fortress, where they now call home, by a convoy of armored SUVs.
The ride home was silent, tension blooming between them.
The door opened to a grand luxury; modern art hung on the walls, marble floors, and a side of the living room floor-to-ceiling large windows that framed the beautiful view of the skyline.
In the master suite, a king-sized bed is covered in silk.
Isabella took off her heels and walked to the doorway of the bedroom.
She paused, turned to face. “Separate rooms. This is a marriage only on paper.”
Romano undoes his tie, lifting off his jacket, to reveal the holstered gun underneath.
While undressing, Isabella sees the tattoos all over his arms – phoenix, skulls, symbols of loss and rebirth.
“That’s not how this is going to work. We share everything now. A bed included.” He said firmly.
She raised her chin, daring. “Try forcing me, and you’ll regret it.”
He walked closer, shadowing over her, his green eyes deepened. “I don’t force women, Isabella. But stop lying to yourself that you don’t want me.”
He lifts his hands to her lips, his thumbs brushing her lower lip, and sparks fly all over her.
“Hate me all you want, princess. But we are bound now.”
She slapped his hands away, her heart beating fast. “Get out.”
Instead, he backed her against the wall, his body inches from hers. Heat coming from him, aroused, pressing his d**k against her thigh.
“You are mine tonight,” he growled, his voice deep, with control. “Consummate the alliance. Or watch it fall apart before it even begins.”
With anger and unwanted desire burning inside her, she pushed his chest. “You are a monster.”
“And you’re fire,” he murmured, his breath hot on her neck. “Burn me if you must.”
The air felt stiff.
She gave little thought to it for a brief moment, giving in to the temptation in front of her.
But grief won this round. “Not tonight,” she whispered, her voice breaking almost to tears. “Not like this.”
He felt something at the moment. Regret? Respect? He stepped back and gave a nod.
“Fine. But know that this truce is only for a short while.”
He turned, walking towards the bath. Isabella sank onto the bed, her gown flowing around her, gazing at the city lights.
She thought of how she would live in the prison she now calls life, how long she could resist the Ghost, and if giving in might be the end of her.
Meanwhile, outside, in the dead of the night, eyes watched the building. The cartel wasn’t finished. And neither was fate.
- Writer
