THE DEVIL'S RESTRAINT

Only One Way To Protect You.

That same night, the world Isabella had known ended in a single sentence.

She sat in her father’s study, her hands folded tightly on her lap, while the older men spoke around her as if she were already gone.

Rain lashed the tall windows. The fire in the hearth did nothing to warm the room.

“They will not stop,” her father said, his voice rough. “The Conti family has already made two attempts. The third will not be a warning.”

Isabella’s mother stood rigid beside the desk, her face already pale. Her older sister, Giulia, kept glancing at the door as though expecting armed men to walk through it at any moment.

And across the room, leaning against the wall like he owned the air itself, was Dante Moretti.

He had not removed his coat. Black wool, rain still darkening the shoulders. He watched Isabella with an intensity that made her pulse stutter, yet his expression remained unreadable.

“The alliance is the only solution that keeps her breathing,” Dante said. His voice was quiet, almost bored, but every man in the room straightened when he spoke. “You know it. I know it. The Conti know it. That is why they are circling.”

Isabella’s father dragged a hand down his face. “She is nineteen.”

“I am aware.”

“She has never even—”

“I am aware of that as well.” Dante’s gaze flicked to Isabella for the briefest second, then away. “The marriage will be legal by morning. She will be under my protection by nightfall. After that, anyone who touches her dies. Slowly. Unless you have a better way.”

The final word landed like a blade.

Isabella’s mother made a small, broken sound. Giulia reached for Isabella’s hand and squeezed hard.

Isabella found her voice for the first time. It came out softer than she intended. “Do I get a say?”

Every head turned.

Dante pushed off the wall and crossed the room in three unhurried steps. He stopped in front of her chair, close enough that she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes.

Up close, the silver scar above his left eyebrow looked sharper. His presence filled the space between them until it was difficult to breathe.

“No,” he said simply. “You do not.”

Something in her chest twisted, it was not fear exactly, but the sudden, dizzying understanding that her life no longer belonged to her.

He continued, his voice lower, and meant only for her. “Your father has already agreed. The papers will be prepared by morning. You will marry me tonight in a private ceremony.”

Isabella’s fingers curled into the fabric of her dress. “But why you?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw at the question. For a moment she thought he might actually answer with the truth. Instead, he said, “Do you have a better choice in mind?”

The question made Isabella speechless. She pursed her lips and said nothing else.

Because she had no one else in mind. And from the look on Dante's face, he was giving her no other choice.

The next morning came in a blur. Preparations were made in a flash.

The ceremony took place in the small chapel on the Rossi estate under heavy guard. No guests. No celebration. Only the priest, her parents, Giulia, and six of Dante’s men stood silent in the shadows.

Isabella wore the cream dress she had worn the night they met, there had been no time for anything else. Dante stood beside her in the same black suit, expression carved from stone.

When the priest asked if he would take her as his wife, Dante’s answer was a single, flat word.

“Yes.”

When it was her turn, Isabella’s voice shook only once.

“Yes.”

The ring he slid onto her finger was heavy, platinum, simple, and far too permanent. His hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist as if testing the beat of her pulse.

Afterward, her mother held her very tightly and whispered, “Be careful, my love. He is not a gentle man.”

Isabella did not know how to answer.

The drive to the Moretti villa on the lake took forty minutes through rain and darkness. Dante sat beside her in the back of the armored car, silent, staring out the window. Isabella kept her hands folded in her lap, the new ring cold against her skin.

She tried once. “Are you angry with me?”

He turned his head slowly. “Why would I be angry?”

“Because you had to marry me.”

A humorless breath left him. “I did not have to do anything.”

The words settled between them, heavier than the silence that followed.

When the car finally passed through massive iron gates and stopped beneath a covered entrance, Dante stepped out first. He opened her door himself and offered his hand. Isabella hesitated only a second before taking it. His palm was warm, calloused, and carefully steady as he helped her down.

The villa rose around them like something out of a darker fairy tale, stone and glass and shadows, every window lit from within. Armed men stood at discreet intervals. None of them looked directly at her.

Inside, the entrance hall was vast and quiet. Marble floors. A sweeping staircase. The air smelled faintly of cedar and rain.

Dante released her hand the moment they were through the doors.

“Your rooms are on the second floor,” he said. “The third door on the right, clothes have been arranged. A woman named Marta will attend you if you need anything. You will not leave this house without me or one of my men. You will not open windows facing the ground after dark. You will not speak to anyone I have not cleared.”

Isabella stood very still in the center of the hall, rain-damp hair clinging to her neck. “Am I a prisoner?”

Dante looked at her for a long moment. Something unreadable moved behind his eyes.

“You are my wife right now,” he said. “That is more dangerous than being a prisoner.”

Those words carried exactly the amount of threat that made Isabella coil back.

He turned toward a different corridor, already dismissing her.

Isabella’s voice stopped him. “Uncle Dante.”

He paused but did not face her, yet his jaw tightened in a way that was clearly visible to her.

“Can I at least visit my sister?”

Silence stretched tightly between them.

Then, very quietly, he answered without turning around.

“You can, only when I'm aware.”

He walked away, footsteps echoing until they disappeared into the deeper parts of the house.

Isabella stood alone in the vast entrance hall of the Devil’s home, the weight of a new ring on her finger and the knowledge that the safest place in the underworld was also the most dangerous thing that had ever happened to her.

Upstairs, in the rooms that now belonged to her, the bed was large and cold.

And somewhere in the same house, Dante Moretti sat in the dark with a glass of whiskey he still did not drink, staring at the rain, and fighting the first real battle of his life.

The one against himself.