Tied to The Mafia's Heir

My wedding dress is silk and sticking to my skin; it feels heavy with vows that I never wanted to give. The hotel-suite mirror unravels a woman I barely recognize — olive skin flushed with nerves; dark, loose hair; eyes big with something between defiance and dread. I’m Isabella Rossi, the last of the Rossi family, and the capital’s more famous mafiosa who has just agreed to marry the retired hitman, Luca Costello, to save my family from penury. The old fortress of the Rossi is falling apart now, a memory sapped of its vitality, chipped and bled out. Tonight, I am to unite, to hem up the rags of our heritage with a man for whom I feel nothing, but whom I detest tolerably. Luca is safe, reliable — a businessman with enough contacts to keep us afloat. Or so I thought. The suite is redolent of roses and champagne, the air heavy with the chatter of guests below. Elena, my sister, fiddles with my veil, her warm brown eyes troubled. “You’re beautiful, Bella,” she says, her voice a whisper. “You sure about this?” I give her a forced smile, my fingertips brushing the diamond choker encircling my throat—a Rossi heirloom, one of the only things we have left unsold. “It’s for the family,” I say, and the others taste like ash. Elena nods, but her lips purse. She knows I’m throwing myself under, just as I know she’d do the same for me. The Rossis are a bleed-for-one-another bunch, you know? The clock has ticked past midnight, and the reception is in full swing downstairs. I step out of the suite for air, my heels tapping on the marble corridor. The hotel’s opulence taunts me — crystal chandeliers, gold-trimmed walls, a world my family once ruled but no longer possesses. I’m halfway up onto the balcony and about to make a run for it when somebody grabs me, a hand covering my mouth, large and grippy. My scream is cut short as I’m jerked backward, the edges of my vision blurring with panic. I scratch at it with the arm, but it’s like punching steel. Then something pierces my neck, and everything goes black. I wake to the buzz of a car engine, my wrists tied with zip ties, the wedding dress tangled around my legs. Stillness aches through my skull, and leather and gun oil mix in my flaring nostrils. I am in the backseat of a slick SUV, city lights blur past the car’s tinted windows. Two men sit up ahead, saying nothing, their figures bulky and ominous. My heart pumps wildly, but I make myself breathe hard enough to control it. Panic won’t help me now. I’m a Rossi, damn it. We don’t break. “Where are you taking me?” My voice is rough but steady, the silence slicing through it. The driver squints at the passenger, who smiles and turns, revealing a scar running down his jaw like the scale of a snake. Neither answers. I pull on the zip ties, pressing plastic into my flesh. My mind is whirring — Luca, the wedding, the guests. Was this the cartel? A rival family? The Morettis, perhaps, the people who destroyed us years before, killing my parents and running our empire into the ground. The automobile decelerates, parking in a subterranean garage. The door swings open, and I’m yanked out, my feet slapping cold concrete. Scarface clutches at my arm, dragging me toward an elevator. Twisting, I aim a kick at his knee, but he sidesteps easily, his grip tightening. “Do not make this more difficult, princess,” he says, a low growl mixed with his accented voice. Italian, albeit like mine, but cooler. The elevator dings, and the black doors part to reveal a penthouse that oozes money — black marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, a city skyline sparkling in the distance. It’s a fortress, not a home. A man is in front of the windows with his back to me, and broad shoulders in a well-cut suit. His black hair is rumpled, he’s standing straight and strong. My stomach twists. I recognize that silhouette, that aura of command. I’ve seen it in nightmares. “Dante Moretti,” I spit, bitter venom in my voice. The descendent of the family that took out mine. The young man who at 20 watched as his father commanded the murder of my parents. Now in his 30s, he’s even more lethal, a whisper in the shadows of the criminal world. He looks back and I hold my breath. But handsome, piercing gray eyes pin me in place until there is nowhere else to go, no other way to look but right into them sharp enough to shred through my resolve. His face is full of hard angles — high cheek bones, a jaw line that would cut you, a barely discernible scar that starts on his left brow. He’s beautiful as a storm is, lethal and wild. “Isabella Rossi,” he says, silkily, whisky you gulp down on the rocks. “You look better in the flesh than in the surveillance photos.” I jump, and Scarface pulls me back. “Let me go, you bastard!” I snarl, my hands tied, and they are as good as useless. “What do you want?” Dante comes closer, his eyes scouring me up and down—gown, choker, the anger in my eyes. “You,” he says shortly, and my blood runs cold. “Or rather, your help. But first, a truth.” He nods at Scarface, who cuts my zip ties. I rub my wrists, scowling as Dante rests his back against the desk, casual but predatory. “Your groom, Luca? He’s been working for me. For years.” The words hit like a slap. “You’re a liar,” I hiss, but I can hear it tremble. Treachery from the Luca whose smiles come too easily, the man who gives the impression of stability? My stomach churns. Dante throws a tablet onto the desk, its screen full of pictures — Luca, shaking hands with Moretti enforcers, papers with their crest. “He sold your family’s secrets to us,” Dante says dully. “He was going to deliver you to me tonight, but I do like a more… direct approach.” I shake my head, disbelief battling fury. “Why should I trust you? Your family destroyed mine!” The light dies in his eyes, something flashing—guilt? —dancing across his face before its gone. “My family,” he says, “are not who you think. But we’ll get to that. Right now we have a common problem.” He leans in and his closeness feels claustrophobic. “The Salazar cartel. They’re coming for whatever’s left of yours and mine. I require your mind, your contacts, your fire, Isabella. Help me or we both lose everything.” I laugh, sharp and bitter. “You think I’d help you? After what you did?” He c***s his head to the side and looks at me as though I’m a puzzle. “You’re not a fool, Isabella. You know the cartel is a greater threat than ancient vendettas. Say no and I’ll see to it that the Rossi name is ash come morning. I clench my fists, nails digging into flesh. He’s right—I’m not a fool. The cartel’s been closing in, striking with ever greater boldness. My family is too brittle to stand alone in the fight. But trusting Dante Moretti? That’s a death wish. But his eyes meet mine, and there is something to it, beneath the brutality, a weakness, a chink in the armor, a flash of pain. It makes me uncomfortable, evokes something I won’t call up. “What’s in it for me?” I say, my voice strangely calm despite the tempest within. “Answers,” he says. “About your parents. For what really happened 10 years ago.” He leans in, his breath warm on my ear. “And maybe, just maybe, a chance to burn it all down and begin again.” My heart is pounding so hard that anger and curiosity coil around each other. Answers. Revenge. Power. Everything I have ever wanted since I was thirteen, while I watched my world crumble. Only, Dante’s a devil, and devils don’t offer gifts without a price. “Fine,” I say, my voice cold. “But if you double-cross me Moretti, I will rip your heart out in pieces.” He smirks, a predator’s grin. “I’d expect nothing less.” Scarface takes a step back, indicating to a seat as Dante motions to a chair. I sit, my dress puddling at my feet, a bride and a hostage and an ally in one night. The city sparkles beyond indifferent to the war in my blood. I am in Dante’s world now, and every decision I make might be my last. But I’m Isabella Rossi, and I don’t just survive—I fight back.