THE DON'S UNWANTED BRIDE

The first time Isabella Moretti met Alessandro De Luca, she spilled red wine on his black suit and told him he looked like a man who had never heard the word sorry.‎‎She would later discover that insulting the most feared man in the room was the least dangerous decision she made that night.‎‎The ballroom glittered beneath crystal chandeliers. Wealthy businessmen exchanged polite smiles while women in elegant gowns displayed their expensive jewelry.‎‎Isabella hated these events. Everyone pretended their marriages were happy, their businesses honest, and their families free of secrets.‎‎“Smile, darling,” her aunt Sofia whispered. “People are watching.”‎‎“Then they should find a more interesting hobby.”‎‎“Isabella, you look as though you're planning a murder.”‎‎Isabella forced a smile. “Better?”‎‎“Marginally.”‎‎Before Isabella could reply, the orchestra fell quiet.‎‎A man had entered the ballroom.‎‎He wore a tailored black suit, a white shirt, and no tie. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his expression was so calm that everyone around him seemed nervous.‎‎“Who is that?” Isabella asked.‎‎Her aunt's smile vanished.‎‎“Alessandro De Luca.”‎‎“Should I know him?”‎‎“Not knowing him is a blessing. If he speaks to you, be polite. Whatever you do, don't argue with him.”‎‎Isabella glanced at the stranger. “Now I definitely want to argue with him.”‎‎“Please don't.”‎‎Unfortunately, fate had other plans.‎‎A waiter stepped backward into Isabella's path. She turned, her elbow struck her glass, and red wine splashed across a stranger's black suit.‎‎Silence fell.‎‎Isabella looked up into the cold eyes of Alessandro De Luca.‎‎“Are you always this careless?” he asked.‎‎“Only around men who stand in the middle of walkways.”‎‎Someone nearby gasped.‎‎“Do you know who I am?” he asked.‎‎“Should I?”‎‎His expression barely changed, but everyone seemed to be waiting for something terrible to happen.‎‎“I apologize for the wine,” Isabella said. “But I won't apologize for your location.”‎‎He studied her before letting out a brief, unexpected laugh.‎‎“What's your name?”‎‎“Isabella Moretti.”‎‎His amusement disappeared.‎‎“Moretti,” he repeated, glancing toward an older man watching them anxiously.‎‎“Is there a problem?” she asked.‎‎“Enjoy your evening, Miss Moretti.”‎‎He walked away without another word.‎‎Isabella couldn't shake the feeling that he hadn't been surprised by the wine. He'd been surprised by her surname.‎‎As though he knew it.‎‎As though he'd been waiting to hear it.‎‎“Isabella,” her aunt said urgently. “We're leaving. Now.”‎‎For once, Isabella didn't argue.‎‎During the drive home, rain blurred the city lights outside the windows.‎‎“Why did Alessandro react that way when I told him my name?” Isabella asked.‎‎“I don't know.”‎‎“You're a terrible liar. Did he know my father?”‎‎Her aunt went pale.‎‎“Your father worked with people who weren't always what they appeared to be.”‎‎“He owned a shipping company.”‎‎“Yes, and some of his associates were dangerous.”‎‎“Was Alessandro one of them?”‎‎Sofia closed her eyes. “I should never have brought you to that gala.”‎‎“That isn't an answer.”‎‎“No,” her aunt whispered. “It isn't.”‎‎At home, Isabella hurried to her bedroom, furious at all the secrets surrounding her father's death three years earlier.‎‎Then she noticed an envelope beneath her door.‎‎Her name was written on it in handwriting she recognized immediately.‎‎Her father's.‎‎With trembling fingers, she opened it.‎‎My dearest Isabella,‎‎If you are reading this, someone has finally decided you're old enough to know the truth.‎‎There are things about my life I should have told you before it was too late. I cannot change that now.‎‎But remember this: if Alessandro De Luca ever comes looking for you, do not trust everything he tells you.‎‎And whatever happens, do not let him discover what I left behind.‎‎Forgive me, my darling.‎‎Papa.‎‎Isabella read the letter three times.‎‎Her father had known Alessandro. Worse, he'd anticipated that Alessandro might come looking for her.‎‎Then she discovered a hidden pocket inside the envelope. It contained a brass key and a photograph of her father standing beside a younger Alessandro outside an old stone building.‎‎On the back, her father's handwriting revealed five chilling words:‎‎THE NIGHT EVERYTHING WAS TAKEN.‎‎Her phone vibrated.‎‎An unknown number.‎‎You received the letter.‎‎Another message followed.‎‎We need to talk, Isabella.‎‎Then came the final instruction.‎‎Tomorrow. Nine o'clock. Come alone.‎‎There was no signature.‎‎There didn't need to be.‎‎Isabella stared at the photograph, her heart pounding.‎of‎For the first time that night, she was genuinely afraid.‎‎Not because Alessandro De Luca wanted to see her.‎‎But because some part of her already knew she was going to go.