The Romano Bride

Chapter 3

ISABELLA

The name hit me like a blade.

Adrian Salvatore.

My breath caught. My chest tightened. The boy I had loved, the boy who had promised me forever, the boy who vanished — Adrian Costa — wasn’t Costa at all. He was Salvatore. He was the heir. He was the lie.

I stared at him, the room tilting. He wasn’t the faceless heir anymore. He was the boy who had kissed me under the bleachers, who had promised to meet me at the train yard, who had disappeared without a word.

And now he was the man my father demanded I marry.

Adrian’s eyes met mine. Steady. Unreadable.

“Isabella,” he said, his voice the same and yet not the same.

He held out his hand.

I looked at it, then at Sophia, then at my father. My palm pressed against his, skin to skin, a contract inked without paper. His grip was firm. Not possessive. Not gentle. A measured pressure that said he knew the value of restraint.

My knees threatened to give way. My father’s ultimatum echoed in my head: If you refuse, Sophia will marry instead.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the glass across the table. I wanted to demand why he lied, why he hid, why he let me believe he was just Adrian Costa.

Instead, I forced my voice to stay calm. “Adrian,” I whispered, the name tasting like betrayal.

His jaw tightened. “Adrian Salvatore.”

The envoy smiled like this was all perfectly normal. “The union between the Romano and Salvatore families will secure peace.”

Peace. The word was a joke.

My father extended a hand toward the heir, a gesture devoid of affection but with all the weight of survival. “Welcome.”

We crossed the threshold into the room that would stage our performance. Sophia’s fingers brushed mine — a whisper of contact — and I held onto it, a talisman against what came next.

The dining room glowed with chandeliers, every crystal catching the light like it wanted to blind me. My father had chosen this stage carefully — polished wood, silver cutlery, wine poured into glasses that cost more than most people’s rent. It wasn’t dinner. It was theater.

I sat at the long table, Sophia beside me, her fingers curled tight around mine under the linen. Antonio leaned back in his chair, restless, guilt shadowing his face. My mother was poised, perfect, unreadable. My father was the conductor, waiting for the music to begin.

Now Adrian Salvatore sat across from me, every inch the Don — tailored suit, commanding presence, the kind of man who could silence a room with a glance.

I hated him. I loved him. I hated that I loved him.

Dinner began with courses that arrived like choreography: chilled soup poured from silver, fish that flaked under the weight of a fork, lamb crowned with rosemary. I chewed without tasting. My mind spun, memories crashing into the present: Adrian laughing at my stubbornness. Adrian promising me forever. Adrian vanishing. The cold train yard. A pair of kind strangers.

Sophia squeezed my hand under the table, her eyes wide with fear. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know the boy behind the name. She only saw the Don, the man who could destroy her life if I faltered.

The envoy filled the quiet with details. “In light of recent… pressures, the Salvatores propose a consolidation of interests. Mutual protection. Shared territory lines reviewed quarterly. Debt structures retired upon the formalization of the engagement.”

He said it like weather, like rain you accept, like a storm you cannot change. My father let him talk until the air felt thin, then lifted his hand and the man fell silent.

Vittorio rose.

He never rushed when he spoke. Time bent around him. He placed his fingertips lightly on the table, as if feeling the pulse of the wood, and let the room lean in.

“Old houses survive,” he began, his voice even, iron wrapped in velvet. “Not because they are loved, but because they understand what love cannot do. Love does not stop a bullet. Love does not balance columns. Love does not silence men who smell opportunity when they see weakness.”

He paused, let that sink in, and his gaze drifted like a searchlight: from Antonio to me, to Adrian, to the envoy, back to my mother, lingering at Sophia, then returning to the center where power lived.

“The Romanos are a house,” he continued. “We have stood in this city since a time when names were carved into walls with knives. The Salvatores are a house. They have weathered storms that would have sunk lesser men. Today, we understand a simple truth: houses do not survive by isolation. They survive by choosing wisely when to open their doors.”

He lifted his glass. No one moved. Even the staff paused at the threshold.

“Antonio’s misjudgments,” he said, and Antonio flinched, “created a temptation for men who would like to see us fall. Temptation breeds courage in fools. It breeds hunger in enemies. We will not feed them.”

A measured exhale slid through the guests. My mother’s eyes lowered; Sophia’s shoulders tightened.

“The terms,” my father said, and the envoy straightened as if called to the front of a classroom. “Are simple. The Romano debt is retired — fully, immediately — upon formal engagement. Territories remain as marked for one year. After that, we renegotiate in good faith. Security teams share intelligence; operations cross‑train to reduce vulnerabilities. We hold joint feasts twice yearly,” he added, the old ritual dressed up as diplomacy, “so that children of both houses see faces and not targets.”

He faced me, then Adrian. “Isabella weds Adrian. And peace stands.”

A wordless hush rolled through the room. I felt Sophia’s pulse tap against my wrist like a trapped bird.

Adrian did not speak. He watched my father, then me, and set his glass down with deliberate care.

The envoy cleared his throat. “The Don accepts.”

No one said my acceptance was needed. In this world, the performance required my presence, not my voice. I kept my spine straight and my mouth shut, because my silence was the price paid so Sophia would never be asked to speak here. I swallowed the old anger and tasted iron.

“Mr. Salvatore,” my father said, finally turning to Adrian, “you will find the Romanos honor what they sign. We expect the same.”

Adrian’s gaze flicked to Vittorio’s hand on the table — the way he placed it, the way he controlled the space — and then returned to his face. “You will,” he said.

My father nodded, a fraction, the movement of a planet acknowledging another’s gravity. “Then we proceed.”

Glasses lifted. Crystal chimed. I raised mine because ritual has a muscle memory, and mine was never allowed to atrophy. The wine slid down like burned sugar.

To peace, my father had said. To survival, the room understood. To Sophia, I whispered to myself, silently, a separate toast only I allowed to exist.