Chapter 1 — The Announcement

Bella

The Moretti Family Villa exuded a kind of tarnished elegance, its terracotta walls glowing faintly in the amber light of the setting sun. The once-pristine mosaic tiles beneath my feet bore cracks that spiderwebbed outward, whispering of a legacy fraying at the edges. Lavender oil, ever-present and cloying, hung in the air, failing to mask the faint, musty scent of old wood and time. Inside, the dining room felt more like a mausoleum than a place of comfort, its gilded mirrors reflecting a dim opulence that had long since lost its luster. The chandelier overhead scattered fractured light across the heavy drapes and polished mahogany table, casting jagged shadows that seemed to leer at us.

I sat stiffly, my fingers absently tracing the fine linen napkin on my lap. The scent of truffle risotto and roasted lamb wafted from the table, rich and indulgent, yet utterly unappetizing in the tense atmosphere. My father, Stefano Moretti, sat at the head of the table, his posture as unyielding as the familial expectations he wielded like a weapon. His dark eyes carried a weight that made the air feel heavy, though his carefully groomed mustache twitched ever so slightly—a tell he failed to suppress. My mother, Patrizia, radiated her usual cold precision from his right, her piercing green eyes sweeping the room as though cataloging weaknesses. Marco, my younger brother, sat to my left, his boyish charm dimmed by the weight of something unsaid. His hands fidgeted in his lap, a rare crack in his usually calm demeanor.

Dinner at the villa was often a performance, but tonight the silence between us was brittle, stretched taut like a thread ready to snap. The only sounds were the faint clink of silverware against porcelain and the occasional creak of the chair as Marco shifted uncomfortably. My father’s summons to this dinner had carried an air of gravity, and the strained smiles from Patrizia when I arrived only sharpened my unease. Marco’s silence, normally filled with light chatter and harmless jokes, was perhaps the most telling of all. Something was coming, and it was going to be bad.

Stefano cleared his throat, the sound sharp and deliberate, slicing through the tension like a blade. “Isabella,” he began, his use of my full name as foreboding as the silence that followed. “There is a matter of great importance we need to discuss.”

I carefully set my fork down, folding my hands in my lap to mask the way they trembled. “I assumed as much,” I said evenly, though my pulse quickened. “Given the theatrics of this dinner.”

Patrizia’s lips tightened, but Stefano raised a hand to forestall her inevitable reprimand. “The Moretti family is at a crossroads,” he said, his tone deliberate, yet tinged with something I might have called desperation if I didn’t know better. “Our legacy is hanging by a thread.”

I arched a brow, leaning back slightly. “And this is news to me how?”

His jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as his hand gripped the edge of the table. “I’ve made a decision to secure our future. A marriage has been arranged.”

The words landed like a physical blow, sharp and disorienting. For a moment, my mind refused to process them. “A marriage?” I repeated, my voice rising despite myself. “Whose marriage?”

Stefano’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yours.”

The chandelier above seemed to fracture, its light splintering into sharp, kaleidoscopic shards. I laughed, a short, incredulous burst of sound. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am,” Stefano replied, his voice unyielding. “The arrangement has been finalized. You will marry Adrian DeLuca.”

The name froze the breath in my lungs. Adrian DeLuca. His reputation was as chilling as it was pervasive—a man who ruled the city’s underworld with ruthless efficiency. Even in my sheltered world of art galleries and academia, whispers of his name had reached me. Each one painted him as a figure of calculated brutality, a man who inspired fear as easily as breathing. My stomach churned, bile rising as the enormity of my father’s words sank in.

“You’ve lost your mind,” I said, my voice trembling with fury and something darker—fear. “You’re trading me like a pawn in one of your schemes?”

“This isn’t a scheme,” Stefano shot back, his tone hard as steel. “It’s survival. The Moretti name has been dragged through the mud, and our debts—”

“Don’t you dare,” I interrupted, my voice cutting through his like a scalpel. “Don’t you dare justify this as some noble sacrifice for the family. You’re selling me off to cover your failures.”

“Enough!” Patrizia’s voice rang out, cold and commanding. “This is not up for debate, Isabella. The arrangement is necessary.”

I turned to her, my hazel eyes blazing. “Necessary? For whom? Certainly not for me.”

“For all of us,” she replied, her voice icy and unyielding. “Adrian DeLuca has agreed to clear Stefano’s debts and ensure the family’s safety. This is the only path forward.”

“Safety?” I echoed, my tone dripping with venomous sarcasm. “You think I’ll be safe with a man like him?”

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Patrizia’s expression—regret, perhaps, or fear—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “You will do what is expected of you,” she said, her fingers tightening around her napkin. “This family has sacrificed to give you the life you’ve enjoyed. Now it’s your turn to sacrifice for us.”

The words struck like a whip, leaving an ache radiating from my chest. “Sacrifice,” I repeated, my voice cracking. “You call this independence? Forcing me into a marriage with a man who—”

“Bella.” Marco’s voice cut through the rising storm, soft yet insistent. I turned to him, my anger faltering at the look in his eyes—pleading, apologetic, and helpless. “Please. Just listen.”

I shook my head, my defiance reigniting. “No, Marco. I will not listen to this. I will not be bartered away like some—some artifact.”

Stefano rose then, his movements deliberate, his shadow stretching across the table. “This is not a request, Isabella. It is a decision. The wedding will take place in two weeks.”

The words knocked the air from my lungs. For a moment, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Then, with a sharp scrape of wood against marble, I pushed back my chair and stood. “No,” I said, my voice trembling but resolute. “You can’t make me do this.”

Stefano’s gaze, cold and unyielding, locked onto mine. “You will do this, or you will no longer be a part of this family.”

The ultimatum hung in the air, suffocating and absolute. Without another word, I turned and stormed out, the echo of my heels on the marble floor chasing me through the villa’s dimly lit hallways. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of my family’s expectations pressing down until I thought I might collapse beneath it.

The cool night air struck me as I stepped into the garden, the scent of roses clinging to me like a second skin. I sank onto a stone bench, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. My fingers found the Caravaggio Pendant around my neck, its familiar weight grounding me. A gift from my grandmother, it had always been a symbol of defiance, a reminder of the independence I had fought so hard to claim. And now, that independence was being torn from me.

Footsteps approached, hesitant and soft. I didn’t need to look up to know it was Marco. He lowered himself onto the bench beside me, his silence a balm and an accusation all at once. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice heavy with guilt.

I laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“I begged him to reconsider,” Marco said, his words rushing out in a rare display of urgency. “But he wouldn’t even hear me out. He’s convinced this is the only way.”

I turned to him, searching his face. “Do you believe that? Do you think I should just go along with this?”

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “But I do know that fighting him won’t change anything. He’s already decided.”

I looked away, my hands curling into fists. “Then I’ll fight someone else. Adrian DeLuca. If he thinks I’ll be an obedient little wife, he’s in for a rude awakening.”

A faint, sad smile tugged at Marco’s lips. “I don’t doubt that. Just... be careful, Bella. Adrian DeLuca isn’t someone to underestimate.”

I met his gaze, my resolve solidifying like tempered steel. “Neither am I.”

The wind stirred the roses, their petals trembling as if in anticipation. Somewhere beyond the garden walls, the city lights glittered against the night sky—a promise of freedom and a warning of the storm to come.