Chapter 3 — Shackled Vows

Bella

The chapel was suffocating.

Vaulted ceilings arched high above, gilded moldings and frescoes of saints gazing down in eternal judgment. Their painted eyes seemed to follow me, condemning my every step. Rows of flickering candelabras cast a warm, golden glow that failed to reach the cold marble beneath my feet. The air was thick with the cloying scent of roses—hundreds of them—arranged in ostentatious bouquets along the aisle. Their crimson blooms were too vibrant, mocking the sterility of the ivory marble and the hollow ritual unfolding within these walls.

The guests sat in hushed anticipation, a sea of tailored suits and glittering gowns. Whispers filled the air, slicing sharper than the candlelight, darting between me and the man waiting at the altar.

Adrian DeLuca.

He stood motionless, a statue carved from stone. His broad shoulders filled out the sharp lines of his black suit, his silver tie catching the light with an almost metallic gleam. He exuded control, every inch of him composed, impenetrable. Even from this distance, his piercing blue-gray eyes tracked my every step, hawk-like and unyielding.

My father’s arm was a vice around mine, his grip unrelenting as he guided me down the aisle. I refused to look at him. Stefano Moretti, the man who had bartered my freedom to settle his debts. The man whose betrayal had led me here. His voice was low, a snake’s hiss against my ear.

“Smile, Bella. You’re saving this family.”

The words were a dagger, twisting sharply between my ribs. I bit back the retort burning on my tongue, letting silence be my rebellion. Let him think I was obedient. Let them all think it.

The whispers grew louder as we approached the altar. I knew what they were saying: Poor Isabella Moretti, the sacrificial lamb. Traded away to the DeLuca empire like nothing more than a bargaining chip.

But they wouldn’t see me break. My chin lifted, my spine straightened, and with every step, I forced my expression into something unreadable, something that mirrored Adrian’s stony façade. I would meet their pity with defiance.

When we reached the altar, my father released my arm. The absence of his grip left me feeling untethered, unmoored. For a fleeting moment, I stood alone. Adrian’s eyes narrowed slightly as they met mine. It wasn’t disdain, nor was it sympathy. It was a challenge, one that sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

The priest began to speak, his voice sonorous and heavy, each word sinking into the air like lead.

“We gather here today to witness the union of Isabella Moretti and Adrian DeLuca, a bond uniting two families, two legacies, in trust and loyalty…”

Trust and loyalty. The irony was bitter enough to choke on.

My heart pounded as the ceremony continued, each word pressing down on me like an iron weight. Around us, the guests watched with rapt attention, their faces masks of feigned joy or veiled envy. I caught a glimpse of Marco near the back, his lips pressed into a thin line. His presence was a small comfort, though his silence stung more than I wanted to admit.

“Do you, Isabella Moretti, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

The question rang out, reverberating in the cavernous space. My breath hitched, my pulse roaring in my ears. The room seemed to hold its breath, every eye trained on me. My fingers curled tightly around the bouquet in my hands, the thorns of the roses pressing into my palm through the silk ribbon. Pain steadied me.

Adrian’s gaze remained steady, unwavering. His face was unreadable, but the tension between us was electric, a live wire humming just beneath the surface. I swallowed hard, the word catching in my throat before I forced it out.

“Yes,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

The priest turned to Adrian. “And do you, Adrian DeLuca, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” he said, his deep, resonant voice slicing through the silence like a blade.

The vows were spoken, the rings exchanged. The delicate band of platinum on my finger felt heavier than it should have, its presence alien and unwelcome. When Adrian’s hand brushed mine, his touch was cool, deliberate. I fought the instinct to pull away, my defiance simmering just beneath the surface.

“You may kiss the bride,” the priest intoned.

Adrian stepped closer, the space between us shrinking. His hand rose to cup my face, his touch surprisingly gentle. His eyes softened for the briefest moment, searching mine, as if seeking something neither of us could name. Then his lips brushed against mine, light and fleeting—a gesture that felt more like sealing a contract than beginning a marriage.

Polite applause rippled through the chapel, brittle and insincere.

Adrian’s hand rested at the small of my back as he guided me down the aisle. His touch was firm, possessive—a silent reminder of what I’d become.

The reception was held in the grand ballroom of the DeLuca Estate, its opulence as cold and daunting as its owner. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen stars, their fractured light spilling across polished marble floors. Gilded mirrors reflected the muted grandeur of the room, while waiters in crisp uniforms drifted among the guests with trays of champagne.

I stood near the edge of the ballroom, feigning interest in a conversation with a woman in a sequined dress. She prattled on about her latest art acquisition, her words a meaningless hum against the backdrop of string quartet music. My gaze wandered, cataloging the room, the people, the alliances and rivalries swirling beneath the surface.

From across the room, Adrian stood among a group of men whose presence radiated power and menace. He leaned slightly against a marble pillar, his posture deceptively relaxed, though his sharp gaze missed nothing.

As if sensing my attention, his eyes flicked to mine, locking me in place. The air between us seemed to thrum, an invisible tether pulling taut. His expression didn’t change, but there was something in his gaze that made my cheeks burn.

“Your husband seems quite... commanding,” the woman beside me said, her tone a mix of envy and curiosity.

I forced a smile, taking a slow sip of champagne. “Commanding is one word for it.”

She chuckled, oblivious to the edge in my voice.

Later that night, I found myself in the master bedroom, standing by the window. The gardens stretched out below, their hedges casting jagged shadows in the moonlight. The room itself was grand and imposing, its dark mahogany furniture and silk drapes exuding a heavy, stifling luxury. My fingers instinctively found the Caravaggio Pendant around my neck, tracing its edges.

The door opened behind me, and I stiffened. Adrian’s footsteps were deliberate, measured. He stopped a few feet away, his presence a tangible weight in the room.

“It’s late,” he said quietly, his voice low and even.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I replied, my gaze fixed on our reflections in the glass.

For a moment, silence stretched between us, the air thick with unspoken words.

“That pendant,” he said finally, his eyes dropping to the locket resting against my collarbone. “Caravaggio, isn’t it?”

I turned slightly, surprised. “Yes. ‘Judith Beheading Holofernes.’”

“A fitting choice,” he murmured, his lips curving into a faint, humorless smile.

My brow furrowed. “How so?”

“Light and dark,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Beauty and brutality. It suits you.”

The words hung in the air, their weight unsettling. I couldn’t decide if they were a compliment or a warning.

“Goodnight, Isabella,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unexpected warmth as he turned and left the room.

I touched the pendant, tracing its edges with my thumb. Beauty and brutality. Light and dark.

Perhaps Adrian DeLuca understood more about me than I cared to admit.