Bella’s POV

I woke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. Rosa slipped in carrying a garment bag over one arm and a silver tray of cosmetics in the other.

The smell of fresh espresso and warm cornetti followed her, but my stomach still turned.

“Buongiorno, mija,” she whispered, eyes soft with pity. “Your father says you must be ready for breakfast. He sent these.”

She laid three dresses across my bed: blood-red silk, emerald satin, black lace. All tight. All expensive. All screaming trophy.

“Prepare?” I sat up, heart already racing. “Why, what’s going on?”

Rosa doesn’t meet my eyes. She laid the dresses on the bed, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. “You’ll wear this red one. It brings out your eyes.” She said.

“Rosa,” I whispered. “Tell me what’s going on.”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head, busying herself with the dresses. “Just let me make you beautiful, dearest. At the end of the day… I still answer to your father.”

I wanted to argue, but the look in her eyes stopped me. She was scared for me.

So I let her.

I let her run the bath with rose oil. Let her wash my hair like I was a doll. Let her paint my lips the colour of fresh blood, line my eyes sharp enough to cut.

The red silk dress clung to every curve; the neckline hung low, the slit climbed high. Black stilettos that could double as weapons. Diamond studs in my ears that probably cost more than I could imagine.

When she was done, I didn’t recognise the woman in the mirror. I looked like the perfect puppet bride.

I felt like an animal headed to an auction.

Rosa kissed my forehead, her eyes glassy. “Be strong, my sweet.”

Then she left me at the top of the grand staircase.

I heard them before I saw them.

My father’s low, commanding tone.

My brother’s quieter voice, he spoke like he didn’t want to be a part of the conversation.

And a third voice, oily, amused, dripping with Naples accent.

I reached the dining room doorway and every hair on my body stood up.

Matteo Moretti rose from his chair like a snake uncoiling.

Thirty-two years old and dressed like money and violence had a baby: midnight-blue suit, no tie, his top was three buttons open to reveal a thick gold chain and the Virgin Mary tattooed over his heart.

More ink crawled up his throat — roses, daggers, a snake eating its own tail. His dark hair was slicked back, diamond stud flashing in one ear, Rolex the size of a fist. Rings on every finger. He smelled like wood and cigarettes and something chemical that made my nose burn.

“Good morning, Isabella,” my father said, not even looking at me. “Allow me to introduce Matteo Moretti. Matteo, my daughter.”

“So the Mendoza Princess returns.” He laughed.

Matteo’s black eyes dragged down my body…slow enough to feel like hands.

“So this is the woman I’m going to marry.” His voice was so smooth yet rocky. He stepped closer, lifted my chin with two fingers.

“Teeth.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Show me your teeth.” He repeated.

My father’s stare turned lethal. He looked at me like he would kill me if I didn’t listen.

I parted my lips. Slowly opened my mouth.

He tilted my head side to side, inspecting me like I was a horse at market.

“Hmm. Straight. Good.”

He circled me, one hand trailing across my shoulders, down the curve of my spine, stopping just above my ass. I felt him checking off his mental list — hips, waist, breasts, like he was already deciding how many sons I’d give him.

When he came back to face me, his thumb brushed my cheekbone.

“Bellissima,” he murmured, almost tender.

Then, louder, to my father — “She’s a virgin, you said?”

“Pure as the day she was born,” Alejandro replied, pride thick in his voice. “The pride of the Mendoza line.”

Matteo’s smile made my skin crawl. “Wonderful. Alejandro, a private word?”

My father nodded. “Rafael, please continue breakfast with your sister.”

The second the door closed behind them, I flew to my brother.

“Rafael—” My voice cracked. “You can’t let him do this. Please. You know what Matteo is. You’ve heard the stories—”

He caught my wrists, grip gentle but firm. “Bella, lower your voice.”

“I won’t marry that monster!” I hissed, tears burning. “He looked at me like I’m a puppet on sale! He’ll break me, Raf. He’ll—”

“Shh.” He pulled me into the hallway, away from listening ears. “I hate this too. But Dad’s in deep. Enemies are moving on half of our ports. If this alliance doesn’t happen, we lose everything. Maybe our lives.”

I stared at him, chest heaving. “So I’m the sacrifice?”

Rafael’s jaw clenched. “I’m trying to find another way. Maybe talk him out of this or call Mom.”

“Call Mom? But Dad said Mom already knew about this.” I snapped.

“I find that hard to believe,” Rafael murmured. “Just… buy me time. Behave. Don’t give him a reason to hurt you early.”

Early?

The word made me want to throw up.

He cupped my face, eyes fierce. “One month until the wedding. I will fix this. Trust me.”

I wanted to believe him.

But the way Matteo had smiled at me—like he already owned every inch of my skin—told me time was something I didn’t have.

I nodded once, throat tight.

Rafael kissed my forehead and walked away.

I stood alone in the marble corridor, red dress clinging like blood I couldn’t wash off.”

“I can’t do this,” I whispered, the words cracking in my chest.

I turned and bolted up the staircase, down the hall, slamming my bedroom door shut behind me. My shaky hands fumbled with my phone.

I dialled my mother’s number, It rang once. Twice.

Then failed.

Over and over.

And that’s when the truth finally hit me — I was alone.

No mother.

No freedom.

No exit.

Just as my breathing started to spiral, I heard it.

“BELLA.”

Then a pause.

“BELLA.”

My father’s voice rolled through the walls like a storm.

I shot upright, wiping the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. The door flew open—hard, fast. But this time… he didn’t look angry.

He looked relieved.

“What is it, Dad?” I asked, sitting straighter. Something in my stomach twisted. “What do you want now?”

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I just had a discussion with Matteo. And we… came to a conclusion.”

My heart dropped.

“What conclusion?”

“He can’t wait one month,” my father said flatly. “You’re getting married in ten days.”

Bella’s POV

I lay on my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, feeling the weight of my father’s words crush me over and over again.

Ten days.

Ten fucking days to become Matteo Moretti’s property.

Ten days to lose my freedom, my future, my name.

He kept acting like this was normal—like selling me to a man half my age, a man everyone feared, was just another business deal. As if I were nothing more than a bargaining chip with a pulse.

I didn’t love Matteo.

Hell, I didn’t even like him. He made my skin crawl.

And yet somehow… I was supposed to smile at an altar while he claimed every inch of me.

Tears slipped down my temples, disappearing into the silk of the pillows. I curled onto my side, clutching my phone.

Maybe I should have stayed in Chicago.

I could have figured things out. Started over. I could’ve healed, grown, rebuilt myself.

I almost let myself imagine what life could’ve been— but the moment Micah’s name crossed my mind, I shut that door fast.

No.

Never again.

I’d burn before going back to him.

Still, anything would’ve been better than this.

Jumping from a frying pan into a damn inferno.

A loud knock interrupted my thoughts, dragging me back into my godforsaken reality.

“What now?” I snapped, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice.

“Miss Bella?” a maid stepped inside. “Madame Mendoza just arrived.”

My breath hitched.

“Madame as in… my mother?”

The maid nodded once, then disappeared down the hallway.

I shot upright, joy exploding through my chest so fast it made me dizzy.

Mom.

If anyone could stop this nightmare, it was her. She always protected me. She always knew what to do.

I practically flew down the staircase, my heart pounding with a hope I hadn’t felt in weeks.

I heard her before I saw her.

“It feels so good to be home,” she said with a tired laugh. “I didn’t sleep on the flight. I couldn’t wait to see Isabella.”

My father began to say something, but my voice cut through the room, soft and breaking.

“Mom.”

She turned immediately.

Her eyes lit up like sunrise. “Miele.” She said in Italian.

I didn’t walk—I ran. Straight into her arms like I was a little girl again. She smelled like jasmine and long flights and the comfort I’d been starved of.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” she breathed against my hair. “I can’t believe it. I thought your father was joking when he said you had come home.”

“No, Mom. I’m really here,” I sniffed. “I’m here.”

Her smile softened. “Then everything is okay now. I have missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.” I smiled, pulling her back in. My chest tightened. “Mom, do you know what Dad is planning—”

“Bella,” my father snapped sharply.

I flinched. He never used that tone around her.

Then, as if realising he’d slipped, his voice softened almost immediately. “Bianca needs to rest. She had a long trip.”

I turned to him. His eyes were dark and tight—like if I said one more word, he’d break something.

My mother cupped my cheek. “I promise. After I rest, we’ll talk all you want, honey.”

But something in her voice…

Something in her smile…Felt wrong.

She walked away with my father beside her, the two of them disappearing into the corridor.

For a moment, I stood there alone, the joy slowly draining out of me like water through a crack.

I needed to talk to her, at least before he did.

She was the only one who should help me now.

**********

Later that evening, I passed by my father’s office—hoping, stupidly, desperately, to beg him one last time.

That’s when I heard them. My mother’s voice, low and tight.

“Is that Moretti I saw leaving as I came in?”

My father cleared his throat. “Yes. We needed to finalise some things.”

“And do any of those ‘things’ involve Bella?” My mother asked.

Silence settled between them.

Then my mother’s sharp gasp as if realizing. “We talked about this and I said NO!”

A smile creeped on my lips after hearing her say that but it quickly vanished when my father spoke.

“I know. But you saw the threats Bianca.” My father paused. “Romano isn’t joking, he will come after us.”

“Alejandro… she’s only twenty-two.” My mother said, almost begging.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You know how serious this is. If the wedding doesn’t happen, we’re all dead.”

“So why is Bella being punished?” her voice cracked. “She isn’t the one who crossed Romano. You did.”

My father inhaled sharply. “You think I like this? You think I enjoy selling my daughter off to Moretti? But we have no choice, Bianca. With this marriage… We’ll finally be protected.”

“I do not like this, not at all.” She sneered.

“I know, but it’s our only choice.” My father’s voice went soft.

My mother said nothing. I heard her sink onto the couch—the sound of someone collapsing under a weight too heavy to carry.

A single sob escaped her—barely audible.

“I’m sorry, my love,” my father whispered, kissing her head. “But this is how it has to be.”

Something inside me snapped, my mother had given up too.

I stumbled backwards, accidentally bumping a glass vase on the side table. It crashed to the floor, exploding into glittering shards.

Both their heads whipped toward the doorway.

I froze in my steps.

My eyes went wide. My breathing turned sharp.

My mother stood up instantly. “Bella—”

I didn’t wait to hear anything. I ran.

I heard my mother shout after me.

“Bella!”

And then my father’s voice, calm and cold:

“Let her go. She needs some space.”

*********

My throat tightened as I wandered through the gardens of my home.

Home? Very soon I wouldn’t even be here anymore.

I wondered what my life would be like if I had never left home. Maybe father would still have some atom of care for me.

Maybe my mother would still have the energy to fight for me. And Rafael? Raf doesn’t even seem to know where to start.

I sat on a swing bench and scrolled through my contacts until I reached the one name that felt like home.

Lucia.

My friend since I was twelve. The one who always knew how to fix things—or at least help me survive them.

I hit call, praying that she would pick up. Praying she hadn’t changed too much. Praying she’d still care. I hadn’t spoken to her since I left Italy.

The phone rang twice and then—

“Belly!” she shrieked, her voice bright enough to punch a hole in my misery. “Oh my God, is this real? Am I hallucinating? Did an angel finally bless me?”

Her background music was something classical and soft — piano, violins — elegant and soothing. The kind of sound you only heard in Lucia’s world.

I tried to force a laugh, but it came out thin.

“No hallucinations. It’s me.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “We haven’t spoken in— God, I don’t even know how long. Where are you? You sound…” She drifted off for a moment. “Belly, you sound like someone stomped on your soul.”

“I’m home,” I whispered.

“What do you mean by home?” She asked.

“I’m back in Venice.”

Silence filled the air between us.

Then a scream so loud I had to pull the phone from my ear.

“THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER RETURNS?!” Lucia hollered. “Belly, shut up. You’re lying. No, you’re not lying — OH MY GOD. We have to meet. Immediately. Right now. I’m already doing my makeup in my head.”

I stood up from the bench, nerves scraping my ribs. “I don’t know, Lucia.”

“Don’t do that,” she cut in sharply. “Don’t get shy on me. What happened? Who hurt you? Do I need to stab someone?”

“It’s… complicated.” I said tired.

“Complicated how? You know what?” she snapped. “Don’t answer that. Pick out something cute. I’m coming to get you. We’re going out tonight.”

“Are you sure?” My voice came out small, unsure, almost childlike. “My father probably has the house guarded now with all his stupid plans—“

“Belly,” she said, tone softening. “You need me. And I’ve missed you like crazy. I don’t care if I have to dig a tunnel under your father’s house — we’re getting you out.”

I exhaled, my shoulders sinking with something like relief. “Okay.”

“Good,” she said. “Chin up, we’re going all out tonight.”

Bella’s POV

I stood at my bedroom window for what felt like hours, watching the dark driveway like a prisoner waiting for parole.

I’d chosen the most modest thing I could find: a long red silk dress that covered everything, I twisted my hair into a sleek bun, and the diamonds in my ears screamed “Mendoza heiress.”

I looked safe, respectable. The version of me my father wanted the world to see.

My phone buzzed on my bed.

Lucia: “Headlights off, back gate. NOW.”

I grabbed a dark coat, slipped out of my heels, and ran barefoot down the stairs like the way I used to when I was a teenager. The lights were dim and I could barely see anything.

I was two steps from the door when a voice froze me solid.

“Isabella.”

I turned slowly.

My father stood in the shadows of the hallway, cigar glowing in the dark.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going out,” I said, chin high. “I can still go out, can’t I, Dad?”

He took a slow drag, studying me. “That depends. People do stupid things when they’re unhappy.”

I laughed, sharp and bitter. “And what do you think I’ll do now—run away?”

“You already tried that once, remember? Look where it got you, it’ll be stupid of you to do it again.” He growled.

I said nothing, I simply shook my head.

He stepped closer. “I know you’re angry about the wedding—”

“You’re damn right, I’m angry,” I yelled. “I come back and I get nothing from you. No welcome. No how are you? Nothing. Instead, I’m slammed into a marriage with someone I don’t love.”

“You brought it on yourself.” He fired at me.

“No, you brought it on me Dad.” I fired back. “Who’s Romano?” I asked finally, voice shaking with everything I’d overheard. “That name keeps floating around this house like a ghost. You’re terrified of him. What did you do?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is when you’re selling me to cover your fuck ups!” I snapped. “I’m the one paying for whatever you did, so tell me!”

“Watch your mouth when you speak to me, Isabella,” he growled.

“I used to,” I fired back. “When you still deserved my respect. Now I just loathe you.”

His hand tightened around the cigar. “That’s enough. Go to your room.”

“No,” I whispered, stepping toward the door. “You don’t get to lock me up ten days before you hand me to Matteo Moretti. Tonight I deserve to breathe.”

“You will not step one foot outside this house.” My father’s voice turned dark.

“Watch me.”

I yanked the door open and ran.

Bare feet on cold marble, then wet grass, past the fountain, past the pool lights shimmering like spilt gold. I didn’t stop until I hit the service gate and flung myself into Lucia’s waiting arms.

She squealed, squeezing me so hard my ribs protested. “It’s really you!”

“Go, go, go—My Dad could have the guards on us any second!”

“Then get in.” She yelled.

We both hopped in the car. She turned on the ignition, tyres spitting gravel as we shot into the night.

Five minutes of silence, then she glanced over, eyes widening.

“What the hell are you wearing, honey?”

“You said cute!”

“I meant carelessly sexy! What do you think this….a Mendoza gala? Girl please.” She waved her hand.

“Then what is it?”

Lucia grinned like a devil. “It’s the night you stop existing for everyone else.”

She pulled up to her house and minutes later we were in her bedroom—same fairy lights, same chaos of clothes and perfume—and she was tearing through her closet like a woman on a mission.

“We’re gonna dress you in something hot tonight.” She giggled. “Something….slutty.”

She picked out the first dress. “Too long.”

Then a second. “Too modest.” She scowled.

“Too sweet.”

And then pulled out a scrap of fabric that looked like there was barely anything to it. It was short, black and covered in glittery stones.

“This,” she declared, holding it up like a trophy. “Open front, backless, hem barely legal. Every eye in the room will be on you.”

I raised a brow. “I’ll freeze.”

“You’ll burn,” she corrected, smirking as she tossed it at me. “We’re finding you a man tonight. Micah was trash. I’m sorry you went through that.” She pouted, genuinely.

I let out a breath I’d been holding for months. “That sounds…nice. But my dad already found a man for me.”

Her head snapped toward me so fast her bun nearly collapsed. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, slipping my legs into the dress. “He got himself into some shit, and now I’m paying for it. I’m marrying Matteo fucking Moretti.”

Lucia blinked—slow, like her brain was buffering. “Matteo? Oh.” The disappointment in her voice was small but sharp. “That’s surprising.”

I paused, heels in my hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine. But that must suck for you.”

“It does. I’m so frustrated, Lu. How could my father even do that to me? Matteo Moretti of all people. I’d rather die.”

“Maybe he’s not that bad,” she offered, but there was no real conviction behind it.

“He’s awful,” I snapped. “He treats women like shit. I’d rather suck off a stranger than lose my virginity to that prick.”

She grinned like I’d just handed her the night’s challenge. “Okay, then that’s what we’ll do.”

I stared. “…what?”

“We’ll find you a stranger to suck off.” She said, like it was some casual thing.

She stepped close, fixing the strap of the dress on my shoulder, eyes gleaming with mischief and fierce loyalty. Then she loosened my bun and let her hands wander in my hair. It fell across my face in waves.

“Tonight you’re not Isabella Mendoza. Tonight you’re just a girl who gets to be reckless, horny, and alive one last time. I know exactly where we’re going.” She grinned.

**********

Lucia’s Mercedes screeched to a stop in front of an old palazzo by the canal.

No sign. No name. Just a single red lantern hanging over a black door, swaying in the wind.

To most people, it looked like another abandoned building in Venice.

But the people who knew….knew this was La Volpe Rossa —the most secret, most expensive casino-club in the whole city.

Valets in dark red jackets rushed toward the cars.

Then a low rumble filled the street.

A line of black SUVs pulled up behind us like something out of a crime movie.

One by one, the doors opened at the same time.

Men stepped out—black suits, earpieces, sharp eyes.

They moved in perfect sync, calm in that dangerous way that told you they’d killed before.

And they wouldn’t blink if they had to do it again.

But one man didn’t match the rest.

He got out last—black slacks, a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled, and a fitted black waistcoat. No tie. No jacket. But somehow he still looked like the one in charge.

I leaned forward a little. “Who are those people?”

Lucia followed my gaze. “Them? Mafia. That crew basically owns half of Venice now,” she said under her breath. “And the one in the white shirt? He’s the boss. His name is Zayden.”

She cut the engine. “Dangerously hot, right?”

I couldn’t answer.

Because the second she said his name, his gaze snapped back, sharp enough to cut glass—I couldn’t tell what he was looking at but it wasn’t me.

The air left my lungs either way.

Lucia laughed softly. “Yeah. That’s the effect he has.”

She grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of the car. “Come on. The tables open in ten, and tonight the only thing you’re gambling is your cookie.”

“Do you come here a lot?” I asked, trying to sound normal while my skin still burned from that one look.

She hesitated—just a heartbeat. “Yeah. That’s actually how I met—“ she paused.

“How you met who?”

“Never mind,” she said quickly, tugging me toward the entrance.

The bouncer unclipped the velvet rope without a word. And we all swooped in like soldiers ready for battle.

Lucia leaned in as we stepped through the archway. “Tonight you don’t have a last name, remember? You’re just trouble in diamonds.”

I walked inside, pulse roaring in my ears.

Red velvet walls, gold chandeliers, the low thrum of jazz and the clink of glasses. Money, perfume, and danger thick enough to taste.

I only knew one thing, whatever happened next — I wasn’t leaving La Volpe Rossa the same girl who walked in.