My marriage to Dante Moretti, the heir to the Moretti family, was arranged when we were kids.

But after my father died, he publicly refused to marry me. Three times.

Each time, he used his dead mother as an excuse, and I couldn't argue.

The third time, I walked in on him with some starlet on the anniversary of his mother’s death, and I overheard him sneer:

“A boring woman like Isabella? Who the hell would want her?”

“So desperate to marry me. It’s pathetic.”

I looked down at my white wedding dress, turned on my heel, and knocked on his father's door.

Later, on the day I moved into the Moretti estate, I ran into Dante.

He thought I was there to force his hand and ran his mouth.

But he had no idea I was already his new stepmother.

My fiancé, Dante, refused to marry me three times, all in the name of “honoring his mother.” The third time, I put on my wedding dress and married his father instead. If he’s so devoted, I’m sure he’ll show his new stepmother the proper respect.

“That bitch Isabella! When will she get the fuck out of my life!”

Dante's curse cut through the night. The lake reflected the moonlight as I hid behind the cabin, watching the man—my so-called fiancé—pinning a blonde bombshell to the deck of his yacht.

Three times.

He had rejected me three times.

At our engagement party, in front of all Five Families, he’d said, “My mother just passed. It would be disrespectful to her memory to talk about marriage right now.”

At the charity gala, he refused to dance with me. “Bella, can’t you understand the grief of a man who’s lost his mother? You’re being selfish.”

And just last week, at a family gathering, he didn't even look at me. “Maybe Isabella should find someone else.”

Every time, he’d used the noble excuse of “respecting his late mother” to humiliate me. And now, this “devoted son” was dishonoring the memory of his dead mother in the filthiest way imaginable.

“Once that little bookworm finally gives up, I’ll be free,” Dante’s insults continued. “My father can’t force me to marry some piece of trash nobody wants.”

Scarlett’s laughter was sharp and piercing. “Are you sure she’ll stop chasing you, darling?”

“What’s she gonna do? Isabella Rossi is just a caged canary who’s good with numbers. She’s nothing without the dusty old ledgers her dead old man left behind.”

Dusty old ledgers?

My fingers tightened into a fist. Those ledgers documented every dollar that moved through the New York underworld for thirty years, including the debt the Moretti family owed my father—a debt they could never repay.

But tonight, I didn't want his money.

I was going to burn his world to the ground.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the custom Vera Wang wedding gown I’d had made for tomorrow’s ceremony. The silk clung to my body, every pearl shimmering in the moonlight.

I fired up the Ferrari and sped toward the Moretti estate.

“Miss, you can’t go in!” The guard at the gate tried to stop my car.

“Get out of my way.” I rolled down the window, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Tell Vincent that Isabella Rossi is here to fulfill the contract.”

In the great hall of the estate, the family’s inner circle was in a meeting. When I pushed the doors open, every head turned. They all stared in shock at me—a woman in a wedding dress, alone, storming the heart of the Moretti family's power.

“Isabella?” The old consigliere, Marco, stared wide-eyed. “What are you—”

“According to the marriage pact signed in 1993 between the Rossi and Moretti families,” I announced, standing at the head of the long table. My voice echoed in the silent room. “The pact specifies that ‘the heir of the Rossi family shall be joined in matrimony with the Moretti family to solidify the alliance between our two houses.’”

“Are you crazy?” one of the cousins stood up. “Dante’s not even here—”

“The pact says ‘the Moretti family,’ not ‘Dante Moretti,’” I cut him off, pulling a document from my purse. “And by tradition, the family is represented by the Don, not the heir.”

The air in the room went still.

“So, Vincent Moretti,” I said, looking directly at the empty seat at the head of the table, my voice void of all emotion. “I am here to marry you.”

“Madonna mia…” someone gasped.

Just then, heavy footsteps approached. Vincent pushed the door open, followed by a few of his capos. He stopped for a second when he saw me, then his eyes scanned the shocked faces in the room.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice a low rumble of thunder.

“Don, this woman… she’s lost her mind,” Marco stammered. “She says she’s here to marry you, according to the pact—”

“Shut up.” Vincent held up a hand and walked toward me.

He was a head taller than me, his dark eyes studying my face. The man was nearly forty, but age had only given him more authority and a rugged charm. His suit fit his broad shoulders perfectly, and he radiated absolute power.

“Why?” he asked.

I held his gaze. “Because I need a real man, not a coward.”

Vincent was silent for a long moment. No one else in the room dared to breathe.

Finally, he nodded.

“Marco, get the priest.”

“Don, are you sure—”

“Now.”

An hour later, before the family’s statue of the Madonna, I became Vincent Moretti’s wife.

The wedding was simple. A few traditional vows and a heavy platinum ring. When Vincent kissed me, I smelled the cigar and cologne on him and felt the warmth of his lips.

This wasn’t love. But it was a beginning.

At dawn, Vincent kissed my forehead, waking me gently. He leaned in and whispered, “Bella, there’s an emergency in Chicago. I have to fly out immediately. Rest up. This estate is your fortress now. It's your home.”

I opened my eyes and watched him fix his cufflinks.

“A month?”

He paused and looked back at me. “You’ll have protection. I’ll be back before you know it.”

After the door closed, I sat on the bed, looking at the ring on my finger. Sunlight filtered through the silk curtains, illuminating the strange new room.

I imagined the look on Dante’s face when he came home.

This was going to be fun.

Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting patterns on the marble floor. I walked toward the dining room in my slippers, the wedding ring on my finger a glittering reminder of last night’s unbelievable ceremony.

The estate was quiet. Vincent had been gone for two hours, leaving me alone in this unfamiliar home.

As I pushed open the dining room’s double doors, a figure stumbled into me from the side.

“Fuck!”

It was Dante.

He had clearly just gotten home. His suit was wrinkled, his tie was crooked, and he reeked of booze and cheap perfume. The signs of a long night were all over his haggard face.

The moment our eyes met, his surprise turned to disgust.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “I thought I made myself clear. We’re done, Isabella. What more do you want?”

I adjusted the collar of my silk robe and looked at him calmly. “Good morning, Dante.”

“Good morning?” he sneered. “Cut the crap. I know why you’re here. Let me guess—you’re trying to use my father to pressure me? Get him to force me to marry you?”

I didn’t answer, just watched him quietly as he continued his little performance.

“Listen here, you bitch,” he stepped forward, grabbing my arm roughly. “I’d rather die than marry you. That bullshit marriage contract your dead father left behind means nothing to me. I’m the Moretti heir, not your slave!”

His fingers dug into my skin, leaving red marks.

“Let go,” I said, my voice soft but cold.

“Or what? What are you gonna do about it?”

Just then, a bodyguard appeared at the end of the hall. He saw what was happening and rushed over.

“Let go of Mrs. Moretti, sir!”

Mrs. Moretti?

Dante froze for a second, then exploded with rage.

“What? Mrs. Moretti?” He spun on the bodyguard, his eyes blazing. “What did you just say?”

“Sir, please, you need to let go of the Don's wife—”

THUD.

Dante kicked the bodyguard hard in the stomach, and the man doubled over, collapsing to the floor.

“You dare call this bitch ‘Mrs. Moretti’? Who the hell does she think she is?” Dante’s roar echoed through the hall. “She’s a piece of unwanted trash! A parasite trying to latch onto our family!”

I knelt and helped the guard, who was clutching his stomach. He looked young, maybe early twenties.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Moretti,” he answered through gritted teeth.

“Mrs. Moretti? Mrs. Moretti!” Dante was losing his mind. “Are you all crazy? This woman is nothing! She’s—”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

I stood up, brushing the dust off my robe. This time, I looked him straight in the eye, my voice as sharp as a razor.

“You’re right about one thing, Dante. I don’t have to marry you.” I paused, a knowing smile playing on my lips. “After all, you’re not the only man in the Moretti family—”

“Bullshit!” Before I could finish, he shoved me aside and stormed off. “I don't have time for your games, Isabella.”

I watched his back disappear down the hall.

The young bodyguard, Antonio, was still beside me, looking confused.

“Mrs. Moretti, should I go after him?”

“No.” I reached out and straightened his collar. “Tell me, Antonio, how long have you been with this family?”

“Three years, ma'am.”

“Then you should know who really calls the shots in this house.”

He nodded. “Don Vincent.”

“Good.” I started toward the dining room. “Now, please inform the kitchen I’m ready for breakfast. And one more thing—”

I glanced back in the direction Dante had disappeared.

“From this day forward, no one sets foot in this house without my permission. That includes family.”

Antonio’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly composed himself. “Yes, Mrs. Moretti. I’ll inform the others immediately.”

As I sat alone at the long table enjoying my breakfast, the sun warmed my face. Vincent’s estate was large and quiet, but now it was mine.

And that fool Dante still thought he was the only man in this family worth marrying.

The phone rang.

“Mrs. Moretti,” the consigliere Marco’s voice came through the line, “word from Chicago. Don Vincent would like you to move into the master bedroom today. He also wants to know if you require anything.”

The master bedroom. Vincent’s room.

“Tell him,” I said, putting down my coffee cup, my voice calm and firm, “I don’t need anything. But I expect everyone in this house to know who runs it by the time he returns.”

After hanging up, I looked out at the garden. In the distance, gardeners were trimming the rose bushes. The red petals were as brilliant as blood in the sun.

This was only the beginning.

Three days later, a convoy of five black SUVs rolled through the gates of the Moretti estate.

I sat in the lead vehicle, watching the familiar mansion come into view. This time, I wasn’t returning as a humiliated fiancée, but as the lady of the house, bringing with me the entire inheritance my father had left me.

“Mrs. Moretti, the moving trucks will be here in five minutes,” said the woman in the passenger seat. Her name was Elena, my newly hired personal assistant. She’d spent a decade on Wall Street and was an expert in law and finance.

“Good.” I smoothed the lapels of my black suit. “Remember, all of my father’s documents go directly into the safe in the master bedroom.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The car pulled up to the main entrance, and Antonio immediately stepped forward to open my door. He was much more respectful than he’d been three days ago.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Moretti.”

Home. The word sounded interesting.

Just as I was about to head inside, the roar of an engine filled the air. A red Ferrari screeched to a halt in front of the fountain.

Dante.

He stepped out of the driver’s seat, followed by a blonde woman in a skintight red dress cut so low you could lose your car keys in it.

Scarlett Romano. I recognized her—a starlet from B-grade horror movies and the same woman Dante was with that night.

“What the hell are you doing, Isabella?” Dante’s face darkened when he saw the movers unloading boxes. “I warned you not to pull any stunts!”

“I’m moving in,” I answered simply.

“Moving in? To where?”

“Here.” I nodded toward the mansion. “To my husband’s home.”

“Husband?” Scarlett’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “Darling, what is this woman talking about?”

Dante’s face flushed red. “She’s talking nonsense! Isabella, I’m warning you for the last time, cut the cheap tricks! This pathetic act won’t force me to marry you!”

An old housemaid standing nearby saw that Dante was still in the dark and hesitated. “Young Master, Don Vincent has already instructed us that Miss Isabella is…”

Before she could finish, a few movers walked past carrying an ornate mahogany chest. It was partially open, revealing glittering jewels and antiques inside.

Scarlett’s eyes lit up.

“Wow, is this stuff real?” She walked toward the chest, ignoring the movers, and snatched a diamond necklace. “My God, it’s gorgeous!”

That was the wedding gift my father gave my mother. An 18th-century antique, every diamond hand-picked.

My blood ran cold.

“Put it down.” My voice was a low growl.

“What?” Scarlett was admiring herself in the car’s window, stroking the necklace. “Put what down?”

“I said, put my mother’s necklace down.”

“Your mother?” She laughed dismissively. “It’s just some dead woman’s old junk. I’m just trying it on, it’s not like I’m going to—”

SMACK!

My palm connected with her cheek with a sharp crack.

The estate fell silent enough to hear a bird chirp.

Scarlett clutched her face, staring at me in disbelief. “You… you hit me?”

“Next time you touch my things, it won’t be just a slap.” I snatched the necklace back from her, gently stroking the diamonds. “This necklace is worth eight hundred thousand dollars. Your entire year’s salary wouldn’t buy a single stone on it.”

“Isabella!” Dante rushed over to Scarlett, his eyes burning with rage. “Are you out of your mind? How dare you hit her!”

“I was protecting my property.”

“Property?” Dante sneered. “You think moving a few boxes of junk in here is going to force me to marry you? Not a chance in hell! And,” he pointed at the necklace, “you’re going to give this to Scarlett as an apology!”

“What?”

“You heard me. You hit her, you pay. This necklace will do just fine.”

Scarlett’s eyes brightened instantly. “Yes! I want this necklace!”

I looked at them and suddenly, I smiled.

“Fine.” I held the necklace out to Scarlett. “Take it.”

Just as her fingers were about to touch it, Elena stepped forward and cleared her throat.

“One moment,” she said, pulling a file from her briefcase, her voice calm and professional. “I must advise you that this necklace is an 18th-century antique, registered in the FBI's National Stolen Art File, serial number CH-1847-3.”

Scarlett’s hand froze in mid-air.

“Under federal law governing protected cultural assets, any unauthorized possession or transfer of such an item will trigger a federal investigation,” Elena continued. “During that investigation, all assets connected to the individuals involved will be frozen pending review.”

Dante’s face went white.

“Federal investigation? Asset freeze?”

“Yes,” Elena nodded. “Bank accounts, real estate, company shares, offshore trusts… everything. The process typically takes eighteen to twenty-four months.”

Scarlett snatched her hand back as if she’d been electrocuted. “I… I don’t want it! I didn’t do anything!”

“But you’ve already touched a registered artifact,” I said sweetly. “Under the law, that constitutes ‘unauthorized contact.’ However, if you leave now, I can pretend this never happened.”

“I’m leaving! I’m leaving right now!” Scarlett bolted for the Ferrari. “Dante, take me home! Now!”

Dante wanted to argue, but one look at the thick legal file in Elena’s hand made him clench his jaw. “This isn’t over, Isabella.”

“I’ll be waiting,” I said, placing the necklace back in its case. “But next time you visit, remember to make an appointment. After all, this is my house now.”

The red Ferrari sped off, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Dante panicked and ran after it, shouting over his shoulder, “Isabella, if anything happens to Scarlett, I’ll make you pay!”

But his voice was quickly drowned out by the engine.

Elena came to my side and put away the file. “Mrs. Moretti, was the necklace really registered?”

I smiled, looking toward the gate. “Of course not. But they won’t bother to check.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” I said, turning to walk into my new home, “crooks are always paranoid. And the Feds are the last people they want sniffing around.”

The setting sun cast a golden glow on the stone columns of the Moretti estate. The movers continued their work, carrying box after box of my inheritance into my new home.

And at the bottom of one of those boxes lay my father’s most precious legacy—the ledgers that tracked every dirty dollar in this city.

Including every single transaction of the Moretti family.

Now, all those secrets belonged to me.