My marriage to Dante, the Moretti heir, was meant to be a union of power, an alliance of empires. But for me, it was also the real deal.

Then his adopted sister, Clara, showed up at a party. She was wearing his custom leather jacket, straddling his prized Ducati, and she looked right at me with a smirk. "Dante says," she purred, "that I suit these precious things better than you do."

My smile froze. Dante had her on a plane overseas so fast it was like she'd never existed.

Five years later, the night before our wedding.

I found him staring at the design for our wedding rings. He'd changed the engraving. The "Amor Aeternus"—Eternal Love—was gone.

In its place: "Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa."

My sin, my greatest sin.

I took off my veil right then and there. "The wedding," I said, my voice like ice, "is off."

The night before my wedding, my fiancé, Dante, changed the engraving inside our rings from "Amor Aeternus" to "Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa."

My sin, my greatest sin.

His missing adopted sister was on his mind, not his bride.

So I took off my veil. "The wedding's off," I declared.

"Isabella Rossi, do you take Dante Moretti to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, till death do you part?"

The priest's voice echoed through Trinity Cathedral. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, bathing me in color. Everyone who was anyone in Verona was there, watching.

I looked at Dante. His handsome face, flawless in the golden light. I saw the hope in his eyes, the nerves, and that familiar, sickening trace of guilt.

Last night flashed in my mind. I'd gone to his study to surprise him, only to find him bent over the design schematics for our rings.

The original "Amor Aeternus" was crossed out.

Replaced by that new line of Latin: Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

My sin, my greatest sin.

Five years. The guilt had never left him. Her shadow still loomed over everything between us.

"Isabella?" the priest prompted gently.

I lifted my head and looked out at the crowd. My father, Don Rossi, his eyes filled with expectation. The Moretti council, sitting ramrod straight, waiting for the answer that would end a decades-long war between our two families.

Dante reached for my hand.

I took a step back.

"I don't."

Silence. A dead, ringing silence.

Then, the clatter of a fallen chair, gasps, a rising tide of whispers.

"Isabella!" Dante's voice was pure shock.

I turned to the guests, my voice clear and firm. "I will not be marrying Dante Moretti today."

Then, I tore the marriage contract in my hands. The pieces fluttered down like bitter snow.

Instantly, bodyguards from both families were on their feet, the outlines of guns stark beneath their black suits. The air crackled with danger.

My father's voice cut through the tension like a razor. "Everyone. We're leaving."

The Rossi men closed ranks around me, a human shield. I took one last look at Dante. He was standing alone at the altar, his face as white as marble.

Midnight. My penthouse apartment.

I’d just stepped out of the shower when I heard a soft noise from the balcony. I gripped the heavy fountain pen on my desk and moved slowly toward the glass doors.

Dante was standing there, his black suit nearly invisible against the night. How did he get past twenty floors of security?

I slid the door open.

"Are you insane?" I asked, looking at his rain-soaked hair. "It's pouring out there."

"Are you insane?" He strode inside, his eyes burning with fury. "Humiliating me in front of all of Verona?"

"Humiliating you?" I laughed, a cold, sharp sound. "I just refused to marry a man whose heart belongs to someone else."

Dante froze. "What are you talking about?"

"You think I don't know?" I went to the bar and poured myself a whiskey. "'Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.' How poetic, Dante."

The color drained from his face. "Isabella, I can explain—"

"Explain what?" I turned to face him. "That you haven't forgotten Clara in five years? That whatever you feel for her is more important than me?"

"It's not love!" Dante took an agitated step forward. "I never felt that way about Clara—"

"But you feel guilt," I cut him off, my voice terrifyingly calm. "And in your heart, she's more important. Her tears matter more to you than my happiness."

Dante opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"Five years ago, when she showed up at that street race wearing your leather jacket to taunt me, you chose silence," I said. "Last night, when you changed the engraving on our rings, you chose her again."

"Isabella, you don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." I set down my glass and walked right up to him. "Clara Vance will always be your untouchable saint, and I'll just be your duty."

Pain flashed in his eyes. "Is that what you think of me?"

"That's what you've shown me."

He stared at me for a long moment, then turned back toward the balcony.

"Dante," I called out.

He turned back.

"Don't come back. We're done."

The look in his eyes shifted from pain to anger, then to a cold resolve I’d never seen before.

His voice was low, a dark promise. "Just pray you don't live to regret this."

And then he was gone, swallowed by the rain, leaving me alone in the vast, empty room.

The rain had stopped by morning, but the air in Verona was thick with tension.

I was shaken awake by one of my father’s men. "Miss Rossi, your father wants you at the family headquarters. Immediately."

I glanced at the clock. Six in the morning.

Twenty minutes later, I stood before the heavy oak doors of the Rossi family boardroom. I could hear the low rumble of male voices, thick with the smell of cigar smoke.

"Isabella, come in," my father called.

I pushed the door open and saw them. People who should not have been in this room together. The entire Moretti inner circle, including Dante.

The two Dons sat at opposite ends of a long table, flanked by their most trusted men. A scene that hadn't happened in five years.

"Sit." My father gestured to the empty chair beside him.

Dante sat across from me. He wore a dark grey, impeccably tailored suit, his hair perfectly combed. The wild man on my balcony last night might as well have been a ghost.

Our eyes met for a second before we both looked away.

"Isabella," Marco Moretti, Dante's grandfather and the Moretti Don, spoke first. "What happened yesterday has cost both our families a great deal."

"The markets are already reacting," my father added. "Our joint ventures are on hold. Our partners aregetting nervous."

I looked at the reports and newspaper clippings spread across the table. The headlines were all about the scene at the cathedral.

"I take responsibility for my actions," I said calmly. "But I won't apologize for my decision."

Don Marco's gaze sharpened. "Do you have any idea what that means?"

"It means I chose the truth over a lie."

Dante finally spoke. "Isabella, can we talk? In private?"

"There's nothing to discuss." I turned to the two Dons. "Gentlemen, if this meeting is just to make me change my mind, then it's over."

The air in the room turned to ice.

Don Marco slowly got to his feet and walked over to me. He was in his seventies, but his eyes were still like a hawk's.

"Little girl, do you know how our families ended our feud fifty years ago?"

I said nothing.

"Blood. A lot of it," he said, his voice low. "Your father's brother. My eldest son. Countless others. We kept killing until we both realized hate only breeds more hate."

"So you decided to use my marriage to Dante to keep the peace?" I stood up, meeting his gaze. "To use us as political pawns?"

"No," Dante cut in suddenly, his voice holding a tremor I'd never heard before. "Not pawns. Not for me."

I turned on him. "Then what? A duty? An obligation? Or was it penance for what happened to Clara?"

The room fell silent. Everyone knew that name.

Dante's face went pale. "Isabella, please don't—"

"Don't what? Don't bring up the ghost in your heart?" I sneered. "Five years ago, she wore your custom jacket, my limited-edition Cartier bracelet, and paraded around that street race. 'Dante had this Ducati made just for me,' she’d bragged. 'He says Isa is just a placeholder.'"

Dante shot to his feet. "She never said that!"

"But she wore your jacket. She wore my bracelet. She rode your bike," I shot back, closing the distance between us. "She flaunted your 'special' relationship in my face. And you? You just stood there and watched."

"Because I didn't want to hurt her!" Dante yelled, losing his composure. "She'd just lost her father, I couldn't—"

"But you could hurt me," I said. My voice was a whisper, but every word landed like a blow. "Because I was just your fiancée. But she... she's the girl who saved your life."

Don Marco slammed his hand on the table. "Enough!"

Silence again.

"Now," Marco said, returning to his seat, "we find a solution. Dante, you have one month to fix this mess. If you two are not remarried in one month, all alliance pacts are void."

He paused, his eyes sweeping over the men from both families.

"And the truce is over."

After the meeting, I walked to the parking garage alone. The autumn morning was cool, and I pulled my coat tighter.

"Isabella, wait."

It was Dante's voice.

I didn't turn around. "Is there anything left to say?"

"Give me some time." He came to stand in front of me, his eyes pleading. "One month. Let me handle everything."

"What 'everything'?"

He was quiet for a long time. "Clara. I need... to settle things. For good."

I looked at him, a storm of emotions churning inside me. Anger, disappointment, and a sliver of hope I hated myself for feeling.

"Where is she?"

"New York."

"So you're going to bring her back?"

"I'm going to get closure." He reached out as if to touch my face, but stopped his hand mid-air. "Sending her away five years ago was the right move, but the way I did it hurt you. I'm going to New York to tell her, face to face, that you are the only one for me."

"And then?"

"And then I'll come back and propose to you again. Not for the families, not for duty, but because..." He hesitated. "Because my life has no meaning without you."

I searched his eyes, looking for the truth, for a lie. All I saw was exhaustion and something close to desperation.

"Isabella, please. Give me this chance."

I didn't answer. I just turned and walked away.

Back home, the world started to spin. "Miss, you look pale," our housekeeper, Mrs. Romano, said with concern.

"I'm just tired."

But as I reached the second-floor landing, the room tilted. The last thing I remembered was collapsing on the stairs and Mrs. Romano's terrified scream.

A high fever. I was in and out of consciousness.

In the fog, I heard my father talking to Dr. Martinez.

"Physically, she's fine. It's stress and emotional strain."

"She's always been too sensitive," my father's voice was heavy with guilt. "That business with Clara five years ago... I should have put a stop to it."

"Eduardo, you can't blame Dante. The girl saved his life. It's understandable he feels a certain... obligation to her."

"Understandable? My daughter turned down Harvard Medical School for him. Turned down a London art institute. She stayed home to be a pawn in a family alliance. And for what?"

"It's too late for that. What matters now is what Dante chooses to do."

I wanted to open my eyes, to speak, but my body wouldn't obey.

In the haze, I was back in that hot summer night five years ago.

Clara, standing by her red Ducati, wearing Dante's black leather jacket, my Cartier bracelet glinting under the streetlights.

"Dante had this Ducati custom-made just for me," she told the crowd, her voice dripping with triumph. "He said no one deserved it more."

Then she looked at me, her eyes filled with a sick, taunting excitement.

"Not even his fiancée."

I woke up with a start, my nightgown soaked in cold sweat.

It was the middle of the night. I was alone. On my nightstand was a glass of water, some pills, and a note.

Isabella,

I'm flying to New York tomorrow. Give me one month.

—D

I crumpled the note in my fist.

One month.

Long enough for a woman to see a man's true heart.

And long enough for a man to lose a woman's trust for good.

The fever lasted three days.

On the fourth morning, my brother, Luca, came into my room. His expression was grim.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, sitting on the edge of my bed with a file in his hand.

"Better." I struggled to sit up. "You look like you have bad news."

Luca was quiet for a moment. "Dante sent his men to Chicago."

"Chicago?" I frowned. "I thought he went to New York."

"Clara's not in New York. She vanished three years ago, no one knew where." Luca handed me the file. "Until yesterday. A PI found a trail in Chicago."

I opened the file. It was full of grainy photos and reports. The woman in the pictures was skeletal, but I could still see it was Clara.

"What... what happened to her?"

"Married some low-life gangster. He was killed over a gambling debt. She got hunted by loan sharks, ended up working in a strip club, and got hooked on drugs." Luca's voice was low. "Isabella... Dante thinks our family did this."

"What?"

"He thinks you had our people ruin her life out of jealousy."

I looked at Luca in disbelief. "Is he insane? I didn't even know where she was!"

"But the timeline fits," Luca said grimly. "Clara's life went to hell three years ago. Right when you turned eighteen and started taking on some family responsibilities."

A wave of dizziness washed over me, but this time it was from pure rage.

"So he thinks I'm some vindictive monster who would destroy a woman's life out of jealousy?"

Before Luca could answer, the door was thrown open.

Dante stood in the doorway, his eyes blazing. His clothes were rumpled; he clearly hadn't slept.

"Isabella Rossi." His voice was a low growl. "We need to talk."

Luca shot to his feet. "Dante, she's still sick—"

"Get out." Dante didn't even look at my brother. His gaze was locked on me. "Now."

"Luca, it's okay. You can go," I said, my voice steady. "I want to hear what Mr. Moretti has to say."

Luca gave me a worried look but left the room. I knew he was right outside the door.

Dante strode to my bed and pulled a stack of photos from his pocket, throwing them on the covers.

"Look at what you did!"

I picked them up. Each one was a chronicle of Clara's fall from grace: from a pretty girl to a gaunt dancer, to a hollow-eyed addict.

"This is your masterpiece, isn't it, Isabella?" Dante's voice trembled with rage. "You were jealous, so you destroyed her. You used your family's resources to push her into the abyss, step by step!"

I looked at him, a coldness I'd never felt before creeping into my heart.

"You think I did this?"

"Who else could it be?!" he roared. "Clara had everything when she left Verona! Money, an education—she could have had a good life! But someone kept sabotaging her in the shadows—got her kicked out of college, got her fired, set her up with that goddamn low-life husband!"

"So you just decided it was me?" My voice was dangerously quiet. "No investigation, no proof. You just decided?"

"What more proof do I need?!" He lunged forward, bracing his hands on either side of me on the bed. "You've been jealous of her for five years! Jealous of her place in my heart!"

"Yes, I was jealous of her," I said, meeting his eyes without flinching. "I was jealous of the attention you gave her, jealous she could wear your clothes, jealous of the special place she held for you. But Dante, I never, ever wanted to hurt her."

"Liar!" He was completely unhinged. "You vicious bitch! You ruined her life! Clara never hurt anyone, she was kind, innocent—"

"Enough!" I snapped. "Kind? Innocent? The woman who humiliated me in front of the entire city was kind?!"

"She was young! She didn't know what she was doing!"

"She was twenty years old! She knew exactly what she was doing!" I pushed myself up. "And you? You saw her humiliating me, and you did nothing, because in your heart, she was more important!"

"Yes! She was more important!" Dante screamed, his face contorted. "She saved my life! I'd be dead if it wasn't for her! And you—you were just the woman I was supposed to marry for the good of the family!"

The words hit me like a physical blow.

"So," my voice started to shake, "you think I would ruin her life out of jealousy? In your eyes, I'm just a vicious, ruthless monster who will stop at nothing to get what she wants?"

"Aren't you?!" Dante had lost all reason. "Every one of you Rossis is cold-blooded. You were raised to be the perfect Mafia princess—elegant on the outside, poison on the inside!"

"Dante Moretti!" I was shaking with fury now. "Get the hell out of my house!"

"I'm not leaving!" He suddenly grabbed my wrist. "Tell me you did it! Admit it!"

"Let go of me!"

"Admit it!" His grip tightened. "You destroyed Clara, didn't you?!"

The rage and humiliation boiled over. "So what if I did?!"

His eyes turned blood-red.

"You evil bitch."

His hand shot from my wrist to my throat, and he squeezed.

"I'll kill you for what you did to her!"

I clawed at his hands, but my body was weak from the fever. My vision started to blur, the air cut off.

Just as I thought I was going to die, the door burst open.

"Let her go!" Luca bellowed.

There was a blur of motion, and Dante was thrown off me. I gasped for air, my hand flying to my bruised neck.

Luca stood over me, murder in his eyes. "Dante Moretti, have you lost your mind?!"

Dante stood there, staring at his own hands as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done.

"I... I didn't mean to..."

"Get out!" Luca roared. "Get out of my house, now!"

Dante looked at me, his eyes a storm of regret, pain, and simmering rage.

"Isabella, this isn't over," he said, his voice a low, demonic curse. "You destroyed her life. I will never forgive you."

He turned to leave, then looked back one last time, his gaze as cold as a winter wind.

"From this moment on, I declare war on the House of Rossi."

He stormed out, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

I sat on the bed, my hand still on my aching throat as silent tears streamed down my face.

Not from the pain.

From a completely shattered heart.

Luca sat beside me, gently rubbing my back. "Isabella, it's over."

"Luca," my voice was a hoarse whisper, "I really didn't do it. The thing with Clara."

"I know."

"He doesn't believe me."

"He's blinded by rage right now. When he calms down—"

"No," I shook my head. "He'll never believe me. In his mind, I'll always be the jealous monster who ruined an innocent woman's life."

I looked out the window. The Verona sun was shining, but my world had gone completely dark.

"Maybe it's for the best," I whispered. "At least now, neither of us has to pretend anymore."

Luca looked at me, worried. "Isabella, what are you going to do?"

I didn't answer. I just watched the clouds drift by.

Some things, once broken, can never be fixed.

Like Dante's trust in me.

And my love for him.

From that day on, Dante Moretti and I were enemies.