Sold to the Don: The Pawn Who Became Queen

Dante's POV

She looks so good, I don't know if I want to rip off the dress and claim her or keep looking at her.

She's beautiful. Not in the flashy way Clara is. Not in the way women usually make themselves beautiful for men like me. Isabella is beautiful the way a storm is beautiful right before it hits. Dangerous without meaning to be.

The silk dress hugs her body perfectly. She's small. Delicate. The kind of small that makes men want to either protect or destroy. I'm currently caught between both impulses and it's making me slightly unhinged.

"Why are you doing this?" Her voice is soft. Shaky. She's looking at my reflection instead of her own.

I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth is complicated and I don't do complicated.

I watched her family today. Watched them dismiss her like she was nothing. Watched her father calculate what he could get from me. Watched her stepmother manipulate her with guilt. Watched Clara examine her nails like Isabella's pain was boring.

I knew they would react that way. I knew it before we even arrived. That's why I didn't want to take her there. But she asked. She begged. And something about the way she looks at me makes me do stupid things.

Like letting her see them one last time. Like hoping maybe they would surprise me. Like thinking maybe having them at the wedding would make her happy.

They didn't surprise me. They never do. People are predictable. Selfish. They take what they can and give nothing back.

But Isabella keeps giving. Keeps apologizing. Keeps shrinking herself down to fit into spaces that don't want her.

It pulls at something in my chest I didn't know was there.

"Dante?" She says my name like a question. Like she's not sure she's allowed.

I turn her around. Fast. She gasps and stumbles slightly. I catch her by the waist and suddenly we're face to face. Her eyes are huge. Those ridiculous brown eyes that tilt down at the corners and make her look gentle even when she's terrified.

A tear slides down her cheek. Just one. She probably doesn't even know it's there.

I reach up and wipe it away with my thumb. Her skin is soft. Warm. She smells like the perfume they sprayed on her at the boutique mixed with something underneath that's just her.

"Stop crying," I say. My voice comes out rougher than I intend.

"I'm not crying." Another tear falls. She's a terrible liar.

I brush it away too. My hand stays on her face. My thumb traces the line of her cheekbone. She's not pulling away. She's frozen. Staring up at me like I'm something she can't figure out.

Join the club, Isabella. I can't figure myself out either.

I knew her family would react the way they did. I tried to save her from the hurt. But maybe seeing them one last time was what she needed. Maybe having them at the wedding will give her closure. Or maybe it will just hurt more.

I don't know. I'm not good at this. At caring about what other people need.

But with her, I'm trying. And that alone should terrify me.

"Turn around," I say again.

She turns slowly. Obediently. The dress is still zipped up but I reach for the zipper anyway. Pull it down. Slow. Deliberate. The sound fills the small room.

Her back is perfect. Smooth olive skin. The ridge of her spine. The curve of her shoulders. I brush my fingers down her back and feel her shiver. I can't stop myself. I don't want to stop myself.

My hand flattens against her lower back and I feel her breath catch. I lean down. Close enough that my lips brush the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Not quite a kiss. More like a promise.

She makes a sound. Small. Surprised. Her hands come up to hold the dress against her chest.

"Dante." My name sounds different when she says it like that. Breathless. Wanting.

I straighten up and step back before I do something we'll both regret. Or maybe something only she'll regret. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't regret anything involving Isabella and significantly less clothing.

"Get dressed," I say. My voice is steady but my hands aren't. I shove them in my pockets. "The wedding starts in an hour. We need to move."

She looks at me over her shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips parted. She looks thoroughly kissed even though I barely touched her.

"You didn't answer my question," she whispers.

"Which question?"

"Why are you doing this? The dress. The wedding. All of it."

I could lie. Tell her it's about power. About consolidating my position. About sending a message to my enemies that I'm strong enough to take what I want.

All of that is true. But it's not the whole truth.

"Because you're mine," I say finally. "And what's mine gets the best."

It's not a romantic answer. But it's honest. And right now, honesty is all I have to give her.

She studies me for a long moment. Then nods. Turns away. Starts to change back into her regular clothes.

I leave before I can do something stupid. Like pull that dress off her myself.

***

The church sits on North State Street. Old stone building with Gothic spires that reach toward the gray Chicago sky. My father was married here. His father before him. Three generations of Valerios making vows they may or may not have kept.

Now me.

The inside is cold. High ceilings with exposed wooden beams. Stained glass windows filter what little sunlight there is into pools of blue and red on the stone floor. Rows of wooden pews face the altar where a priest in white robes waits.

My men fill most of the seats. Luca stands at my right hand. Santino at my left. Both armed under their suits. Both ready. Because even at my own wedding, I can't afford to let my guard down.

I sent a car for the Morettis after we left the dress store and had Luca deliver the invitation personally. Isabella doesn't know yet. She'll see them when she walks down the aisle.

A part of me hopes that makes her happy. But I remember the way she looked at them. The way she asked if they loved her. The way she wanted one last goodbye.

So I'm giving her this. One last chance to have her family at her wedding. One last chance for them to show they care.

I don't think they will. But I'm willing to be surprised.

They're sitting in the back now. Federico – her father, keeps glancing at his phone. His hands shake every time he picks it up. Something is wrong. I make a mental note to have Luca check his messages later.

Elena sits beside him. Pale. Gaunt. Even though I've paid for a very espensive room for her in the hospital, she chosoes to be here and I hope that counts for something. But her eyes are sharp when they scan the church. Calculating. Always calculating.

Clara is next to her mother. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Pink dress that's too bright for a wedding. She's smiling. Actually smiling. Like this is entertainment.

I want to throw them all out. Want to tell Isabella her family isn't worth the effort. But that's not my choice to make. Not yet.

The organ music starts. Low and somber. Everyone stands.

Isabella appears at the end of the aisle.

My breath stops.

She's wearing the dress we got this afternoon. The one that makes her look like she belongs in my world. Her dark hair falls in waves over her shoulders. Someone put makeup on her – probably the maid I put in charge of her, but it's subtle. She looks terrified but beautiful.

She walks toward me slowly. Her eyes are wide. When she sees her family in the back, she stumbles slightly. Surprise crosses her face. Then something that might be hope.

I hate that look. Hate what it means. But I let her have it.

She reaches the altar. Stands beside me. I can see her hands shaking even from here.

The priest starts talking. Latin phrases I've heard a hundred times at other weddings. Other ceremonies. None of them mattered like this one.

The vows come. Isabella repeats them in a voice that shakes but doesn't break. I respect that. She doesn't cry. Doesn't run. Just says the words that the priest tells her to, the words that bind her to me forever.

When it's my turn, my voice is steady. Clear. I mean every word. Even the ones about cherishing and protecting. Especially those.

"You may kiss the bride," the priest announces.

I turn to Isabella. She's looking up at me with those big brown eyes. I cup her face in both hands. My thumbs brush her cheekbones. She's so small. So fragile looking.

I lean down. Slowly. Giving her time to pull away even though we both know she won't.

"I'm about to kiss you, wife," I whisper into her ear.