The Mafia King's Runaway Ghost Bride

Isabella POV

The drive back to the estate was a blur of adrenaline, but the moment we stepped into my father’s mahogany-paneled study, the air turned to lead.

Marco stood before Antonio’s massive desk, his fists clenched at his sides as he recounted what Natalia Gallo had done in the boutique. He spared no detail—the insults, the physical assault, her attempt to tear off my veil.

My father sat perfectly still. The glass of amber whiskey in his hand didn't even tremble, but his eyes—usually sharp and calculating—darkened into a terrifying, bottomless black. It was the look of a man who ordered executions before breakfast.

"She put her hands on my daughter," Antonio said, his voice a lethal, quiet rasp.

"I want the engagement annulled, Papa," Marco demanded, his chest heaving with residual guilt and rage. "I will not tie myself to a viper who dared to touch Bella."

Before Antonio could speak, my mother stepped forward. Sofia’s face was pale, but her jaw was set in stone. She didn't ask for permission. She picked up the heavy rotary phone on the desk and dialed the Gallo residence.

"Mrs. Gallo," my mother said, her tone eerily calm and dripping with absolute authority. "The engagement between our families is over. Keep your daughter away from my blood, or I will personally see to it that she never walks the streets of Chicago again."

She slammed the receiver down. It wasn't a negotiation. It was a final, devastating verdict.

*

Sleep evaded me that night. The lingering terror of the alleyway and the chaos of the boutique kept my heart racing. Needing a glass of water, I slipped out of my bedroom and padded softly down the carpeted hallway.

As I neared my father’s study, a sliver of light spilled from the cracked door. I froze, catching the cold, clinical voice of my eldest brother, Lorenzo.

"Our informants just reported back," Enzo was saying. "Capo Gallo lost his mind when Sofia called. He dragged Natalia down to their wine cellar. Half the block heard her screaming."

I pressed my hand against my mouth, my stomach twisting.

"He is a dead man walking," Enzo continued, devoid of any pity. "Without the protection of our alliance, Damien Moretti will finally purge him. The Wraith has been looking for an excuse to clean up Gallo's dirty ledgers for months. We just handed him the match."

"Let him burn," my father replied, his voice devoid of mercy. "His daughter dared to touch my principessa(princess). This is the price."

I backed away into the shadows, my bare feet silent on the floorboards. A shiver violently racked my spine. Natalia had been cruel, but the sheer, crushing weight of my family's retaliation terrified me. I was beginning to understand that the men who kissed my forehead and called me sweet names were the same men who orchestrated ruin in the dark.

*

The next afternoon, the sun bathed the estate’s rose garden in a deceptive, golden warmth. I sat on a white wrought-iron bench, staring at a velvet-lined wooden box. Inside were the items my family had hastily retrieved from my empty mausoleum—a silver comb, a pearl necklace, and something that didn't belong.

I carefully picked it up. It was a single, perfectly preserved black rose. Its petals felt like dark velvet, completely out of place among the vibrant red blooms of our garden.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel. Marco approached, his broad shoulders relaxed for the first time in days. "It's done," he announced, sitting beside me. "Gallo accepted the broken contract. They won't breathe a word."

I smiled softly, holding up the dark flower. "Did you leave this for me, Marco? It's beautiful, but so... sad."

Marco’s eyes dropped to the black rose.

The color instantly drained from his face. His massive frame went rigid, his pupils dilating in pure, unadulterated horror. He stared at the flower as if I were holding a live grenade.

"Where did you get that?" he choked out, his voice cracking.

"It was in the box from the tomb," I said, my brow furrowing in confusion. "I thought you or Papa left it for my anniversary."

"No," Marco breathed, snatching the rose from my hand with trembling fingers. He looked around the garden wildly, as if expecting a monster to step out from the hedges. "We didn't leave this. None of us did."

"Then who—"

"Don't think about it," Marco snapped, his voice suddenly harsh and frantic. He crushed the delicate black petals in his massive fist and grabbed my arm, pulling me up from the bench. "It's a mistake. Some stranger. Come on, I promised to teach you how to shoot. We are going to the range. Now."

He dragged me toward the armory, his grip tight and desperate, leaving me to wonder what kind of ghost could make The Bull look so utterly terrified.