The stitching hurt. It was a sharp, biting reminder of the physical limitations of my new shell. Dr. Aris, a man whose hands smelled of nicotine and formaldehyde, didn't use enough local anesthetic. Perhaps it was a test ordered by Dante, or perhaps the Moretti family didn't believe in wasting resources on a "broken" bride.
I didn't flinch. I watched the needle pierce the pale skin of my wrist, pulling the silk thread through the jagged edges of the wound. My silence seemed to unnerve the doctor. He kept glancing up at me, expecting a gasp, a tear, or the frantic trembling that usually accompanied a girl who had just tried to end her life.
"You have a high pain threshold, Donna Isabella," he muttered, snipping the thread.
"Pain is just information, Doctor," I replied, my voice cool and melodic. "It tells the brain where the damage is. Once the report is received, there's no need to dwell on the delivery."
He paused, his eyes widening behind thick spectacles. He didn't respond. He simply wrapped my wrist in sterile gauze and secured it with medical tape. "The Don is waiting. You have one hour for the stylists."
As he left, a flock of women in black uniforms descended upon me like crows. They were efficient and silent, their eyes averted. They stripped the bloody wedding dress from my body, revealing the canvas Céleste now inhabited. Isabella was thin—too thin. There were faint bruises on her ribs, likely from a father who used his fists when his stocks fell.
I will remember those bruises, I thought. They will be paid for in interest.
They scrubbed the dried blood from my skin with cold water and fragrant oils. They painted my face, masking the pallor of blood loss with expensive rouges and golden powders. When they draped the new gown over me—a heavy, architectural masterpiece of black lace and silk—I felt the weight of the Moretti name. Dante had listened. He hadn't sent another white dress. He had sent armor.
I stood before the mirror. The girl was gone. In her place stood a Gothic queen, her dark hair pinned back with diamond daggers, her amber eyes reflecting a predatory intelligence that no amount of makeup could hide.
"Leave us," a voice commanded from the doorway.
The stylists vanished instantly. Dante stood there, framed by the dark mahogany of the suite. He was dressed in the black suit I had suggested. It made him look like a shadow given human form. He walked toward me, his eyes scanning the transformation.
"You look like a widow," he noted, stopping a few feet away.
"I'm mourning the woman I used to be," I said, meeting his gaze. "It's only polite to dress for the funeral."
Dante reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. He opened it to reveal a ring—a black diamond the size of a sparrow's heart, surrounded by thorns of white gold. He took my left hand, his fingers tracing the edge of the bandage on my wrist before sliding the ring onto my finger. It was heavy. It felt like a shackle.
"The Montgomery family is downstairs," Dante said, his voice dropping. "Your father is drinking my Scotch and telling everyone how much he will miss you. He looks relieved, Isabella. Relieved that his debt is gone and his failure is hidden."
"He thinks he sold a liability," I whispered, stepping into Dante's personal space. The scent of him—sandalwood and something cold, like ozone—clouded my senses. "He doesn't realize he just gave his executioner a promotion."
Dante's hand slid up my arm, his thumb pressing against the pulse point at the crook of my elbow. "You talk a grand game for a girl who was bleeding out on a bathroom floor two hours ago. My world isn't built on words. It's built on blood and absolute loyalty. If you trip, if you show a single moment of the old Isabella's weakness, I will let the wolves have you."
"Then let's go see the wolves, Dante. I'm hungry."
The ceremony was held in the Montgomery's private chapel, a place of vaulted ceilings and stained glass that depicted saints suffering in glorious color. It was packed with the elite of the underworld—men with scars hidden under tailored wool and women whose jewels were bought with the life insurance of their husbands' enemies.
As I walked down the aisle, the room went silent. The whispers were like the rustle of dry leaves.
"Is that her?"
"I heard she tried to kill herself this morning."
"Look at her eyes... she looks possessed."
My father, Arthur Montgomery, stood at the front. He was a bloated man with a weak chin and eyes that darted nervously around the room. When I reached him, he reached out to take my hand to hand me over to Dante. His palm was sweaty.
"Be brave, Bella," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Do this for the family."
I leaned in, as if to kiss his cheek, but instead, I breathed a single sentence into his ear. "I know about the Caymans account, Arthur. And I know you pushed Mom down those stairs. Enjoy your Scotch tonight. It's the last thing you'll ever taste for free."
Arthur turned a sickly shade of grey. He stepped back as if I had bitten him. I didn't wait for him to recover. I turned my back on him and placed my hand in Dante's.
The priest began the rites, his voice a monotonous drone. I didn't listen to the words. I was analyzing the room.
Exit A: North door, guarded by two Moretti men. Exit B: Behind the altar, likely leads to the vestry. Threat 1: The man in the third row, left side—he's reaching for his jacket too often. Threat 2: The waiter in the back—his posture is too rigid for a servant.
"Do you, Dante Moretti, take this woman..."
"I do," Dante said, his voice ringing through the chapel like a tolling bell.
"And do you, Isabella Montgomery..."
I looked at Dante. In that moment, I wasn't Céleste or Isabella. I was a gambler placing a bet on the only person in the room who was as broken as I was.
"I do."
"Then I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Dante didn't hesitate. He pulled me toward him, his hand gripping the back of my head with a possessive ferocity. The kiss wasn't romantic. It was an invasion. It was a claim. He tasted of bitterness and power, and for a split second, I felt the raw, sociopathic hunger within him. I didn't pull away. I bit his lower lip just hard enough to draw a bead of blood, tasting the salt on my tongue.
When he pulled back, a thin smear of red stained his lip. He looked at me, his eyes darker than I had ever seen them. A smirk played on his mouth.
"Welcome to the family, Isabella Moretti," he whispered.
The reception was a blur of forced smiles and cold champagne. Dante kept me at his side like a trophy, but I could feel his attention never leaving me. We were standing near the grand staircase when the first crack in the evening appeared.
A man approached—middle-aged, with a jagged scar running through his eyebrow. Enzo Valenti. Dante's underboss and a man known for his brutality.
"Don Moretti," Enzo said, bowing his head slightly, though his eyes remained on me. "A beautiful bride. It's a pity she comes from such... compromised blood."
Dante's jaw tightened. "Her blood is Moretti now, Enzo. Watch your tongue."
"Of course," Enzo smiled, showing yellowed teeth. "But the Chicago families are asking questions. They wonder if a man who marries a suicide-risk can truly lead us through the federal investigation. They say you've become soft, Dante. Choosing beauty over stability."
The air around us turned frigid. I felt Dante's muscles coil, the prelude to a violent outburst. This was the moment. If Dante killed Enzo here, it would start a civil war. If he did nothing, he looked weak.
I stepped forward, slipping my arm out of Dante's. I took a sip of my champagne, looking at Enzo with an expression of bored curiosity.
"Mr. Valenti, isn't it?" I asked.
"It is, Donna."
"You have a fascinating micro-expression," I said, moving closer until I was inches from his face. "Every time you look at Dante, your left eye twitches. It's a classic sign of suppressed envy mixed with a deep-seated inferiority complex. It usually stems from childhood trauma—perhaps a father who preferred a smarter, more capable brother?"
Enzo's smile vanished. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"And the way you're standing," I continued, my voice carrying just enough for the nearby guests to hear. "You're putting all your weight on your right leg. Gout? Or a poorly healed gunshot wound from the '94 turf war where you reportedly hid in a dumpster while your captain was decapitated?"
A gasp rippled through the circle. The '94 dumpster story was a myth, a dark joke whispered in shadows, but I had read the Interpol files on Valenti in my past life. I knew the shame was real.
Enzo's face turned purple. "You little bitch—"
He raised a hand, but he never completed the motion. I didn't wait for Dante. I slammed the base of my champagne glass into the table next to me, shattering it, and held the jagged stem to Enzo's throat before he could blink.
"Careful, Enzo," I whispered, the edge of the glass drawing a tiny prick of blood from his jugular. "My husband might be a Don, but I'm a psychopathic brat with nothing to lose and a very sharp piece of crystal. Do you really want to find out if I've improved my aim since this morning?"
The silence was absolute. Dante was frozen, his eyes wide, a look of pure, unadulterated shock transforming his face.
Enzo looked into my eyes and saw the truth. He didn't see a socialite. He saw a void. He saw a woman who would gut him in the middle of her own wedding and go back to her cake. He stepped back, his hands raised in mock surrender, his face pale.
"Just a joke, Donna," he stammered. "No offense intended."
"I don't like jokes," I said, dropping the broken glass. It shattered on the floor. "They're for people who aren't brave enough to be honest."
I turned back to Dante, who was staring at me as if I had just grown wings. I wiped my hand on a silk napkin and took his arm again.
"Shall we dance, husband? I believe they're playing our song."
Dante didn't say a word. He led me to the center of the ballroom. As the music started—a dark, sweeping waltz—he pulled me flush against him. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that contradicted his calm face.
"What the fuck was that?" he hissed as we spun.
"That was me securing your flank," I replied. "Enzo was testing you. He wanted to see if I was a weakness he could exploit. I showed him I'm a hazard he can't afford to touch."
"You could have started a massacre."
"But I didn't. I ended a rebellion before it began." I looked up at him, a cold light in my eyes. "Are you angry, Dante? Or are you finally starting to realize that you didn't just buy a wife? You bought an empire."
Dante swung me around, his grip so tight it left bruises on my waist. He leaned down, his lips ghosting against mine.
"I think," he whispered, "that I've made a deal with a demon."
"Then it's a good thing you've already spent your life in hell," I shot back.
The dance ended, but the tension didn't. As we headed toward the car that would take us to his private estate—the "Gilded Cage" of the Moretti family—I felt a strange, fluttering sensation in my stomach. It wasn't nerves. It was a physical ache, a deep-seated nausea that I had ignored all evening.
I sat in the back of the armored limousine, leaning my head against the cool leather. Dante sat opposite me, watching me with the intensity of a scientist observing a new species.
"You're pale," he said.
"It's been a long day, Dante. I died this morning, remember?"
I closed my eyes, but the world didn't stop spinning. Suddenly, the nausea surged. I leaned forward, clutching my stomach. A sharp, stabbing pain flared in my lower abdomen.
Dante was at my side in an instant, his hands on my shoulders. "Isabella?"
I couldn't answer. A warm sensation spread between my thighs, soaking into the black silk of my dress. I looked down, my breath catching in my throat.
The blood on the floor this morning had been red. This was darker.
"Dante," I gasped, my voice breaking for the first time. "Something is wrong."
He followed my gaze to the seat. The black lace was drenched. He didn't curse. He didn't panic. He slammed his fist against the partition.
"Drive faster!" he roared at the chauffeur. "To the clinic! Now!"
He turned back to me, his face a mask of terrifying focus. He scooped me up, pulling me into his lap, holding me as if I were made of glass.
"Stay with me," he commanded, his voice shaking with a sudden, raw emotion that wasn't sociopathic at all. "Do you hear me? You don't get to die twice in one day. I won't allow it."
I looked up at him, my vision blurring. "The... the child," I whispered, the memory of Isabella's secret finally surfacing with agonizing clarity. "Dante... I didn't know..."
The darkness rushed in then, cold and absolute, as the "assurance-vie" I had planned to use against him became the very thing that threatened to end my rebirth before it had truly begun.