chapter 5

Isabella's POV

The grand ballroom was bathed in a golden glow, the chandeliers casting shimmering reflections over the marble floors. The air was thick with cigar smoke, murmured conversations, and the distant clinking of champagne glasses. Mafia leaders, businessmen, and politicians—all powerful, all ruthless—gathered to witness the crowning moment of Niccolò Este.

My husband.

A title I would never accept.

The soft notes of a waltz began to play, signaling the start of the dance. My heart pounded against my ribcage as I felt a firm hand slide around my waist, pulling me closer. I inhaled sharply at the familiar scent of leather and expensive cologne. Niccolò's presence loomed over me, his grip possessive, his touch calculated.

"I did everything to protect you, my dear wife," he murmured against my shoulder, his voice laced with something that almost resembled regret.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to look at him. Instead, I focused on the rhythm of our steps, the way his body moved in perfect synchronization with mine. Every turn, every dip, every touch—it was all a dance of deception.

"I will never accept you as my husband," I said coldly, my voice barely above a whisper. "To me, you will always be the killer of my father."

His grip on my waist tightened for a fraction of a second before he loosened it, his face unreadable. Niccolò was a man who thrived in control, but in that moment, I saw something flicker in his dark eyes—pain, perhaps? No. Niccolò Este did not feel pain.

"Is that what you truly believe?" he asked, his voice as smooth as the silk of my gown.

I swallowed, refusing to show weakness. "I don't believe it. I know it."

A slow smirk tugged at his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Then I suppose I'll have to spend a lifetime proving you wrong."

The dance continued, a delicate contradiction of grace and hostility. To the outside world, we looked like a perfect couple—beauty and power intertwined. But beneath the surface, a storm raged between us.

As the music neared its final notes, Niccolò twirled me one last time before pulling me flush against him. Our faces were mere inches apart, our breaths mingling. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear.

"You hate me now, but one day, Isabella, you'll understand why I did what I did."

I stiffened, refusing to react. The dance ended, and applause erupted around us. I stepped back immediately, putting distance between us. Without another word, he turned and walked away, heading toward the main stage where his coronation awaited.

I watched as he ascended the steps, standing tall and commanding before the sea of criminals and dignitaries. He was no longer just Xavier Sforza's most trusted man. He was the new leader of the Sforza Mafia. My husband, the most powerful man in the room.

And I despised him for it.

The ceremony began with the eldest members of the Sforza family stepping forward, their presence a reminder of the generations of bloodshed and power that had built this empire. The room fell into a hushed silence as an elder, dressed in a tailored black suit, approached Niccolò, holding out the ceremonial dagger.

"This blade," the elder spoke, his voice carrying the weight of tradition, "is a symbol of loyalty, of power, and of the blood that has been spilled to keep the Sforza name feared and respected."

Niccolò took the dagger without hesitation, his fingers curling around the hilt as if it were an extension of himself. The elder gestured toward the golden goblet filled with red wine—no, blood. The blood of a traitor who had been executed earlier that evening, his life a sacrifice to mark the ascension of a new leader.

"Drink," the elder commanded.

Without flinching, Niccolò brought the goblet to his lips, the dark liquid staining them momentarily before he set it down. A ripple of approval swept through the crowd, a silent acknowledgment that he had honored the ancient rite.

Then came the vow.

Niccolò knelt before the elder, bowing his head in mock humility. "I vow to uphold the legacy of the Sforza. To rule with strength, to strike down those who threaten our family, and to ensure that our enemies tremble at the mere mention of our name."

The elder placed a hand on Niccolò's shoulder, nodding in approval. "Rise, Niccolò Este, leader of the Sforza Mafia."

The room erupted into cheers, applause, and the clinking of glasses. Men swore their allegiance to him, while others whispered among themselves, already plotting, already waiting for the right moment to strike.

I stood at the back, watching it all unfold with a cold, detached expression. This was the world I had been born into. A world of power plays, deceit, and endless bloodshed. And now, my fate was bound to it through a man I could never forgive.

Back in our bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the flickering candlelight. The room was grand, decorated in deep crimson and gold—colors of royalty, of power. But to me, it felt like a prison.

The door creaked open, and Niccolò stepped inside. His black suit was immaculate, his tie slightly loosened. His eyes locked onto mine, dark and unreadable.

Silence stretched between us.

"You're waiting for me," he finally said, shutting the door behind him.

I tilted my chin up defiantly. "I had no choice."

A ghost of a smirk crossed his lips. "Of course."

He took slow, measured steps toward me, his presence overwhelming. My fingers gripped the silk sheets beneath me, my heart hammering in my chest. But I refused to show fear. I would never give him that satisfaction.

Niccolò reached out, tracing a single finger down my arm. A shiver ran through me, but I masked it with indifference.

"This is our wedding night, Isabella," he murmured. "Do you know what that means?"

I met his gaze, my voice sharp as a dagger. "It means nothing to me. Just like this marriage."

His jaw tightened, his eyes darkening. I had struck a nerve.

"You think you can push me away with words?" he asked, his voice dangerously low. "You think your hatred will keep me at a distance?"

I let out a bitter laugh. "I don't need words to push you away. You already know you don't belong here."

His expression hardened. "Don't I?"

"No." I stood, closing the distance between us. "You may have forced me into this marriage, Niccolò, but you can't force me to love you. You will never have my heart."

For the first time that night, something flickered in his eyes—something raw, something vulnerable. But it disappeared as quickly as it came.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice quieter now.

He paused, his hand on the doorknob. "Somewhere I won't be reminded of how much you hate me."

And with that, he left, closing the door behind him.

I let out a shaky breath, my chest tightening in a way I didn't understand.

Because for the first time since I had married Niccolò Este, I wondered if hurting him had hurt me more.

Niccolò's POV

The ballroom was filled with applause, but all I could focus on was her. Isabella. My wife. My enemy. My greatest weakness.

She stood there, radiating defiance, her gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. She loathed me, and yet, I couldn't take my eyes off her. As the waltz began, I took her hand, my grip firm around her waist. She stiffened but didn't resist.

"I did everything to protect you, my dear wife," I murmured, my lips brushing her ear.

She scoffed. "I will never accept you as my husband. To me, you will always be the killer of my father."

The words stung more than they should have. My grip tightened involuntarily before I forced myself to relax. I had expected this hatred, yet hearing it aloud was different.

"Is that what you truly believe?" I asked, my voice composed.

She didn't hesitate. "I don't believe it. I know it."

I smirked, masking the ache in my chest. "Then I suppose I'll have to spend a lifetime proving you wrong."

The dance ended, and I left her standing alone, heading toward the stage. The ceremony proceeded—pledges of loyalty, the weight of power settling onto my shoulders. I had everything I once wanted. But the only thing I truly wanted was walking away from me.

Later that night, in our bedroom, she struck again.

"You can force this marriage, Niccolò, but you will never have my heart."

Something inside me twisted. Without a word, I turned and walked out.

Because staying would only prove how much her hatred destroyed me.