The Romano Bride

Chapter 4

ISABELLA

The envoy resumed his lines, circling through logistics: an engagement announcement drafted for the Right People, gift exchanges, photographs with neutral backgrounds to avoid implicating territory, transfer papers waiting with lawyers, calendars inked for public appearances. I watched the pages of my life turn without hands.

Adrian seldom spoke, but when he did, the room stilled. “I require clarity on security transitions for Ms. Romano,” he said.

Not Isabella. Ms. Romano. A name fit for a ledger.

“Existing personnel remain for ninety days. After that, my team replaces and merges. Any conflicts are escalated to me.”

My father’s mouth twitched. “We anticipated as much.”

“And,” Adrian added, gaze sliding to Sophia as if checking a line item, “her sister.”

My fingers tightened. The envoy corrected, seamlessly. “Ms. Sophia Romano remains under house protection per Mr. Romano’s directive.”

Adrian inclined his head, just so, like a man who had measured the ground and decided not to test it yet. He looked at me then, fully, and the quiet between us was a different temperature than the room.

I kept my face smooth. The girl under the bleachers wanted to hand him every word I’d swallowed. The woman at this table pressed a smile into shape. “Mr. Salvatore,” I said, voice calm enough to be read as polite, sharp enough to be felt as steel, “your reputation precedes you.”

His lips almost moved. “Yours as well.”

Antonio made a sound — half laugh, half curse — and my mother reached for her water glass like it might anchor the room to sanity. My father ignored both and gave the envoy a glance that meant proceed.

The gifts arrived as if a play had reached its third act. A velvet box set in front of me: the ring. I didn’t look at my father; I didn’t look at Adrian. I opened it.

The diamond did not scream. It was quiet, precise, set low in platinum like a secret. Of course. Subtle power is louder among men like these than ostentation. That, or a message: this ring does not have to impress; it has to fit.

“May I?” the envoy asked, as if etiquette wore his voice. He didn’t wait for an answer. The box hovered, the table held its breath. I slid the ring onto my own finger. The metal was cool, then warmed. It fit perfectly. Of course.

My father raised his glass again; no words this time. A seal more than a toast. Adrian lifted his as well, eyes on me for the length of one heartbeat, then gone.

Courses moved. White plates lifted and vanished. The room eased into the act where people pretend food matters. Inside me, silence roared.

When conversation restarted, it did so in professional shapes. The envoy spoke to Antonio about “cooperation benchmarks.” Antonio flashed his old arrogance like a broken blade, then let it drop, the edges dulled by guilt. My mother asked the envoy’s assistant about guest lists with the kind of gentleness that makes men forget she carries knives under lace. Sophia kept her attention on her fork like it was the only thing she could manage without shaking the room.

Adrian did not attempt small talk with me. He let the distance exist like geography that would be traversed later, at his choosing. We occupied the same stage and different worlds. It was almost a relief. Almost.

My father stood again toward dessert, just enough to reroute air. “A house is only as strong as its promises,” he said, eyes on the table, not the people. “Tonight, the promise is simple. My daughter will marry the Don of the Salvatore family. Our foes will reconsider their hunger. Our friends will be reminded that we choose with intent.”

He turned his head and his gaze settled on me like a benediction that tasted like warning. “Isabella understands what is asked of her.”

He gave no room for me to speak. He never did. But he held the pause like a stage cue.

I placed my napkin down, the smallest sound, and lifted my chin an inch. “I do.”

It was the only truth I could say aloud here without breaking the surface of the performance. I understood what was asked: be currency. Be bridge. Be leverage. Be shield. Be the thing that keeps Sophia out of this room.

My father nodded once. “Then we proceed,” he repeated, summary and verdict.

Adrian toyed with the stem of his glass, a fraction of movement that might have been thought or amusement or nothing. He didn’t look away when he finally spoke. “You have my word,” he said, to my father, to the room, to me. “The Salvatores honor what we bind.”

The envoy exhaled like a man marking a box ticked. I did not.

Dessert arrived: lemon tarts hidden under spun sugar. I touched a fork to mine and watched it collapse. It seemed appropriate.

In the shifting hum of conversation, my mother’s voice cut softly through, meant only for the closest ears. “Sophia,” she murmured, “fresh air?”

Sophia startled, then nodded, grateful to be given permission to escape the pressure. She rose; my mother touched her elbow, guiding, supportive, careful not to make the movement look like retreat. My father did not object. Adrian’s gaze brushed the motion and moved on.

“I’ll walk with you,” I said, and stood before anyone could calculate the optics. My father’s brow lifted a half millimeter. “Five minutes,” he said, making it permission and a limit.

We stepped into the corridor where the house’s noises changed — less choreography, more breath. Sophia exhaled like she had been holding it for days.

“I can’t feel my hands,” she whispered, then laughed, shaky, apologetic for feeling anything at all. “They’re cold.”

I took them in mine and rubbed warmth into her knuckles. “You’re doing perfectly.”

“I don’t feel perfect.”

“We don’t have to,” I said. “We just have to be useful until we’re powerful.”

She blinked, and the line landed in her like medicine that tasted bad. “Is he—” She stopped, as if saying his name could rearrange the corridors. “Is he the boy?”

The question was a blade coated in sugar. My throat tightened. “He’s a man,” I said, and left it there, because the rest of the truth would belong to another room, another hour, another version of me that wasn’t made of ceremony.