The Romano Bride

ISABELLA The city smelled like iron and blood, and I knew I’d made a mistake coming back. I hadn’t set foot in New York since the night they sent me away. Ten years of silence; ten years of cards I wrote but never knew if anyone read; ten years of pretending I wasn’t Isabella Romano but Isabella Moreau — a girl who studied art history, who drank coffee in quiet cafés where no one cared about my last name, who walked home at night without watching shadows. In Canada, I could pretend to be free. Now, as the car rolled past the skyline, the buildings felt like cages. The Romano name was waiting here, heavy as chains. My father’s summons had been clear: Come home. It’s time to do your duty. Duty tasted like ash. The driver didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His silence was the first reminder that I wasn’t Isabella Moreau anymore. I was Isabella Romano again — the girl who had learned to measure rooms by where the men sat and where the exits were. The gates of the estate creaked open, swallowing me whole. Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and old grudges. My father sat at the head of the dining table, his presence filling the room like a storm. My mother, Elena, was next to him — beautiful, brittle, her eyes sharp as glass. Antonio leaned against a cabinet like he owned the house, his jaw set, that stubborn tilt to his chin I remembered too well. Sophia sat a seat away, fingers worrying a napkin into fraying lace. “Isabella,” my father said. “Sit.” I didn’t. “You dragged me back for what?” His jaw tightened. “For your duty.” I gave him a smile that showed teeth. “Duty meaning sacrifice. Meaning you trade me like a favor.” “You will marry,” he said, each word heavy enough to bruise. “The Romano family has debts. Our enemies circle. A union will secure peace.” “My freedom, bought and sold.” I tilted my head. “What if I refuse?” Silence dropped like a blade. My mother’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Antonio made a sound — a scoff or a curse, I couldn’t tell. Sophia’s eyes flicked to mine, wide. My father leaned forward, voice quiet, cruel, certain. “Then your sister will take your place.” My breath caught. Sophia. Twenty-one. Soft around the edges in a way this world would carve to bone. The person I kept writing to — Christmas card, birthday card, every year, every single time — even when no one wrote me back, even when I wasn’t sure they reached her hands. My little sister who still loved poetry and believed in kind endings. “She’s too young.” My voice came out flat. Dangerous. “She doesn’t belong in this world.” “She belongs where I say she belongs,” Vittorio said. “Antonio’s mistakes have cost us. If you refuse, she marries the heir. The debt will be settled one way or another.” Antonio stiffened, shame flashing across his face before he buried it under anger. “I’ll fix it.” My father didn’t look at him. “You’ve done enough.” I held Vittorio’s stare until I felt it — the old, familiar pulse of fear and fury — rise and tighten in my chest. “You use her as a lever. You want me compliant? Threaten her.” “If you refuse, she weds by month’s end,” he said. “Those are the terms.” I didn’t let myself flinch. “Name him.” “The heir is none of your concern,” he said. “You’ll meet him soon enough.” My nails bit half moons into my palm. “A faceless man with hands deep in blood.” “A faceless man who can keep your sister breathing,” my father said, and for a second I hated him so cleanly it felt like relief. I wanted to walk out. To turn my back and let the Romano empire bleed. To be the girl I built in Canada who believed the worst thing that could happen was a bad grade or a cracked phone screen. But Sophia’s eyes were on me, scared and hopeful and already apologizing. I swallowed the scream building in my throat. “I’ll marry.” Sophia’s hand flew to her mouth. Antonio swore under his breath. My mother looked down, eyes shining, and when she spoke, her voice was soft enough to cut me open. “Thank you.” Not to my father. To me. I didn’t look at him. “Sophia doesn’t pay for the men’s mistakes.” Vittorio’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t a smile. “You’ve made the right choice.” “I made the only choice,” I said. Dinner was a performance. Crystal and china and food I couldn’t taste. Antonio drank like the glass could drown shame. My mother rearranged forks that didn’t need rearranging. My father discussed numbers I didn’t ask for and wars I didn’t care to understand. Sophia reached for my wrist under the table. Her thumb brushed the scar there — faint now, barely visible — but I felt it like a match. Facts you can choose to forget. Pain that never moves out, just learns to sleep quieter. “Bella,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t have to—” “I won’t let them have you,” I said without moving my lips, staring at a painting of a hunt. “Even if it means they have me.” Her fingers squeezed. “I missed you.” I swallowed the ache. “I never forgot you.” Antonio scraped his chair back, a harsh sound. “You think you’re a savior,” he said, anger seeping through. “You left.” I turned to him, slow. “They sent me away. You know that.” “You could’ve come back,” he said. “I wrote,” I said, each word steady. “Holidays. Birthdays. I wrote because it was all I had.” He stared at his glass. “I made mistakes,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean—” “Meaning doesn’t stop bullets,” I said. “Meaning won’t keep Sophia free.” He flinched. For once, guilt beat anger. “I’ll fix it,” he said again, but it sounded smaller. “Let me,” I said. My father cleared his throat, and the room obeyed. “You’ll meet the heir at the engagement dinner,” he said. “Tomorrow night.” My heart gave one hard, traitorous thud. “So soon,” I said. “Delay invites insult,” Vittorio replied. “You will be gracious.” Sophia’s breath hitched beside me. “Do I have to be there?” My father’s gaze slid to her like a blade being set down. “You will stand with your sister. And remember what happens if she falters.” I lifted my chin. “She won’t need reminding.”