The first time Isabella Moretti heard her father put a price on her life, she was carrying her own birthday cake. She had turned twenty-two exactly forty-seven minutes ago. Downstairs, music floated through the grand halls of the Moretti mansion. Crystal chandeliers illuminated the marble floors, and expensive champagne flowed freely among guests who had come to celebrate the daughter of one of Italy's wealthiest businessmen. Isabella should have been happy. Instead, she stood outside her father's study, listening to a conversation that would destroy everything she thought she knew. "Forty million euros, Vittorio. That's what you owe me." The voice belonged to Dante De Luca. Even Isabella knew that name. Every Italian knew it. Dante was a man people discussed in whispers. A mafia boss whose influence stretched across Milan, Florence, and beyond. Businessmen feared him, politicians avoided crossing him, and his enemies rarely lived long enough to regret their decisions. And now, he was standing inside her father's study. "I need more time," Vittorio Moretti replied. "You've had two years." "The market collapsed. My investments-" "Are no longer my concern." There was a brief silence. Then Dante spoke again. "Give me something worth forty million, and your debt disappears." Isabella frowned. What could her father possibly offer a man like Dante? "The company?" Vittorio suggested desperately. "Already considered it. Your company is worth less than half what you claim." "My properties, then?" "Not enough." Isabella shifted the cake in her hands. She wanted to leave, but something in Dante's voice kept her rooted to the spot. Then her father said the words that made her blood turn cold. "What about my daughter?" The cake nearly slipped from Isabella's fingers. Inside the study, silence followed. Then Dante laughed softly. "Isabella?" "She's twenty-two. Beautiful, educated, and from a respectable family. You could marry her. The alliance would benefit both families." Isabella stopped breathing. Her father was offering her as payment. "You're selling your daughter to settle a debt?" Dante asked. "I'm making a reasonable proposal." "No," Dante replied. "You're desperate." "Please, Dante. I have no other choice." Another silence. Then came the words Isabella would remember for the rest of her life. "Very well. I'll marry her." Her knees weakened. "You have my word?" Vittorio asked. "You have until Monday to prepare her. The wedding will take place within the month." "And the debt?" "Settled." Isabella backed away from the door, tears burning her eyes. Twenty-two years. Twenty-two years of believing her father loved her. She remembered the expensive gifts, the birthday celebrations, and the times he had kissed her forehead and promised that she would always be safe. Had any of it been real? She turned to leave, but her heel struck a small decorative table. The sound echoed through the corridor. The study door opened. Vittorio appeared first. His face drained of colour when he saw her. "Isabella." She stared at him. "Tell me I heard wrong." He opened his mouth, but no words came. Behind him stood Dante De Luca. He was taller than she had expected, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his expression was almost frighteningly calm. His eyes settled on the birthday cake in her hands before moving to her face. "You were listening," he observed. Isabella ignored him. "Father?" Vittorio stepped toward her. "Let me explain." "Explain what? That you're selling me to a man I've never met?" "It's not like that." "Then what is it like?" Her voice cracked. "You told me I was your daughter. You told me you loved me." "I do love you." "Then how could you do this?" Vittorio looked away. That small movement hurt more than any answer could have. Dante stepped out of the study. "Your father and I have reached an agreement." "I don't care about your agreement." His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Careful, Isabella." "Or what? You'll add me to your list of debts?" For the first time, something resembling amusement crossed his face. "You have a sharp tongue." "And you have the audacity to think I'll marry you." Dante studied her for several seconds. "You will." "Never." "We'll see." He adjusted his cufflinks and turned toward the stairs. "Bring her to my estate on Monday," he told Vittorio. Then he walked away as though the matter had already been settled. Isabella watched him disappear before turning back to her father. "I hate you." The words came out quietly. Vittorio flinched. She placed the cake on the nearby table and walked away before he could stop her. That night, Isabella locked herself in her bedroom and cried until her eyes hurt. She had no idea that the marriage was only the beginning. The following morning, a soft knock came at her door. It was Maria, the longtime housekeeper who had helped raise her after her mother died. "My child," Maria whispered, closing the door behind her. "There's something you must have." She placed a small brass key in Isabella's palm. "Your mother left this with me before she died. She told me to give it to you when the time was right." Isabella stared at the key. "What does it open?" Maria's eyes filled with tears. "I don't know. But your mother made me promise never to give it to your father." She closed Isabella's fingers around it. "And whatever happens, do not let Dante De Luca see it." A chill ran down Isabella's spine. Before she could ask another question, someone knocked sharply at the bedroom door. "Miss Isabella?" A man's voice came from the other side. "Mr De Luca wants a word with you." Isabella looked at the key in her hand. Then she heard Dante laugh quietly from the corridor. Her wedding was still weeks away. But the nightmare had already begun.

Isabella barely slept. The brass key lay beneath her pillow, and every time she closed her eyes, she heard her father's voice repeating the words that had shattered her life. What about my daughter? By morning, her tears had dried, leaving behind something colder than sadness. Anger. If Vittorio Moretti believed she would quietly accept being traded like a business deal, he had badly underestimated her. A knock sounded at her bedroom door. "Come in," she called. The door opened, revealing a man in a black suit. "Mr De Luca would like to speak with you." "Does Mr De Luca understand the meaning of the word no?" The man hesitated. "He's waiting downstairs, miss." "Then he can keep waiting." She expected an argument, but the man simply nodded and left. Ten minutes later, Isabella descended the staircase. Dante stood near the entrance hall, speaking to her father. He turned as she approached, his dark eyes settling on her. "You kept me waiting," he said. "I was hoping you'd get tired and leave." A faint smile touched his lips. "Unfortunately for you, I'm a patient man." "Then you'll have no problem waiting for me to agree to this ridiculous marriage." Vittorio sighed. "Isabella, please." She ignored him. Dante slipped one hand into his pocket. "The wedding arrangements will begin next week. You'll move to my estate on Monday." "I'm not moving anywhere." "You are." "Do you always get everything you want?" "Almost everything." "And what happens when you don't?" His gaze held hers. "People tend to regret disappointing me." "Then I suppose I'll be your first disappointment." For a moment, neither spoke. Then Dante stepped closer. "Your defiance is interesting, Isabella. But don't mistake my patience for weakness." "And don't mistake my silence for obedience." Something unreadable crossed his face. "Monday," he repeated before turning toward the door. Isabella watched him leave, relieved that he was finally gone. But his presence had left her unsettled. She needed to understand why her mother's key mattered so much to Maria. Upstairs, she searched through the few belongings Elena had left behind. Most were ordinary things: old letters, jewellery, and photographs from happier days. Then she discovered a small photograph tucked inside an envelope. Her mother stood beside a dark-haired man outside what looked like a grand Italian estate. Isabella's breath caught. The man looked remarkably like Dante. She turned the photograph over. Four words were written across the back in faded ink. Trust no De Luca. Her fingers tightened around the paper. Why had her mother written that warning? Had she known Dante? And if she had, why had nobody ever mentioned it? A knock interrupted her thoughts. Luca entered without waiting for permission. "Father wants you downstairs." "Does Father ever want anything that doesn't involve controlling my life?" "Don't start." "Tell me something, Luca. Did you know he was going to give me away?" Her brother's expression changed. "I knew the family was in trouble." "That wasn't my question." He looked away. "I'm sorry, Isabella." She stared at him, waiting for more. Nothing came. "Get out." "Isabella-" "Get out!" Luca left quietly. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the photograph. Her family was hiding something, and she was beginning to suspect that her mother's death was connected to the secrets surrounding her marriage. That evening, she overheard voices coming from her father's study. "She wasn't supposed to find out about the first agreement!" Vittorio snapped. Another man answered too quietly for her to understand. Isabella leaned closer. The floor creaked beneath her foot. The conversation stopped. She hurried away before anyone could discover her listening. The first agreement. Whatever it meant, it had existed before the marriage arrangement she had overheard. And her father was terrified she might discover it. Later that night, Isabella sat alone in her bedroom with her phone in her hand. An unknown number sent a message. If you want to know why your mother died, do not go to Dante De Luca's estate. Her heart began to race. Another message followed. He was there the night she was killed. She read it twice, hoping she had misunderstood. A third message appeared. And your father knows who pulled the trigger. For several seconds, Isabella couldn't move. Her mother had died twelve years ago. Vittorio had always called it an accident, refusing to discuss the details. Now someone was telling her it had been murder. She typed a reply. Who are you? The message was delivered. No response came. She tried calling the number, but it was unavailable. "Who are you?" she whispered again. Her eyes returned to the photograph. Trust no De Luca. She slipped the picture into her handbag and reached beneath her pillow for the brass key. Her mother had left her a warning. Maria had feared Dante seeing the key. Her father had mentioned a first agreement. None of it was a coincidence. Isabella didn't know whether the anonymous messages were telling the truth, but she knew one thing: she could no longer trust the people who had raised her. On Monday, she would enter Dante De Luca's world. But she wouldn't go there as a helpless girl waiting to be rescued. She would go there looking for answers. And if Dante De Luca had played a part in her mother's death, she would make him regret ever underestimating her.

Isabella Moretti barely touched her dinner. Across the table, her father ate in silence, pretending he hadn't destroyed her life with a single conversation. She couldn't pretend anymore. "What was the first agreement?" she asked. Vittorio's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "What?" "I heard you yesterday. You said I wasn't supposed to find out about the first agreement. What were you talking about?" Her brother, Luca, glanced between them. Vittorio placed his fork down. "You should stop listening to conversations that don't concern you." "My future concerns me. My mother's death concerns me. And whatever you're hiding concerns me." "Enough, Isabella." "No! You sold me to Dante De Luca for forty million euros. At least have the courage to tell me why." Vittorio's face reddened. "You have no idea what I've sacrificed to keep this family standing." "And you have no idea what you've sacrificed to save yourself." Luca shifted in his seat. "Bella, maybe we should calm down." She turned toward him. "You knew about the marriage arrangement. Did you know about the first agreement too?" He hesitated. That hesitation hurt more than any answer. "I knew Father was in trouble," he admitted. "I didn't know everything." "But you knew enough to keep quiet." "I'm sorry." Isabella pushed back her chair. "Keep your apology. I want the truth." She left the dining room before either man could stop her. Behind her, Vittorio muttered something she couldn't hear. She didn't turn around. For the first time, she understood that the people who had raised her might be the very people she needed protection from. ⸻ Later that night, her phone rang. The number was unfamiliar. "Hello?" "Isabella Moretti?" "Who's asking?" "Someone who knew your mother." Her grip tightened around the phone. "What do you know about Elena?" "More than your father wants you to discover." "Then tell me." "Not over the phone. Meet me tomorrow at noon, near the fountain in Piazza della Signoria, Florence." "Why should I trust you?" "You shouldn't. But if you want to know what your mother discovered before she died, come alone." The caller ended the conversation. Isabella stared at her screen. She knew it could be a trap. After everything that had happened, trusting a stranger seemed foolish. But ignoring the call meant allowing another piece of her mother's story to disappear. She saved the number and wrote down the meeting details. Tomorrow, she would go to Florence. She needed answers, and nobody in the Moretti mansion seemed willing to give them to her. ⸻ A knock sounded at her bedroom door. "Who is it?" "Dante." Of course. Isabella opened the door but remained in the doorway. "What do you want?" "To speak with you." "Then speak." Dante studied her face. He wore a black shirt, and his expression was unusually serious. "Your father says you've been asking questions about your mother's death." "My father talks too much." "Has anyone contacted you about Elena?" Isabella's heart skipped, but she kept her expression neutral. "Why?" "Because there are people who would rather keep certain things buried." "Are you one of them?" His jaw tightened. "You don't know enough to accuse me of anything." "Then help me understand. Were you there when my mother died?" For a moment, he said nothing. Then he answered, "Yes." The word landed between them like a slap. Isabella felt her throat tighten. "You were there, and you never thought to tell me?" "I didn't say I killed her." "You expect me to believe that makes you innocent?" "No." His eyes held hers. "I expect you to ask questions before deciding who your enemy is." She almost laughed. "You're asking me to trust a man my mother warned me against." Dante's expression changed. "What warning?" Isabella immediately regretted speaking. "Nothing." He stepped closer, but she refused to move. "Isabella, if someone contacts you about your mother, tell me." "Why should I?" "Because the people responsible for her death are still dangerous." Her blood ran cold. "You know who killed her?" "I know enough to understand that you're not safe." "That isn't an answer." "No," he admitted. "It isn't." For a moment, something almost like regret crossed his face. Then he straightened. "You're moving to my estate on Monday. Until then, stay away from anyone offering you secrets." He turned to leave. "Dante." He stopped. "If you know the truth about my mother, I will find it. With or without your help." He looked back at her. "I believe you." Then he walked away. Isabella closed her door and leaned against it, trying to steady her breathing. Tomorrow, she would travel to Florence and meet the stranger. She didn't know whether he was telling the truth or leading her into danger. But Dante's warning had confirmed one thing: Elena's death was connected to something much bigger than a simple accident. Isabella picked up the brass key Maria had given her and slipped it into her handbag. Whatever her mother had left behind, Isabella intended to find it. She was tired of being the daughter everyone made decisions for. If the truth could destroy her family, so be it. She would rather face the truth than spend another day living inside their lies.