Page 4 of Twisted Vows

She didn’t hesitate to take the seat directly across from him, her posture poised, unaffected, even as her insides churned.

Matteo studied her in silence before speaking. “You’re not afraid.”

“I don’t fear men who hide behind their power,” she replied smoothly. "I grew up playing this game."

His eyes darkened with something unreadable. “You’ll learn, Isla. Power isn’t something to hide behind. It’s something to wield.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Then I suppose we’ll see who wields it better.”

For the first time, Matteo’s lips quirked, something resembling intrigue flickering in his gaze. “Careful, princess. I like a challenge.”

She picked up her wine glass, holding his stare as she took a slow sip. “Then you’re going to love me.”

The battle lines were drawn.

And neither of them planned to lose.

Chapter Three

The church was a masterpiece of gold and ivory, its vaulted ceilings painted with angels who looked down in silent judgment. Candles flickered along the endless rows of pews, their flames barely moving in the oppressive stillness. The grandeur was wasted on Isla. This wasn’t a wedding—it was an execution.

Draped in white lace, she stood at the entrance, her hands locked in a death grip around the bouquet she wanted to shred to pieces. The dress was exquisite, a custom-made creation from one of Italy’s finest designers, but it felt like a prison. Heavy, suffocating, constricting her with every breath she took. Her olive-toned skin contrasted starkly against the pale fabric, and her long, dark hair had been pinned back into an elaborate style that only made her feel more like a doll on display. Emerald eyes, filled with defiance and resentment, darted around the room, seeking any possible escape, but there was none.

The pews were filled with powerful men, allies and enemies of the DeLuca and Marino families, all gathered to witness this unholy union. They weren’t here to celebrate. They were here to ensure the war didn’t spill into their streets. Silent eyes bored into her, some filled with pity, others with cold indifference. This was not her moment—it was theirs.

And at the altar, waiting like the executioner he was, stood Matteo DeLuca.

He was dressed in a black suit, sharp and severe, his expression unreadable.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he exuded effortless dominance, a force of nature wrapped in tailored silk. His jet-black hair was neatly styled, but a single rogue strand had fallen onto his forehead. His chiseled features were all sharp angles—highcheekbones, a defined jaw, and a mouth that seemed to always hold a hint of arrogance. His storm-gray eyes locked onto hers with a calculated intensity, as if measuring how far he could push before she broke. He didn’t look at her like a groom gazing upon his bride—he looked at her like an acquisition. A contract signed in blood.

Her father’s hand was firm on her arm as he led her forward. She wanted to rip herself away, to run, but she wouldn’t get far. Not with the DeLuca men lining the walls, watching her every move. Not with Matteo standing there like a god of war, waiting to claim his prize.

The ceremony passed in a blur. The priest’s words blended into nothingness, drowned out by the roar of her own fury. She felt caged, trapped in an ornate nightmare she couldn’t wake from. When the time came for Matteo to slip the ring onto her finger, his touch was impersonal, as if he were handling a business transaction.

Then came the part she dreaded most.

“You may kiss the bride.”

A cruel smirk flickered across Matteo’s lips as he leaned in, but instead of kissing her, his lips brushed the barest fraction of space above hers. A deliberate insult. A reminder of just how unwanted she was.

Applause erupted from the crowd, but Isla only felt the fire burning in her veins. Her skin itched with the urge to shove him away, to scream that she would never belong to him. She clenched her jaw, vowing that this would not be the end of her fight.

As they turned to face their guests, Matteo leaned down, his breath ghosting against her ear. "You are my wife in name only. Don’t forget that."

Her nails dug into her palm. "Trust me, I never will."

****

A lavish reception awaited them at the DeLuca villa, where champagne flowed, and laughter echoed off marble walls. Isla barely touched her drink, her appetite gone as she sat at Matteo’s side, pretending she wasn’t suffocating. Guests came to congratulate them, offering polite words laced with hidden agendas. Every touch, every whisper was a reminder of the world she had been forced into.

Matteo remained cold, barely acknowledging her presence. He entertained business partners, exchanged veiled threats with rivals, but spared her no kindness. When their eyes did meet, his gaze was unreadable, a wall she couldn’t break through.

A woman draped in diamonds approached, her hand lingering on Matteo’s shoulder as she leaned down, whispering something in his ear that made him smirk. Isla’s fingers tightened around her glass, a strange, uninvited sensation curling in her stomach. Jealousy? No. It was rage. Pure, blistering rage.

The woman—clearly an old acquaintance—turned to Isla with a smirk. "You poor thing. You must feel so out of place."

Isla gave her the kind of smile that had made grown men flinch. "Not as much as you will when you realize he’s a married man."

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