Page 7 of Relentless Refuge

Isabella looks up at me, and I see that her cheeks are dusted with pink. Thick, dark eyelashes veil her eyes as she fumbles with the ring, taking my outstretched hand and sliding the ring on my finger. Her hands are clammy, cool, and sweaty, and she locks eyes with me. It’s a strange and tense moment where I feel like I see into her soul. She loved her father very much, and this is her way of honoring him.

Perhaps she finds me attractive—most women do—but this isn’t about me. This is about her and her father’s legacy. I find it refreshing that she understands how these things work, how a marriage can unify and align our two families to better us both and how she willingly becomes the pawn in her own game to assure mutual success. It’s sexy and powerful, and I find myself impressed again.

The ring slides onto my finger easily, and I take her dainty hand to put the ring on her finger. As I push the small silver band across her knuckles, I hear her uncle clear his throat and her mother release a moan and more soft cries. They aren’t pleased with this arrangement, but they won’t try to stop her. Isabella made it clear to me that as the child of the late Don, she is the heir, and the Family will be forced to fall in line under her leadership or suffer the consequences.

And now, looking into her determined gaze, I believe her. She’ll either whip them into shape or she’ll die trying. I hope for her sake that it’s the former because a beautiful, strong woman like this deserves a shot at the very least. It’s an unforgiving task in a dangerous world where men kill each other for crossing the street at the wrong intersection, and it isn’t often that they let a woman lead.

“So, that’s all, then,” the judge mumbles as he scrawls his name on the marriage certificate lying on this desk behind him. “You’re married.” His hunched over form shows his age, and I wonder if I’m going to need to consult a new judge soon should this one die of old age.

“That’s it?” Isabella asks, sounding confused. I watch her tongue drag across her lips again, and she glances around the room, at the judge, then her mother, then her uncle. When her eyes land on me, she says, “We’re married now?”

I chuckle and let her hand go, and she hastily rubs it as if I’ve somehow hurt her by holding her hand. I see the way her eyes dart around frantically. I’ll have to teach her a thing or two about having a poker face if she plans to be even remotely successful at leading her Family.

“This is more of a business arrangement than a wedding. Were you expecting flowers and music?” I slide my hand into my pocket as the judge holds up the marriage certificate and hands it to her. I hear her uncle sigh heavily and her mother mutter something unintelligible.

“Well, of course not.”

“Good, then we’re done here. I’ll expect you at my house at five p.m.” I button my suit coat and run a hand through my hair as her face scrunches in confusion.

“I…” Her timid protest is adorable, but as my wife, she will do as I say, and soon, she’ll realize I’m on her side.

“I’ll send a car. You don’t have to worry about your things. Everything you need will be provided for you.” I move toward the door, walking past Nicolo, who eyes me skeptically. He’s leery of me, which is fine. He’s a businessman, and it’s right to be cautious, which is more than I can say for the young, beautiful Isabella. She’s rushing right in, and I’m not stopping her.

“Mr. Romano?—”

“Please, call me Marco. We’re married now.” I turn and look at her over my shoulder.

“Marco, I don’t intend to live with you. At least not just yet. Mother needs me. She’s grieving.” And there is the confident and bold woman I know lies under that nervous surface.

“Dinner at five. I’ll be waiting.” I nod at Nicolo and take one last look at Giana, who now looks like she’s lost everything, then I walk out.

I get the guns, she gets the backing of my family to help keep hers in line while they determine whether she can lead them. I like this arrangement already.

Now if I can convince her that conjugal duties aren’t optional, I’ll have the best of both worlds.

6

ISABELLA

Marco’s driver picks me up as he indicated he would, and the car delivers me to his home at precisely five p.m. I’ll give the man credit for having punctual staff. It’s more than I can say for my cousins, though Father wasn’t very punctual, either. As I step out of the car, I notice his landscaping is in perfect order. Not a single piece of mulch is out of place, and his topiary bushes are well-manicured too, which speaks volumes in terms of curb appeal.

The row home nestled in a line of them isn’t a brownstone, but it might as well be. It’s as beautiful as the two-hundred-year-old historic homes in the Upper East Side, and it appears Marco takes great pride in ensuring his home is well-maintained.

Clutching my purse to my side, I mount the steps, escorted by the driver, and he leads me into the home and past the stairs that greet us as we enter. “Right this way, Ma’am,” the man tells me as he gestures down the hallway. Large rooms with ornate pocket doors line the hallway on both sides of us, all of them but one shut to my view, and portraits of what I can only assume are Marco’s family hang on the walls between them.

“It smells delicious,” I offer, breathing in the savory scent of a meal being prepared or served. The home is quiet, not the familiar bellows of laughter or banter that would greet someone if they entered my home.

“Mr. Romano is waiting for you here,” he says, stopping by a door. “I believe the cook has prepared a hearty potato soup and fresh bread.” His hand grips the metal handle, and he slides the pocket door toward himself, the wall behind him swallowing it as an entrance to the dining room is provided to me.

“Thank you.” I nod at him and walk past, squaring my shoulders and raising my chin. I’m not sure what to expect at this dinner. After all, I’ve never been married before. Nor have I entertained male company on my own. Father had his ways of making sure he kept me chaste and isolated—mostly by assigning his men or my cousins to watch me around the clock. When I once snuck out, it earned me three weeks of zero access to the outside world, including no phone to call a friend or even talk to my family, and all I did was go to the movies to watch an R-rated film.

Marco stands as I enter. His chair at the head of the table has a place setting laid out for him, as does the chair to his right. The tablecloth runs the full length of the twelve-person table, though there is enough space in this dining room to permit up to three more chairs on either side, with leaves inserted into the table, of course.

“Welcome, Isabella,” he says, reaching his hand to take mine.

I take note of the crystal glasses, real silver cutlery, and personalized China with his initials centered on the bowls. I move toward him with purpose, taking his outstretched hand as if to shake it, but he turns my wrist, bringing the back of my hand to his lips. Warmth flushes across my skin and sinks intomy body from head to toe. I swallow to remove the lump forming in my throat and nod at him.

“Thank you for your invitation to dinner. Shall we sit?” I gesture at the chair, expecting to pull it out and have a seat, but he sweeps around me and pulls it out, helping me sit before positioning it back at the table properly. Then he joins me, but the way he looks at me isn’t what I expect, either. His eyes are studious, examining me, or what he can see of me. I’m careful to keep my poise, and I’ve chosen a modest top to discourage any untoward behavior—advice taken from Uncle Nicky.

---