Chapter 1

The Marriage Announcement

The night my father decided to sell my future, he served our favourite wine.

That should have been my first warning.

My second was the black car parked outside our house, its tinted windows hiding whoever sat inside.

And my third?

My father had asked me to dress nicely for dinner.

In the Moretti family, that usually meant something unpleasant was about to happen.

I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, staring at the black dress I’d reluctantly pulled from my wardrobe. My dark hair fell over my shoulders, and the gold necklace my mother had given me for my eighteenth birthday rested against my collarbone.

I touched its little pendant.

I wish you were here, Mum.

She had been gone for eight years, yet there were still moments when I wanted nothing more than to hear her voice. She had been the only person who could challenge my father without turning the entire house into a battlefield.

Without her, the Moretti mansion had become beautiful, expensive and unbearably quiet.

My phone buzzed on the dressing table.

A message from my best friend, Sofia.

Sofia: Are you still coming out tonight?

I sighed and typed a reply.

Me: Apparently there’s a family dinner. I’ll explain later.

Sofia: That sounds suspicious.

Me: Everything in this house is suspicious.

I slipped my phone into my handbag and left my bedroom.

As I descended the grand staircase, the scent of roses and expensive perfume drifted through the hall. The dining room doors stood open, revealing a table set for three.

My father sat at the head.

The second man was someone I had never seen before.

He looked to be in his late fifties, with silver hair, a charcoal suit and eyes that seemed to notice everything. He was holding a glass of wine, but he wasn’t drinking it.

When I entered, both men looked up.

“Isabella,” my father said. “Finally.”

I glanced at the clock.

“I’m two minutes late.”

“Sit down.”

I smiled sweetly.

“Lovely to see you too, Father.”

The stranger’s mouth twitched as though he were trying not to laugh.

I took the empty chair beside my father.

“Am I going to be introduced to our guest, or are we playing a guessing game?”

“Enzo De Luca,” the stranger replied.

The smile slipped from my face.

De Luca.

I’d heard that surname before.

Not in the pleasant way people discussed wealthy families or successful businessmen. The De Lucas were the sort of family people mentioned in lowered voices, usually followed by a quick glance over their shoulders.

They owned hotels, private clubs and businesses throughout Italy. Their influence reached places money alone couldn’t explain.

And their reputation was considerably darker than their public image.

I looked at my father.

“Why is a De Luca sitting at our dinner table?”

“Because we have something important to discuss.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Isabella.”

There it was again. That warning in his voice.

I leaned back in my chair.

“Fine. I’ll wait for the exciting announcement.”

My father exchanged a glance with Enzo.

Something passed between them.

Something rehearsed.

I suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that everyone in the room knew what was happening except me.

My father reached for his wine.

“You know how important our family’s alliances are.”

“I know how much you enjoy reminding everyone.”

“This is serious.”

“Then stop speaking in riddles.”

Enzo placed his glass on the table.

“Your father and my family have known each other for a very long time.”

“Congratulations.”

“Isabella,” my father snapped.

“What? Should I congratulate you on having friends?”

Enzo gave a quiet chuckle.

My father did not.

He folded his hands on the table and looked directly at me.

“There is an agreement between our families. One that was made many years ago.”

I frowned.

“What kind of agreement?”

“One that must now be honoured.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

Neither man answered immediately.

My stomach tightened.

I knew that silence. I’d heard it before, whenever I asked questions my father didn’t want to answer.

Then he spoke.

“You are going to marry Adrian De Luca.”

For a few seconds, I simply stared at him.

Then I laughed.

Not because it was funny, but because the alternative was believing that my own father had lost his mind.

“That’s a good one.”

Nobody laughed with me.

My smile faded.

“You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

I looked at Enzo, waiting for him to tell me this was some elaborate joke.

He merely took another sip of wine.

I turned back to my father.

“No.”

His expression hardened.

“Excuse me?”

“I said no.”

“You haven’t even met Adrian.”

“Exactly! I’m supposed to marry a man I’ve never met because you and his family signed some mysterious agreement years ago?”

“You will meet him soon.”

“Oh, wonderful. Will there be refreshments?”

“Enough, Isabella.”

I pushed my chair back.

“No, you don’t get to tell me enough. You don’t get to sit there and announce that I’m being married off as though you’re discussing the purchase of another hotel.”

“This marriage is necessary.”

“For what?”

“For this family.”

I stared at him.

“Then you marry him.”

Enzo coughed into his hand.

I was fairly certain he was hiding a laugh.

My father stood.

“Do not test me.”

I stood too.

“Then don’t treat me like I’m something you can trade.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You have no idea what is at stake.”

“Then tell me!”

My voice echoed through the dining room.

For one brief moment, I thought he might finally give me an honest answer.

Instead, he looked away.

That hurt more than I expected.

Because beneath the anger, beneath the disbelief, there was a small, foolish part of me that had hoped my father would choose me over whatever agreement he’d made.

Apparently, I had hoped for too much.

“Who is Adrian De Luca, really?” I asked quietly.

Enzo answered this time.

“He is a man who understands responsibility.”

I let out a humourless laugh.

“That’s a very diplomatic description.”

“He is also a man who doesn’t appreciate being challenged.”

“Then he’s going to hate me.”

My father slammed his palm against the table.

“Your wedding will take place in three weeks.”

Three weeks.

I felt as though the floor had shifted beneath my feet.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am.”

“And if I refuse?”

The silence that followed told me more than his answer ever could.

My father straightened his jacket.

“You won’t refuse.”

I looked at him for a long moment.

Then I picked up my handbag.

“Watch me.”

I left the dining room before either man could stop me.

I was halfway up the stairs when I heard Enzo speak behind me.

“She doesn’t know about the original agreement.”

I stopped.

My heart began to pound.

My father answered in a voice so low I almost missed it.

“No. And she mustn’t find out.”

I pressed my hand against the banister.

Then Enzo asked the question that made every hair on my arms stand up.

“What about her mother?”

A long silence followed.

Finally, my father replied.

“Adrian already knows.”

I stopped breathing for a second.

Knows what?

My mother’s death had always been described as a private family tragedy. She had been ill, my father told me, and nothing could have been done.

I’d never questioned him.

Until now.

I hurried upstairs before they could discover I’d been listening.

For the first time in eight years, I wondered whether my mother’s death had been the truth I’d been given—or simply another secret my father had buried.

I spent the next two hours searching for Adrian De Luca.

The internet offered plenty of information about his business empire, but very little about the man himself.

He was twenty-eight, the youngest head of the De Luca family in generations, and the owner of an impressive collection of hotels, restaurants and private clubs.

His photographs were everywhere.

At charity galas.

Outside luxury hotels.

Beside politicians who smiled far too widely.

Adrian never smiled.

He had dark hair, sharp features and eyes that seemed almost black in every photograph. He wore expensive suits as though they were a second skin, and his expression suggested that he found the entire world mildly irritating.

One article described him as a ruthless negotiator.

Another called him an intensely private businessman.

A third had been deleted.

I leaned closer to the screen.

There was something about him that unsettled me.

Perhaps it was the way people stood around him without ever appearing comfortable. Perhaps it was the complete absence of personal information.

Or perhaps it was the fact that every article seemed determined to describe him as powerful without explaining why so many people feared him.

I opened a photograph taken outside a private club.

Adrian stood beside a black car, speaking to a man twice his size. The other man looked furious.

Adrian looked bored.

I stared at the photograph.

“Wonderful,” I muttered. “I’m marrying a man who looks like he orders people to disappear before breakfast.”

My phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

Unknown: You shouldn’t be searching for Adrian De Luca.

I frowned.

Me: Who is this?

The message was marked as read almost immediately.

Then another arrived.

Unknown: If you marry him, stay away from the east wing.

I sat upright.

Me: What east wing?

No response.

I waited, staring at the screen.

Finally, a third message appeared.

Unknown: Ask him about Serena Vale.

I typed the name into the search bar.

The first results were unhelpful. A few social photographs, an old society article and a picture of a beautiful brunette standing beside Adrian outside a restaurant.

The caption was dated five years earlier.

Adrian De Luca and longtime companion Serena Vale attend a private event in Bellavere.

I stared at the photograph.

Adrian looked different.

Not younger, exactly. His features were the same, his expression just as controlled.

But his attention was fixed entirely on the woman beside him.

Serena was smiling up at him.

And he was looking at her as though she mattered.

I opened the article.

There was no mention of a breakup. No wedding announcement. No explanation of why her name disappeared from the public eye.

I searched again.

A short report suggested Serena had withdrawn from public life following an undisclosed family dispute.

After that, nothing.

It was as though she had ceased to exist.

My phone buzzed once more.

Unknown: Your mother knew what happened to her.

My blood ran cold.

I read the message repeatedly, trying to make the words mean something else.

My mother had known Serena Vale?

I started typing, but another message appeared before I could send anything.

Unknown: Your father has lied to you about more than the marriage.

I stared at the screen until it dimmed.

Then I looked at the gold necklace resting against my collarbone.

For the first time, I wondered whether my mother had left me more than a piece of jewellery.

Perhaps she had left me a warning.

The following evening, my father informed me that Adrian would be joining us for dinner.

Apparently, the man I was being forced to marry wanted to meet me before the wedding.

How considerate.

I spent an unreasonable amount of time choosing what to wear, although I refused to admit that I cared what Adrian thought of me.

Eventually, I settled on a black dress, left my hair loose and wore the necklace my mother had given me.

If I was going to meet the man who intended to control the next chapter of my life, I would do it looking like myself.

At precisely seven o’clock, a black car pulled into the driveway.

I watched from the upstairs window as the driver stepped out and opened the rear door.

A man emerged.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

Dressed in black.

Adrian De Luca adjusted his cufflinks before walking towards the house.

Then he stopped.

Slowly, he raised his head and looked directly at my window.

At me.

I stepped back instinctively.

He couldn’t possibly have seen me through the glass.

Could he?

A moment later, the doorbell rang.

My father called my name from the hall.

I descended the staircase, my heart beating faster with every step.

The front door opened.

And there he was.

Adrian De Luca looked even more intimidating in person. His dark hair was neatly styled, his jaw clean-shaven and his expression entirely unreadable.

His gaze travelled briefly over my face before settling on my eyes.

“Isabella Moretti.”

His voice was deep, calm and completely without warmth.

“Adrian De Luca.”

He held my gaze.

“I understand we have a wedding to discuss.”

I folded my arms.

“Apparently. Though I don’t remember agreeing to one.”

My father made a quiet sound of disapproval behind me.

Adrian didn’t seem offended.

Instead, one corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.

“You’re direct.”

“And you’re exactly as unpleasant as your photographs suggest.”

My father closed his eyes.

For a moment, I thought Adrian might throw me out of his house before I even entered it.

Instead, he stepped inside.

“Good,” he said.

I frowned.

“Good?”

“I dislike people who pretend to agree with me.”

“Then we should get along wonderfully. I disagree with you already.”

His gaze sharpened, and something unreadable passed through his eyes.

He looked at me as though he were trying to solve a problem.

Then his attention dropped to the gold necklace around my throat.

Everything changed.

His expression remained composed, but his jaw tightened.

“Where did you get that?”

I touched the pendant.

“It belonged to my mother.”

He stared at it for a moment.

“What’s her name?”

I frowned.

“You know who my mother was.”

“Tell me her name, Isabella.”

Something in his voice made the hairs on my arms rise.

“Elena Moretti.”

Adrian went still.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then he looked towards my father.

It was the first time I’d seen Adrian De Luca look at another man as though he wanted an explanation.

“What?” I demanded. “What is it?”

Neither answered.

I stepped closer to Adrian.

“Why did you ask about my mother?”

His eyes returned to mine.

“Has your father ever told you the truth about how she died?”

My stomach dropped.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you should ask him.”

“I just did. He told me she was ill.”

Adrian’s expression hardened.

“And you believed him?”

The question struck deeper than it should have.

I stared at him.

“Why would I have any reason not to?”

For a moment, something almost like regret crossed his face.

Then it vanished.

“Come to dinner, Isabella.”

He turned away as though the conversation were over.

I remained where I was.

“Adrian.”

He stopped.

“If you know something about my mother, you will tell me.”

He looked back over his shoulder.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“Then explain it to me.”

His eyes held mine.

“Not here.”

I laughed bitterly.

“Of course. Another secret.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Listen carefully. You can hate me all you like. You can insult me in front of every person in this house. You can refuse to smile at the wedding photographs.”

“How generous.”

“But if you want to understand what happened to your mother, you need to stop assuming your father has told you the truth.”

My throat tightened.

Before I could answer, Adrian straightened and walked towards the dining room.

I followed him, my thoughts racing.

The marriage was no longer the only thing I wanted to escape.

I wanted answers.

And somehow, Adrian De Luca had just become the only person who might have them.

As I reached the dining room doorway, he turned to face me one final time.

“One more thing, Isabella.”

I stopped.

“When you come to my family’s mansion, stay away from the east wing.”