Married To The Comatose Mafia King

Isabella POV

The air in the grand Gothic cathedral was thick and cloying, a mixture of lilies, old stone, and the solemn scent of incense. It was the smell of a funeral, not a wedding. I stood at the altar, a sacrificial lamb in white silk, the lace of my veil a shroud across my vision. Beside me, Julian Moretti radiated a smug, proprietary warmth that turned my stomach to ice.

He thought this was his victory. The culmination of a flawless plan.

He didn't know I remembered the fire.

The acrid smell of burning gasoline, the searing heat on my skin, the sound of my mother and brother's screams trapped behind a locked door. I remembered the triumphant sneer on his face, reflected in the window of the car as he drove away, leaving them to burn. He and his pregnant whore, Clara.

I had died then. And I had come back.

“...and do you, Isabella Rossi, take this man, Julian Moretti, to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the priest droned, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

This was the moment. The exact moment my past life had ended and this new, vengeful one began.

I lifted my hands, my fingers steady, and tore the veil from my head.

A collective gasp rippled through the pews, filled with the deadliest men in Chicago. Capos and Soldiers in dark, tailored suits shifted, their eyes, cold and watchful, fixing on me. Julian’s hand tightened on my arm, his smile faltering. “Bella, what are you doing?” he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper.

I ignored him. My eyes scanned the crowd, finding her with ease. Clara. His little secret, hiding amongst the guests, one hand resting protectively on the slight swell of her belly. Her face was a mask of shock and dawning horror.

“You have made a mistake, Father,” I said, my voice ringing out with a clarity that defied the trembling of my soul. I turned, my wedding gown sweeping across the cold marble, and pointed a single, unwavering finger at Clara. “My fiancé has been unfaithful. That woman, his mistress, is carrying his child.”

The silence that followed was absolute, a void so profound it felt like the world had stopped breathing. Then, chaos erupted. A low, dangerous rumble of voices filled the church. Julian’s face, once a portrait of handsome charm, was now a twisted canvas of disbelief and pure, murderous fury.

But I was no longer looking at him.

My gaze was fixed on the figure in the ornate wheelchair near the front pew, an afterthought at his own son’s wedding. Don Damien Moretti. Julian’s adoptive father. The rightful king of this dark empire, brought low by a traitor’s poison. He was a specter, kept alive by a network of tubes and the rhythmic hiss of a respirator, his chiseled face pale and still as a death mask.

This was my only move. My only chance.

I walked towards him, each step a declaration of war.