Chapter 64 Chapter 64
Belladonna
“Wake up, Bella.” My mother’s voice cuts into my dreams as she shakes my shoulder.
I groan and pull the blanket tighter. “I just want to sleep, Mom.”
But she doesn’t linger. “We’ve got work to do.” And just like that, she vanishes from my bedroom, leaving me blinking in confusion.
I sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Work? I don’t know what she means. Things have been quiet lately, too quiet. It’s been two weeks since Lily went to the safehouse, and Sebastian handled everything by killing the Russian mobster who threatened their unborn baby. That storm has passed, and now they’re living in peace. No shadows chasing them anymore.
And me? I haven’t seen Dante in those two weeks either. The absence makes my chest feel lighter, calmer. It’s like I can finally breathe again without the weight of his stare burning holes into me. I don’t want that chaos anymore. I just want this, silence, normalcy, the countdown to my graduation day. After that, it’s done. No more stress, no more mafia games brushing against my life.
I drag myself to the bathroom, brush my teeth, shower, and slip into my pink long dress, soft and feminine, with a matching white cardigan. White shoes to complete the look. Comfortable, girlish, safe. I check myself in the mirror. I look nothing like someone tied to this bloody world, and maybe that’s exactly why I cling to colors.
Downstairs, the atmosphere feels… strange. My mother stands tall in a dark grey coat dress, polished and severe. My father and Enzo are in suits, sharp and formal. The sight makes me pause mid-step.
“Why are you dressed like that?” I ask carefully, scanning their expressions.
My father’s voice is calm, too calm. “People will be here soon. We’ll have a conference.”
Conference. The word sits heavy in my chest. Still, I nod and don’t question it further.
They’ve already eaten, so I just grab a granola bar from the counter, nibbling on it half-heartedly. My stomach twists with unease.
When the clock ticks to noon, I hear the gates outside rumble open. Engines. My heartbeat quickens. Through the windows, I see five sleek black cars rolling into our driveway like shadows swallowing the light.
Familiar cars.
My pulse pounds harder as the doors open and six men step out. Sebastian. Antonio. Don Manchini. The Godfather. Ricco. And—him. Dante.
The six of them walk in together, dressed head-to-toe in black, filling the living room like they own it. Like it’s some cinematic mafia introduction. Sebastian holds a bouquet of pink flowers—delicate against his deadly presence.
I stand frozen by the marble lion statue, feeling like an intruder in my own house. I’m the only one in pink, the only vibrant color in this sea of black and grey. It makes me feel exposed, almost childish, like I don’t belong in this gathering of power and danger.
My parents welcome them with reverence, their voices warmer, their smiles wider than I’ve seen in years. Even my father laughs, and that sound is so rare it sends another wave of unease through me. He never laughs. Not like this.
I watch Enzo shake hands with each of them, calm and composed as though this meeting is something rehearsed.
And then there’s Dante.
He looks colder than ice, his jaw set, his eyes guarded. No smirk. No playful stare. No mocking glances thrown my way like he always does. He doesn’t even try to meet my gaze—as if he’s deliberately avoiding me.
That unsettles me more than his attention ever did. Because if Dante Manchini won’t even look at me… it means something is being kept from me. Something I’m not supposed to know.
The butlers glide in silently, setting down trays of charcuterie and pouring white wine. My father clinks his glass with Sebastian’s, their laughter filling the room like it’s all a celebration.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m standing on the edge of something life-changing, and I don’t even know what it is yet.
The men sit across from my family, the living room thick with cigar smoke and the faint clink of crystal glasses. For a while, the conversation is safe, business, territories, shipments. My father chuckles at something Antonio says, a sound so alien it makes me stiffen. He never laughs like this.
Then, as smoothly as a knife sliding from its sheath, the subject shifts. Marriage. Alliances. Churches.
The Godfather leans back, voice gravelly but warm. “I’ll offer my mansion for free. The same place Sebastian was married. It would be an honor to host another Mancini wedding under my roof.”
I stay silent, tucked by the marble lion statue, listening, a growing unease tightening in my chest. My fingers curl into the folds of my dress as words like wedding and alliance keep circling the air.
And then, my father’s voice. “Belladonna.”
My heart stutters. Slowly, I step forward, my shoes soft against the marble. My father takes me by the shoulders, firmly, almost possessively. A gesture so rare from him that it feels wrong, staged. His grip makes my pulse spike.
I glance toward Enzo, toward Dante. Neither of them meets my eyes. Both look away, stone-faced, as though the weight of something unbearable is hanging between us. My stomach twists. Marriage? My knees weaken. Marriage with whom?Then, like the crack of a gunshot, my father makes it clear. “The alliance between the Mancini and Torricelli families, sealed with the marriage of Belladonna and Dante.”
The world tilts. My breath hitches, my chest constricts. Dante’s head finally turns, but his expression is unreadable, cold as steel. Sebastian presses the bouquet into his hand, and Dante rises.
He walks toward me, every step slow, deliberate, the pink roses trembling slightly in his grip. When he extends them to me, my body reacts before my mind can. Rage burns through my shock—I snatch the bouquet and hurl it to the marble floor, petals scattering like blood against white stone.
The sound of the flowers hitting the ground is immediately drowned out by the sharp crack of my father’s hand against my cheek. The force whips my head to the side, heat and pain blooming across my skin.
“I object to this arranged marriage!” I scream, voice breaking. The walls seem to shudder with the words.
“Silence!” my father bellows, stepping closer, face red with fury. “You will not shame me in front of them!”
But before he can raise his hand again, Dante’s voice cuts through like thunder. “Don’t shout at her. And don’t you dare strike her again.” His eyes burn as he steps forward, fury written in every line of his body. “She’s mine now.”
The room explodes into movement, chairs scrape, men rise, voices overlap. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear them anymore. My chest feels tight, the world spinning faster and faster.
My vision blurs, black creeping in at the edges. My knees buckle.
And then I’m falling.
The marble floor rushes up, my temple collides with something hard, the lion statue maybe. A sharp burst of pain blooms, hot and searing.
Then, nothing.
Everything goes blank.