The Mafia King's Runaway Ghost Bride
Chapter 4
Isabella POV
The heavy wool carpets of the Élégance boutique muffled the chaotic sounds of 1920s Chicago outside. The air inside was thick with the scent of French perfume and old money.
I stood before the massive three-way mirror, staring at a stranger. The scarlet silk evening gown clung to my curves, the fabric pooling around my feet like melted rubies. For five years, I had been a ghost trapped in a dark, suffocating sleep. But in this dress, with the delicate black netting of my hat obscuring the upper half of my face, I looked alive. I felt real.
"Take it off."
The sharp, entitled voice shattered my fragile peace. I turned to see a woman with heavily painted lips and arrogant, dark eyes glaring at me.
"Excuse me?" I asked, my voice quiet but steady.
"The dress. It's the only one in the city, and I want it," she snapped, stepping closer. Her eyes raked over my veiled hat with blatant disgust. "Take it off now. A cheap little thing hiding her ugly face behind a veil doesn't deserve to wear Schiaparelli."
My hands curled into fists. I had lost five years of my life to a monster's blade; I wasn't about to surrender my dignity to a spoiled brat. "It's not for sale anymore. I'm buying it."
Her face twisted in ugly fury. Before I could blink, she lunged, her manicured nails digging painfully into my bare shoulder as she tried to physically yank the silk down my arm.
"Stop!" I gasped, shoving her back.
The boutique manager rushed over, his face pale with terror. He pulled me aside, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "Miss, please, you must yield. That is Natalia Gallo, daughter of Capo Gallo. More importantly... she is the fiancée of Marco Valentine, The Bull. You do not want to cross her."
The blood drained from my face. Marco's fiancée?
My stomach violently churned. My brother—my fiercely loyal, protective, warm-hearted Marco—was tied to this venomous creature? I stared at Natalia, who was now smirking triumphantly. She didn't know she was bullying the very sister her fiancé had wept over just three nights ago. A fierce, protective fire ignited in my chest. I would rather die again than let this monster marry into my family.
"I said, take it off," Natalia sneered, turning to the other patrons. "I'm wearing it to the charity gala this weekend. I want to surprise my Marco. He's busy at the port today, so I have time to deal with trash like you."
She thought Marco was at the port. She had no idea he had only crossed the street to buy me my favorite cannoli.
"I'm not taking it off," I said, lifting my chin.
Natalia's eyes darkened with vicious intent. She snapped her fingers at the two massive men standing by the door—her family's Soldiers. "Hold her down. Strip the dress off her. I don't care if you tear it."
Panic seized my throat as the two men advanced. They grabbed my arms, their grips like iron vices, pinning me in the center of the boutique. I struggled wildly, but I was powerless against their brute strength.
"Let go of me!" I screamed.
Natalia stepped right into my personal space, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Let's see what you're hiding under that ridiculous netting."
She reached for my veil.
Pure, unadulterated terror spiked through my veins. If she pulled off the veil, my face would be exposed. The Omertà would be broken. Damien's hounds would find me.
As her fingers brushed the black mesh, survival instinct took over. I wrenched my right arm just enough to lean forward, and I sank my teeth into her outstretched wrist with every ounce of strength I possessed.
The taste of copper flooded my mouth.
Natalia shrieked, a high-pitched wail of agony, and stumbled backward, clutching her bleeding wrist. "You bitch!" she screamed, her face purple with rage. "Beat her! Beat her until she lets go! I'll take the fall!"
One of the Soldiers cursed and raised a massive, heavy fist, aiming straight for my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the crushing impact.
The cheerful chime of the boutique's front door bell rang through the air.
The fist never fell.
I opened my eyes. Standing in the doorway was Marco. In his left hand, he held a white pastry box tied with a neat little ribbon. But his eyes—those fierce, hawkish eyes—were locked onto the Soldier holding my arm.
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