When the World Decides for You

The news reached Bella the way bad news always did in her world.

Casually.
Effortlessly.
Like it was nothing personal.

She heard it in passing, standing in the corridor outside her father’s study while two men spoke in low voices.

“…Santoro wedding is moving up,” one of them said. “Days, not weeks, not months.”

Bella stopped walking.

Her hand tightened around the folder she was carrying.

“…Romano girl pushed for it,” the other continued. “Smart move. Looks decisive. Strong.”

Days.

Not weeks, not months.

Her chest hollowed out in a way she hated herself for. She told herself it was strategic concern. A shift in alliances. A tightening of the Santoro–Romano bond.

She told herself many things.

What it felt like was loss.

So that’s it, then.

Luca Santoro was getting married. Soon.

And the worst part was this: a small, traitorous part of her hadn’t expected him to rush it. Had believed, stupidly, that he might hesitate. That he might delay.

That he might feel something.

She laughed once under her breath. Short. Bitter.

Of course he didn’t.

At the Santoro estate, Alessia Romano was very much alive, focused, and determined.

The sitting room had been transformed into a battlefield of a different kind. Fabric samples covered the table. Shoes lined the floor. Jewelry cases lay open, glittering beneath the lights.

Alessia stood in front of a mirror, a seamstress crouched at her feet and another adjusting the line of her dress.

“No,” Alessia said sharply. “That crease needs to disappear. I won’t have it photographed like that.”

“Yes, signora.”

She lifted her chin, studying her reflection critically.

Everything had to be perfect.

Not because she was naïve. Not because she thought marriage was a fairy tale.

But because presentation mattered.

A Romano marrying a Santoro wasn’t just a wedding. It was a message. To allies. To enemies. To families watching for weakness.

And Alessia did not intend to look weak.

“Flowers confirmed?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Guest list finalized?”

“Yes.”

“Security?”

She turned slightly. “Triple it.”

One of the women hesitated. “Triple, signora?”

Alessia’s eyes hardened just enough. “Do it.”

Satisfied, she waved them out.

When Luca entered, the room was finally quiet.

He took in the chaos with a single glance and zero interest.

“Looks… thorough,” he said.

Alessia turned, smiling faintly. “You could try enthusiasm.”

He shrugged. “You’re getting exactly what you want.”

That earned him a look.

“Most men would pretend to care,” she said.

“I’m not most men.”

“No,” she agreed coolly. “You’re not.”

She stepped closer, smoothing the fabric of her dress. “You don’t mind that it’s soon?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No.”

That was true.

Not because he wanted it.
But because the timing no longer mattered.

Days, weeks or months. Either way, the door was closing.

“Good,” Alessia said, satisfied. “Then we’re aligned.”

He nodded once.

Inside, he felt nothing about the wedding itself.

No excitement. No dread.

Just acceptance.

Bella stood in front of her own mirror later that night, staring at a future she hadn’t chosen and couldn’t escape.

Luca Santoro was moving forward.

So was she supposed to.

She pressed her palm flat against the glass, grounding herself.

Forget him.

That was the order.

Forget the man who had crossed enemy lines for her.
Forget the way his silence had spoken louder than any confession.
Forget the fact that he had bled and hidden it so no one would ask why.

Easy.

She straightened, shoulders squaring.

Fine.

She would play her part.

Across the city, Luca Santoro lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wedding plans echoing around him like distant noise.

He didn’t picture the ceremony.

He pictured rain.
Gunfire.
Bella raising a weapon at him with shaking hands.

And he wondered, distantly, how long it would take before the world noticed that something inside him had already stepped out of line.

The wedding was coming.

And neither of them was ready for what it would cost.

The day of the wedding arrived, wrapped in ceremony and steel.

The church was sealed tight, layers of security circling the grounds like a living thing. Black cars lined the drive. Men in tailored suits stood with hands folded, eyes sharp, earpieces whispering constant updates.

Inside, everything gleamed. White flowers. Gold accents. Candlelight reflecting off marble floors.

Alessia Romano stood at the far end of the room, immaculate and composed. Her dress fit perfectly. Hair flawless. Expression calm in the way only someone raised in power could manage.

This was her moment.

Luca stood opposite her.

Still. Silent.

He wore the suit because it was expected.
He stood there because it was required.

His face gave nothing away, but his mind was elsewhere, restless in a way he couldn’t explain.

No Valenti presence had been announced.

No Bella.

He told himself that was good. Clean. Predictable.

The priest began to speak.

Across the city, Bella Valenti paced her bedroom like a trapped animal.

She checked the clock again.

Too early for vows.
Too late to pretend this was nothing.

Her chest felt tight, pressure building with every passing minute. She tried to distract herself. Failed. Tried again. Failed harder.

They’re almost married.

The thought landed like a physical blow.

She pressed her palm against her sternum, breathing shallowly. Something felt wrong. Not emotional. Instinctive.

The kind of feeling you didn’t ignore if you wanted to survive.

She crossed to the window, staring out at the estate grounds below. Everything looked normal.

Too normal.

Her phone buzzed once.

Nothing useful. No warnings. No confirmations.

She whispered to the empty room, “I hate this.”

“If anyone here has reason—”

The first explosion shattered the doors.

Wood splintered. Glass rained down. Screams erupted as the sound echoed through the hall.

Men poured in wearing dark tactical gear, moving fast, coordinated, ruthless.

Moretti.

Gunfire ripped through the air.

Santoro men reacted instantly, returning fire, dragging guests down, flipping chairs for cover. Chaos swallowed the ceremony whole.

Alessia was pulled backward by two guards, her scream cut off as she vanished behind a wall of men.

“Get her out!” someone shouted.

Luca didn’t move toward her.

He moved forward.

His hand reached for a weapon that wasn’t there.

Too late.

A Moretti man slammed into him from behind, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Another hit his legs, driving him to his knees.

He fought. Hard.

It didn’t matter.

A blow to the head sent stars across his vision. Zip ties bit into his wrists. A hood came down over his face.

Not Alessia.

Him.

As they dragged him away, Luca heard one voice above the chaos, calm and satisfied.

“Careful. Don’t damage him.”

Bella was in the training room when the news arrived.

Gunfire echoed rhythmically as she emptied magazine after magazine into the target. Her movements were sharp, controlled, almost violent in their precision.

Marco watched from the doorway, arms crossed.

She hadn’t stopped once to breathe.

“Bella,” he said finally.

She fired again.

“Bella.”

Another shot.

Then silence.

She lowered the gun slowly, chest rising and falling. Sweat clung to her hairline. Her eyes were dark, alert.

“What,” she said flatly.

Marco stepped inside. His expression unreadable, and that alone was enough to make her stomach tighten.

“The wedding was attacked,” he said.

Her fingers curled around the grip again. “Is he dead.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a test.

“No,” Marco replied. “He was taken.”

Something inside her snapped. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a clean, internal break, like glass under pressure.

Taken.

Alive.

Her pulse slowed instead of racing. That scared Marco more than if she’d screamed.

“The Morettis?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She nodded once.

No denial. No hesitation.

“Where.”

Marco exhaled slowly. “We don’t know yet.”

Bella turned back to the target. Replaced the magazine with practiced ease.

Marco frowned. “You’re not listening.”

“I am,” she said. “You’re telling me they took him. You’re telling me you don’t know where. And you’re about to tell me to stay out of it.”

He hesitated.

She fired again. Dead center.

Marco swore under his breath. “You are not going after him.”

Bella finally turned to face him.

Her expression was calm. Too calm.

“You know,” she said quietly, “this is the part where you lie to yourself.”

Marco’s jaw clenched. “Bella—”

She turned to face him fully now, her expression unreadable, too composed for what was breaking underneath.

“They planned this,” she said. Not a question. “And they wanted someone to notice,” she added.

Marco didn’t argue.

Bella laughed once, short and humorless.

She walked past him, pacing the length of the hall, fingers flexing as if she could still feel the recoil in her hand.

“They know,” she said.

Marco’s brow furrowed. “Know what.”

She stopped, turning sharply. “That he matters.”

The silence stretched.

Marco chose his next words carefully. “Bella. The Morettis don’t do things halfway. If they took him alive, it’s because they expect something in return.”

Her jaw clenched. “Me.”

Marco didn’t deny it.

“They’ll test reactions first,” he said. “Watch who moves. Who doesn’t.”

Bella stared at the far wall, eyes unfocused.

She saw Luca’s face as she’d last seen it. Controlled. Guarded. Saying nothing, always saying nothing.

Santoro. Enemy. The man she was supposed to hate.

And yet.

“He didn’t have to be there,” she said suddenly. “He could’ve left. Could’ve avoided it. Everything.”

Marco said nothing. But something in his gaze sharpened.

“You think this is about you,” he said slowly.

She didn’t answer.

“Bella,” he pressed, “if that’s true—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, finally looking at him. Her eyes were bright, furious. “Don’t say it.”

Marco held her gaze, unwavering. “Then stop acting like it isn’t.”

Her breath stuttered. Just once.

She turned away again, voice lower now. “What does Father know.”

“Nothing yet,” Marco said. “I came to you first.”

That mattered. More than he probably realized.

“Good,” she said. “Because if he knows before we understand what the Morettis are really doing, this turns into a massacre.”

Marco nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

She walked back to the bench, picked up the gun again. Not to fire. Just to feel its weight.

“They won’t kill him,” she said. “Not immediately.”

“You care,” he said.

It wasn’t an accusation. It was an observation.

Bella’s fingers curled around the grip.

“I care about ending the Morettis,” she said. “Whatever it takes.”

Marco didn’t push further.

“You’re assuming—”

“I’m calculating,” she snapped. “Just like you taught me.”

Marco stepped closer. “You are not part of this war.”

She laughed once. Sharp. Humorless.

“I’ve been part of it since the moment he saved my life.”

“That doesn’t make him your responsibility.”

“No,” she said. “It makes him mine.”

Marco searched her face. He saw it then. Not recklessness. Not emotion clouding judgment.

Resolve.

Cold. Focused. Dangerous.

“You’re thinking about going alone,” he said.

“I’m thinking,” Bella replied, “that if I wait for permission, he’ll be dead.”

Marco ran a hand through his hair. “He’s your enemy.”

She met his gaze. “I owe him.”

Silence settled between them.

“You won’t stop me,” she added softly. “You know that.”

Marco looked away.

That was answer enough.