The chapel was full of strangers.
I walked down the center aisle on the funeral director's arm. Every face that turned toward me was unfamiliar. Three hundred people had come to say goodbye to Marcus and I didn't recognize a single one.
Except the man in the back.
His eyes tracked my every step. Dark and intense and completely focused on me. Something in my stomach tightened. Not fear exactly. Something dangerously close to awareness.
I forced myself to look away.
The casket sat at the front of the chapel. Polished mahogany. Expensive brass handles. Covered in white roses someone had ordered because they thought Marcus would have liked them.
He wouldn't have. Marcus hated roses. Said they were too formal, too expected. He liked wildflowers and daisies and things that grew without permission.
But nobody here knew that about him.
Marcus's mother sat in the front row already crying. Her sister held her up while she sobbed into a tissue. She looked smaller than I remembered, like grief had physically shrunk her.
When she saw me, she reached out with a trembling hand.
"Isabella, sweetheart. Come sit."
I took my place beside her. My own mother sat on my other side, her hand finding mine and squeezing tight. She didn't speak. Just held on like she was afraid I'd disappear.
The priest appeared at the altar. Old with white hair and a kind face.
"We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Marcus Anthony Rossi." His voice echoed through the chapel. "A beloved son, a devoted fiancé, a loyal friend."
I stared at the program without reading it. The words blurred. Marcus's face smiled up at me from the cover photo. Last summer at the beach. He looked happy and carefree and alive.
He looked like a stranger.
"Marcus was a young man with a bright future ahead of him." The priest continued. "He had plans. Dreams. A wedding to look forward to."
Lies.
All of it lies.
Marcus didn't have a bright future. He had debts and enemies and secrets that got him killed. He wasn't building a life with me. He was dragging me into his world while telling me we were escaping.
I glanced around the chapel. The people filling the pews weren't normal mourners. They were men with hard faces and expensive watches. Women dripping in jewelry that cost more than my salary. Everyone looked polished and dangerous and completely comfortable in a church.
This was Marcus's real world.
The world he promised we'd leave behind.
Marcus's mother sobbed louder. The sound cut through the priest's speech. She collapsed against her sister. I felt eyes shift to me, waiting to see if I'd break down too.
I didn't.
The tears wouldn't come.
Maybe that made me a monster. Maybe grief was supposed to look like Marcus's mother, loud and desperate. Maybe my dry eyes meant I was broken.
Or maybe I was just angry.
Angry at Marcus for lying. Angry at myself for believing him. Angry at the world that took him before I could decide if I even wanted the future we'd planned.
The priest talked about heaven and peace and God's plan. Marcus was in a better place. His suffering was over.
But his suffering wasn't over.
It was just beginning for everyone he left behind.
Twenty minutes passed. The priest finished. Someone sang a hymn Marcus probably never heard. People walked up to share memories that sounded rehearsed and fake.
Marcus's cousin talked about fishing trips they never took. His uncle talked about family dinners. His childhood friend talked about dreams they shared as kids.
None of it was real.
The Marcus I knew stayed up late watching terrible action movies. Made breakfast on Sundays and burned the toast every time. Sang off-key in the shower and left his socks on the floor and kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him alive.
That Marcus wasn't mentioned once.
My mother's hand tightened on mine. She leaned close. "Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"You haven't cried."
"I know."
"It's okay to fall apart, Bella."
But it wasn't okay. If I started crying, I might never stop. If I fell apart, I wasn't sure I could put myself back together.
So I sat there. Still. Quiet. Empty.
The service continued around me. More people spoke. More tears were shed. More lies were told about the good man Marcus had been.
Then something changed.
The air shifted. Like electricity before a storm. I felt it before I understood what was happening. A ripple of tension moving through the crowd.
Whispers started at the back and spread forward like wildfire. People turned in their seats. Marcus's mother stopped crying. Even the priest paused mid-sentence.
My mother's grip became painful.
"Bella." Her voice was tight with fear. "Don't move. Don't look. Just stay still."
But I was already turning.
The back doors had opened.
The man from the street stood in the doorway.
He was even more devastating in full light. Tall and broad with dark hair and darker eyes. His suit was perfectly tailored, black as death. He stood there surveying the room like a king surveying his kingdom.
Then his eyes found mine.
Heat flooded through me. Inappropriate and unwanted and undeniable. My heart stuttered. My breath caught. I felt pinned by that gaze like a butterfly on display.
The entire chapel went silent. Not the respectful silence of a funeral. The terrified silence of prey sensing a predator.
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
He walked down the center aisle with slow, deliberate steps. Not rushing. Not hesitating. Simply claiming space with absolute certainty.
Marcus's mother made a small sound beside me. Fear or recognition, I couldn't tell. My own mother pulled at my hand, trying to get me to look away.
But I couldn't.
I was locked in place by those dark eyes that held mine with intensity that made my skin feel too tight.
He walked past rows of people who shrank back. Past mobsters who looked away rather than meet his gaze. Past women who clutched their purses.
He walked until he stood directly in front of me.
Up close, he was devastating. Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw. A small scar above his left eyebrow that somehow made him more beautiful. He looked like violence wrapped in expensive fabric.
He looked like death.
He looked at me like I was the only person in the room.
Then he spoke. His voice was deep and smooth and carried through the silent chapel like a command.
"Isabella Rossi."
Not a question. He knew exactly who I was.
My mouth opened but no words came. My mother's hand shook in mine. Marcus's mother had gone completely still.
He held out his hand.
"I'm claiming you under my protection. You will come with me now."
The words didn't make sense. Protection from what? Come where?
I stared at his outstretched hand. Long fingers. No rings. A hand that looked like it could break bones or hold someone gently depending on his mood.
Heat crawled up my spine looking at that hand.
"Anyone who questions this decision," he continued, his voice rising so everyone could hear, "answers to me."
The threat hung in the air. Crystal clear. Absolute.
I realized with sudden, terrifying clarity who this man was.
The whispers. The fear. The way everyone looked at him like he could end them with a word.
Dante Caruso.
The godfather.
The man everyone said ordered the hit that killed Marcus.
And he was claiming me in front of three hundred witnesses at my fiancé's funeral.
His hand stayed extended. Waiting. Patient.
Those dark eyes held mine. Something flickered in them. Not quite sympathy. Something more dangerous.
Interest.
I should refuse. I should scream. I should tell him to leave.
Instead I heard myself say the only thing that mattered.
"Did you kill him?"
Dante's expression didn't change. His dark eyes held mine without flinching.
"Come with me and find out."
He took my hand before I could respond. His palm was warm. His grip firm but not painful. He pulled me gently to my feet.
The chapel erupted.
My mother grabbed at me. "Bella! Bella, wait!"
Marcus's mother cried out. "Isabella, please! Don't go with him!"
But Dante was already moving. Already pulling me down the aisle. Already taking me away from everything familiar.
I should fight.
I should pull away.
Instead I followed.
Because he'd said the one thing that made stopping impossible.
Come with me and find out.
Find out if he killed Marcus. Find out why Marcus died. Find out the truth nobody else would tell me.
People pressed back against the pews to let us pass. Nobody tried to stop him. Nobody said a word. They just watched with faces ranging from terror to fascination.
We reached the doors. Sunlight streamed in, bright and blinding.
Dante pushed through without hesitation.
A black SUV sat directly in front of the entrance, engine running. A man stood beside it. Older, maybe mid-forties, with military bearing. He opened the rear door smoothly when he saw us.
Reality hit me.
I was leaving Marcus's funeral with a man I didn't know. A man everyone feared. A man who might have ordered my fiancé's murder.
I stopped walking.
Dante's hand tightened on mine. Not painful. Just firm. He turned to look at me.
Something almost like understanding crossed his face.
"You're afraid."
"Yes."
"Good. Fear means you're smart." He pulled me closer. His voice dropped low enough that only I could hear. "But staying here means you're dead. Within forty-eight hours, everyone who wanted Marcus gone will know you survived. That makes you either a target or a bargaining chip. Choose."
His words were brutal and probably true.
"Why do you care?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "If you killed him, why protect me?"
"Get in the car, Isabella. We'll talk when you're safe."
"I'm not going anywhere until you answer. Did you kill Marcus?"
Behind us, voices grew louder. People were coming out of the chapel. My mother was calling my name. Someone was shouting about police.
Dante's jaw tightened. He glanced over my shoulder at the growing crowd, then back at me.
Those dark eyes burned.
"If I wanted you dead, you would already be dead. You wouldn't get a warning. You wouldn't get a choice. You would simply cease to exist. The fact that I'm standing here offering protection means I want you alive. That's all you need to understand."
It wasn't an answer.
It was a threat wrapped in logic.
But it was also truth.
He released my hand and gestured to the open car door.
"Get in. Or stay and take your chances."
I looked back at the funeral home. My mother was pushing through the crowd, her face frantic. Marcus's family surrounded her, all yelling and pointing.
This was insane.
I should run to my mother. I should refuse.
Instead I climbed into the SUV.
The leather was cool beneath me. The interior smelled like expensive cologne and danger. Dante slid in beside me.
The door closed with a sound like finality.
The driver pulled away smoothly. I watched through tinted windows as my mother broke free and ran after us. She was screaming my name, her face twisted with fear.
I pressed my hand against the glass.
I'm sorry.
But I didn't ask the driver to stop.
The funeral home disappeared behind us. The city moved past like any normal day. People walked on sidewalks. Cars honked. Life continued like my world hadn't just shattered.
Dante sat beside me in silence. Not touching me, but I could feel the heat radiating off his body. Could feel the weight of his presence filling all the air.
I turned to look at him.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere safe."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting right now." He pulled out his phone and started typing. His fingers moved quickly. He was all business, like claiming me at a funeral was just another task.
"You can't just take me." My voice rose. Shock was wearing off and anger was taking its place. "You can't just walk into a funeral and claim someone like property."
Dante looked up from his phone. His gaze was steady and cold.
"In my world, that's exactly how this works. I claimed you. Which means you're under my protection. Which means anyone who touches you answers to me."
"I don't want your protection."
"Too bad. You have it anyway."
"I want answers. I want to know who killed Marcus. I want to know why you were there that night watching me."
Dante went very still.
His phone lowered slowly.
When he looked at me, something dangerous flickered in his eyes.
"What?"
"The night Marcus was killed. I saw you. Standing across the street, watching. You were there." My heart pounded. "Why?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer. The silence stretched between us, heavy with meaning I couldn't decode.
Then he leaned forward and spoke to the driver.
"James. Take the long route. Make sure we're not followed."
"Yes, sir."
Dante turned back to me. This time when he looked at me, I saw calculation. Like he was deciding how much truth I could handle.
"I was there because I got a call that one of my people was being hit. I arrived too late to stop it. But not too late to see you."
"Your people. Marcus was your people."
"Yes."
"So you did order it. You killed him and showed up to watch."
"No." His voice was hard. "I did not order Marcus's death. Someone wanted me to believe I did. Someone wanted to frame me. And they used you to do it."
My breath caught.
"What?"
Dante shifted closer. Not touching me, but close enough that I could see the small scar above his eyebrow. Close enough that his voice dropped to something almost intimate.
Close enough that heat rushed through me despite everything.
"You were supposed to die with him, Isabella. That shooting was supposed to take out Marcus and his fiancée. Two bodies. Clean message. But you were late leaving the hospital. You survived. And now you're leverage."
The words hit like ice water.
I was supposed to die.
"That's why I claimed you." His dark eyes held mine. "Not out of guilt. Not because I owed Marcus anything. But because the moment you survived, you became a target. And targets don't last long in my world."
I couldn't breathe.
"You're lying."
"I don't lie about business. Lies create complications."
"Then who ordered it? Who wanted us dead?"
His expression darkened.
"That's what I'm going to find out. And when I do, they'll regret ever touching what's mine."
"I'm not yours."
His smile was cold and sharp.
Something in that smile made my stomach flip.
"You are now. The moment I claimed you in front of three hundred witnesses, you became mine. Every mobster in this city heard that claim. There's no going back, Isabella. Your old life is over."
The SUV turned onto a bridge. Through the window, Manhattan disappeared behind us.
Everything familiar was vanishing.
My apartment. My job. My mother. My friends. The life I'd built outside the mafia world.
Gone because I climbed into a car with a man who claimed I was his.
"What happens now?"
Dante leaned back in his seat, phone already back in his hand.
When he answered, his voice was matter-of-fact.
"Now you disappear."