Chapter 2 Take The Bride.

(Isabella's POV)

The men step further into the ballroom, their boots striking the polished floor in a steady, unhurried rhythm. There are more of them than I first thought, spreading out in a loose half-circle that cuts off the main exits without a single word spoken. Their jackets are dark, their faces hard, and every one of them carries a gun as if it belongs in his hand.

Luca moves in front of me so quickly that his shoulder brushes mine. “Stay back,” he says under his breath, one arm stretched out as if that alone can keep them away. Maria grabs my wrist from behind and tries to pull me toward the side doors, but the path is already blocked.

The tallest of the men, the one who seems to lead the others, keeps walking straight toward us. Two more flank him. When Luca steps forward to meet them, they do not slow down. One of them shoves him hard in the chest. Luca stumbles, loses his balance, and falls to the floor with a heavy sound that makes my stomach drop. He tries to push himself up, but a boot presses down on his shoulder and keeps him there.

“Let him go!” I shout, moving before I can think. Maria pulls at me again, her voice sharp with fear. “Bella, no—”

Hands close around my arms. The grip is firm, not crushing, but strong enough that twisting does nothing. I dig my heels into the floor and lean backward with all my weight. Maria throws herself at the man on my right, hitting his arm with both fists. He brushes her aside as if she weighs nothing. She hits the edge of a table and cries out.

“Where is Don Moretti?” the tall man asks. His voice is calm, almost polite, and that somehow makes it worse.

I stare at him, breathing hard. “What do you want with him? What do you want with us?”

He does not answer. He only looks past me, scanning the room as if my father might still be hiding among the guests. People are pressed against the walls now, silent and wide-eyed. No one steps forward. No one tries to help.

The thought rises sharp and sudden in my mind. Papa said we did not owe anyone. He said the family was careful, that the debts had been handled. So who are these men? Why do they walk in here like they already own the night?

I twist harder, trying to wrench one arm free. For a second the grip loosens and I almost slip away, but another hand catches my waist and pulls me back. My feet leave the floor for a moment. The white dress tangles around my legs. I kick out and feel my heel connect with someone’s shin. A low curse follows, but the hold only tightens.

Maria is still fighting. She grabs a crystal glass from the nearest table and throws it. It shatters against a man’s shoulder, spraying glass across the floor. One of the others turns and catches her by the arm, twisting it behind her back until she goes still with a sharp cry.

“Stop it!” I shout. “Leave her alone!”

The tall man finally looks at me again. “We are not here for her,” he says. “Or for the boy on the floor. We are here for you.”

The words settle over me like cold water. I stop struggling for a single breath, staring at him. “That does not make sense. I do not even know who you are.”

He gives a small nod to the men holding me. They begin walking me toward the open doors, my shoes sliding across the polished wood. I throw my weight from side to side, trying to make them stop, but they simply lift me higher until my toes barely touch the ground. The night air rushes in through the broken doorway, cool and sharp against my face.

Behind me I hear Maria calling my name. Luca is still on the floor, one of the men keeping him down with a boot. Guests press themselves farther into the corners, no one brave enough to move. I search the crowd one last time for my father’s face, for any sign that this is a mistake, that he will appear and put an end to it.

The men carry me down the front steps. More motorcycles wait in a rough line across the driveway, engines idling with a low, steady growl. One of the riders reaches back and helps pull me onto the seat behind him. I try to slide off the other side, but a strong arm clamps around my waist and holds me in place.

“Do not make this harder than it needs to be,” the man in front of me says over his shoulder.

I twist around, looking back at the open ballroom doors, at the golden light and the frozen faces inside. The tall man who asked for my father walks out last. He swings a leg over his own bike and settles into the seat as if the night belongs to him.

The engines rise together into a single deep roar. The motorcycle under me vibrates through the dress and into my bones. We begin to move, rolling down the long driveway and toward the dark road beyond the gates.

I keep staring over my shoulder until the house disappears behind the trees, the white fabric of my gown fluttering like a flag that no longer means anything.

The motorcycles slow and turn off the dark road onto a wide stretch of packed dirt that opens into a large yard. Bright lights on tall poles throw hard white circles across the ground, and the first thing I notice is how many bikes are already parked in uneven rows, their chrome and black paint dull under the glare. The air smells of oil, dust, and something burnt. Everything about the place feels wrong, like I have crossed into a country that does not follow the same rules as the one I left behind.

A long, low building sits at the far edge of the yard, but it is the house in the centre that draws my eyes. It is bigger than I expected, two storeys of dark wood and brick with a wide front porch and windows that reflect the lights without showing anything inside. The front door is closed and looks heavy, the kind that stays locked until someone important decides otherwise.

The bike under me rolls to a stop. The man in front swings his leg over and stands, but he does not help me down right away. Other engines cut off one by one until the yard is filled with the quieter sounds of boots on dirt and low voices. Men step out of the shadows near the building. Most of them look rough—scarred faces, inked arms, clothes that have seen more nights like this than I can imagine. Their eyes move over me and then away, as if a girl in a torn white dress is something they have already been told to expect.

I try to slide off the seat on my own. A hand on my arm stops me.

Someone in the crowd calls out, voice carrying easily across the yard. “Where is Ghost?”

Another answers, calm and certain. “He does not come for what already belongs to him.”