Isabella POV

Three weeks had passed since I walked into my own funeral and shattered the Falcone family's pathetic illusion. In that time, Damien Moretti had proven to be exactly what he promised: a ruthless, impenetrable shield. Today, I was attending the memorial of Enzo Moretti, a prominent Capo, not as a broken victim, but as the heir to the De Luca fortune and the personal guest of the Ghost of Chicago.

The black sedan Damien provided pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate on the Gold Coast. Before my heels even touched the pavement, a woman draped in ostentatious black lace hurried toward me.

Donna Eleonora Moretti.

Years ago, when my engagement to her son Angelo was broken off in favor of the Falcones, she had looked at me with thinly veiled disdain. Now, she gripped my hands, her heavy diamond rings biting into my skin.

"Isabella, cara mia(my dear)," she cooed, her face contorted into a mask of practiced sorrow. "To see you shining like a diamond after such a terrible ordeal... it is a miracle. You belong with us, where you will be truly cherished."

I stared into her eyes. There was no sympathy there, only a ravenous hunger for the De Luca wealth and the power my new proximity to Damien represented. The Falcones had taught me a brutal lesson: every smile in our world concealed a blade aimed at your heart.

"Thank you, Donna Eleonora," I replied, my voice perfectly polite, perfectly hollow. I gently but firmly extracted my hands from hers. She and her son were instantly added to my list of liabilities.

Inside the cavernous main hall, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive cologne. After paying my respects to the grieving family, I felt a presence beside me.

"Izzy." Angelo Moretti’s voice was pitched low, dripping with a manufactured intimacy. He leaned in, smelling of scotch and desperation. "Seeing you here... it brings back so many memories of when we were young. I never stopped thinking about what we could have been."

I offered a noncommittal hum, my gaze sweeping the room. That was when I spotted her.

Standing near a marble pillar was a young woman in a dress far too tight and bright for a memorial. Genevieve 'Vivi' Russo. She was glaring at us, her painted lips pressed into a furious, bloodless line.

Beside me, Angelo shifted. In the briefest pause of his monologue, he shot a glance over my shoulder. It lasted barely two seconds—a look that started as a frantic plea for patience and instantly hardened into an irritated warning.

I almost laughed. It was the exact same look Marco used to give Angelica when I wasn't looking. Angelo thought he was playing a brilliant game, but to me, he was just another fool dancing on a trapdoor.

Twenty minutes later, seeking a reprieve from the suffocating crowd, I found myself in a dimly lit, mahogany-paneled library. Angelo had followed me like a stray dog. Genevieve hovered near the doorway, sulking, while Angelo’s cousin, Sofia Moretti, sat quietly in a leather armchair, observing the room with sharp, intelligent eyes.

A family Associate approached us. "Can I get you anything to drink, Miss De Luca?"

Before I could answer, Angelo puffed out his chest. "An Old Fashioned. Single ice sphere, with a toasted orange peel. She loves that flavor." He beamed at me, desperate to prove his devotion in front of his cousin.

I didn't look at him. Instead, I turned my gaze to the doorway, letting my eyes rest coldly on his mistress. "I believe Miss Russo might need a drink as well," I told the Associate smoothly.

Angelo panicked. Without thinking, the words tumbled out of his mouth. "Get her a Bee's Knees. Just use the moonshine from the backyard stash, heavy on the honey. She can't handle the good stuff."

The silence that crashed down on the library was deafening.

Sofia’s eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. A man did not know the highly specific, unrefined liquor preferences of a random guest unless he was intimately acquainted with her late-night habits.

The blood drained from Angelo’s face, then rushed back in a violent, guilty flush. "I... I think I heard Isabella mention it once," he stammered, the lie so pathetic it hung in the air like a bad smell.

Under Sofia’s piercing, analytical stare, Angelo practically vibrated with nervous energy. Muttering a fractured excuse about needing to check on his mother, he turned and practically fled the room.

I took a slow breath, letting the silence stretch. I didn't need to say a word; Angelo had just handed me the rope to hang him with. I turned my attention to Sofia, calculating exactly how to use her impeccable reputation to finish what her idiot cousin had just started.

Isabella POV

I let the silence in the library stretch for a moment longer before turning my attention back to Sofia.

"I apologize for my cousin's... abrupt departure," Sofia murmured, her sharp eyes studying me with a newfound intensity.

I offered a tight, graceful smile. "It's quite alright. However, it reminds me that Angelo and I have pending matters regarding the De Luca asset transfers in our betrothal contract." I paused, letting a shadow of proper concern cross my face. "I need to speak with him immediately, but it would be highly inappropriate for me to enter his private office alone, especially during a memorial. Out of rispetto(respect) for your family's protocol, could you perhaps ask Nonna Caterina to assign two of her trusted ladies to accompany me? Just to serve as witnesses and prevent any... misunderstandings."

Sofia nodded approvingly, clearly appreciating my adherence to tradition. "A wise and respectful request, Isabella. Wait here."

Twenty minutes later, I was walking down the quiet, carpeted corridor of the East Wing, flanked by Sofia and two of Nonna Caterina's most senior housekeepers, Maria and Francesca.

As we approached Angelo's heavy oak door, his Associate, Sal, paled drastically. "Miss De Luca! Ladies!" Sal stammered, his voice unnaturally loud as he stepped in front of the door. "Mr. Moretti is on a highly confidential conference call—"

He didn't need to finish. Through the thick wood, Genevieve Russo's grating, greedy laugh echoed clearly.

"Oh, baby," she purred, her voice muffled but unmistakable. "Once we get our hands on the De Luca shipping routes, the entire Chicago bootlegging operation is ours."

Maria and Francesca exchanged a dark, horrified look. Then came Angelo's arrogant reply.

"Exactly. That scarred bitch is nothing but a stepping stone. Damien thinks he runs everything, but he'll soon find out that with the De Luca wealth behind me, I am the true future of the Moretti family."

The trap snapped shut perfectly.

I let out a choked gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. I forced tears to well in my eyes, staring at the door with a mask of absolute, shattered devastation.

"Isabella..." Sofia whispered, her face pale with shock.

I didn't wait. I turned on my heel and fled down the corridor, a perfectly executed picture of a brokenhearted maiden unable to bear the betrayal. Inside, my blood sang with cold, vicious triumph.

I burst into the main hall, ignoring the stares of the mourners, and threw myself directly into the arms of my grandmother, Nonna Sofia De Luca.

"Nonna!" I cried, my voice trembling loud enough to silence the entire room. "I will not do it! A daughter of De Luca will never marry a traitor who plots to steal our legacy while bedding a whore!"

The hall went dead silent. The string quartet stopped abruptly. Nonna Sofia's eyes turned as cold as a Sicilian winter. She didn't speak, but her lethal gaze locked onto Nonna Caterina Moretti. The unspoken pressure in the room was suffocating.

Maria and Francesca hurried in moments later, looking breathless and grim. Under Nonna Caterina's furious command, they repeated every treasonous word they had heard outside the office.

The matriarch's face turned a mottled red. Angelo's father, Donatello Moretti, dropped to his knees on the marble floor in immediate, terrified submission.

His mother, Donna Eleonora, however, panicked. "It's a lie!" she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger. "That tramp seduced my boy! He didn't mean—"

"Silence, Eleonora!" Nonna Caterina roared, her voice cracking like a whip across the cavernous room. "Your son has stained the Moretti name with his disonore(dishonor)!"

She turned to the heavily armed Soldiers standing by the doors, her eyes blazing with a ruthless, unforgiving light.

"Bring Angelo and that woman to me. Now."

Isabella POV

The heavy oak doors of the main hall swung open, shattering the suffocating silence. Two towering Moretti Soldiers dragged Angelo and Genevieve into the room. Their clothes were rumpled, their faces flushed with a sickening mix of lust and sudden, paralyzing terror.

They were thrown roughly to the cold marble floor, landing on their knees directly in front of the power core of both families: Don Donatello, Nonna Caterina, and my grandmother, Nonna Sofia.

Angelo was trembling so violently his teeth chattered. He kept his eyes glued to the floor, unable to meet the lethal glares of his father and grandmother. Genevieve, however, after the initial shock, let out a pathetic, trembling sob. She looked up at Angelo with wide, tear-filled eyes, clearly believing that his "love" would somehow shield her from the wrath of the Mafia Queen.

My grandmother’s face was as dark and unforgiving as a Sicilian winter storm. Her silent fury was a crushing weight on the Moretti family.

As Genevieve opened her mouth to begin her performance, I stood up.

The rustle of my black silk dress was the only sound in the cavernous room. I walked slowly toward the kneeling pair, my heels clicking against the marble like the ticking of a bomb. I stopped right in front of Genevieve.

She looked up at me, her tears faltering as she took in the cold, dead emptiness in my eyes.

I raised my hand and struck her across the face.

The slap echoed like a gunshot. Genevieve cried out, collapsing sideways onto the floor, a bright red handprint blooming on her pale cheek.

"Your ambition is as cheap as your perfume, Genevieve," I said, my voice low but carrying effortlessly through the dead-silent hall. "This is not about your pathetic affair. This is disonore(dishonor). You have trampled on the alliance between our families, endangering the lives and businesses of everyone in this room. You are not worthy of speaking of love."

I didn't spare Angelo a single glance. I turned my back on them and faced Don Donatello and Nonna Caterina. With perfect, practiced grace, I sank into a deep curtsy.

"Don Donatello, Donna Caterina," I began, my tone dripping with profound rispetto(respect). "I ask for your forgiveness. It was my blindness that allowed this viper into your home. To preserve the dignity of the Moretti name, I formally request the dissolution of my betrothal to Angelo."

A flicker of raw, undisguised admiration crossed Nonna Caterina’s eyes. I had played the perfect victim, prioritizing family honor over personal heartbreak, and in doing so, I had cornered them completely.

Nonna Caterina exchanged a long, loaded look with my grandmother. Then, she turned to her son.

Donatello cleared his throat, his face tight with humiliation. "The fault lies entirely with our blood, Isabella. But we do not break alliances over the weakness of a boy." He paused, the weight of his next words heavy in the air. "To make amends, the Moretti family offers the following: The De Luca family will receive a twenty percent stake in all South Side bootlegging operations. We will secure the lifetime appointment of the judge your family favors. Upon marriage, you, Isabella, will hold a seat at our inner council with veto power."

A collective gasp rippled through the room. It was a king's ransom.

"Furthermore," Donatello continued, his voice hardening, "Angelo will swear a blood oath before Donna Sofia. Any future infidelity will be punished by Damien himself. As for the girl... she will be sent to the Silent Sisters Convent in Sicily. She will pray for her filthy soul and never leave its walls."

Genevieve let out a strangled shriek, collapsing completely.

I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. The offer was too good. I saw the calculating gleam return to Nonna Sofia’s eyes. The Morettis were desperate to keep me, and my plan to escape this marriage was slipping through my fingers.

I opened my mouth to refuse, but before I could speak, Donna Eleonora rushed forward, her face streaked with panicked tears. "Please, Isabella! He is young, he made a mistake—"

"Shut up, Mother!"

Angelo suddenly scrambled to his feet. The crushing pressure, the terrifying fate of his mistress, and his own bruised ego had finally snapped his fragile mind. He glared at me, his face twisted into an ugly mask of pure, venomous hatred.

"I love her!" Angelo roared, pointing a shaking finger at Genevieve. "I will marry her! I would rather marry a whore who actually loves me than be tied to you!" He took a step toward me, his eyes locking onto the jagged red scar on my cheek. "You planned this, you scarred, cold-blooded bitch! I want this betrothal broken!"

The silence that followed was absolute.

Donatello let out a sound that was half-growl, half-roar. He lunged forward, his heavy fist connecting with Angelo’s jaw with a sickening crunch. Angelo crashed to the floor, spitting blood.

"You are a disonore to this family!" Donatello bellowed, kicking his son in the ribs.

I stood perfectly still, watching the chaos unfold. Angelo had just handed me my freedom on a silver platter, but as I looked at the furious, calculating eyes of Nonna Caterina, I knew this war was far from over.