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.

Isabella POV

The heavy silence in the hall was broken only by Angelo’s wet, ragged breathing as he spat blood onto the marble floor.

Nonna Caterina did not even glance at her ruined grandson. Her sharp eyes locked onto my grandmother, desperation bleeding through her iron facade. She believed the old Sicilian prophecy—that De Luca blood would cement the Moretti reign. She couldn't let me walk away.

"The alliance stands," Nonna Caterina declared, her voice trembling with forced authority. She gestured toward a towering, battle-scarred man standing near the wall. "Vittorio Moretti. A decorated Caporegime. He is loyal, strong, and a far more suitable husband for a De Luca princess."

I looked at Vittorio. Another brute. Another cage. They still thought I was a prize to be passed around.

"I decline," I said, my voice slicing through the room like a scalpel.

Before the outrage could erupt, I turned my gaze to the massive oil portrait hanging above the fireplace. The Ghost of Chicago.

"I will not marry Vittorio," I announced, projecting my voice so every Soldier and Capo could hear. "I choose the man who truly embodies the honor of this family. I will marry Damien Moretti. I will remain his, until death reunites us."

A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. Marrying a dead man. Becoming an untouchable, revered widow. It was unheard of, a scandalous sacrifice.

Nonna Sofia’s grip on her cane tightened, her eyes flashing with immediate disapproval. I stepped close to her, leaning in so only she could hear.

"Nonna, un debito di sangue(a blood debt)," I whispered rapidly in our native Sicilian dialect. "His name makes me untouchable. And for this 'sacrifice,' the Morettis will owe us a debt they can never repay. We take the entire South Side. I am not a martyr. I am an investment."

Understanding dawned in my grandmother’s eyes, sharp and predatory. She instantly masked it with profound sorrow, dabbing her dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. "My brave, tragic girl," she proclaimed loudly. "If this is the path your broken heart chooses, the De Luca family will honor it."

Nonna Caterina sagged with overwhelming relief and guilt. The impossible bargain was struck.

Thinking the storm had passed, Angelo weakly raised his head. "Then... I can marry Vivi?"

Nonna Caterina’s face twisted with absolute disgust. "You are a disonore(dishonor) to this bloodline."

Donatello didn't hesitate. He signaled his Enforcers. "Take him to Damien’s casket. Thirty lashes." As Angelo was dragged away screaming, Nonna Caterina turned her cold eyes to Genevieve. "The Russo girl is no longer under our protection. Do with her what you will."

I caught Bianca’s eye. My loyal guard nodded, hauling the sobbing Genevieve up by her hair and dragging her out the side doors.

Needing to escape the suffocating stench of the hall, I excused myself. The crisp winter air of the courtyard was a relief, but it was short-lived.

Walking briskly down a secluded stone path was a man carrying a black medical bag. Dr. Valachi. The butcher of Falcone. The man who had sliced my face open.

My blood turned to ice, then boiled. What was a Falcone dog doing deep inside the Moretti estate?

I dismissed the maid escorting me, claiming I needed a moment to pray. As soon as she was gone, I slipped into the shadows, following the doctor's hurried footsteps.

He led me to the East Wing—Damien’s former quarters. It was supposed to be a sealed mausoleum, strictly off-limits. I lost sight of Valachi as he turned a corner, but the heavy thud of approaching Soldiers' boots forced me to act.

I grabbed the nearest brass handle, shoved the heavy oak door open, and slipped inside, pressing my back against the wood as the patrol passed.

I let out a shaky breath and opened my eyes.

It was a private study. But it wasn't a tomb. The air was thick with the scent of old leather, a freshly poured glass of amber whiskey, and the distinct, lingering smoke of a Cuban cigar.

My heart stopped.

Behind the massive mahogany desk, half-swallowed by the shadows, sat a man. He leaned forward, the dim light catching the sharp, ruthless angles of his face and the silver griffin pin on his lapel.

Damien Moretti.

He wasn't a ghost. He was flesh, blood, and lethal power. His cold, gray eyes locked onto mine, pinning me in place like a butterfly on a board.

He took a slow drag from his cigar, the ember glowing like a demon's eye in the dark.

"Tell me, Miss De Luca," his deep, gravelly voice vibrated through the floorboards, "why do you want to marry a dead man?"