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?"

Isabella POV

My heart slammed against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. The perfect sanctuary I had just built—a life as an untouchable, revered widow—shattered into dust. Damien Moretti was alive.

He sat behind the mahogany desk, the volcanic rock rosary wrapped around his wrist clicking softly against the wood as he rested his hand. His gray eyes, cold and analytical, stripped away my defenses in a single glance. He was waiting for an answer.

I forced my lungs to draw in the cigar-scented air. Panic would get me killed. I needed a lie, one woven so tightly with the twisted logic of our world that he couldn't easily tear it apart.

I lifted my chin, stepping out of the shadows and into the dim light. "Because a dead king is still infinitely more powerful than a living pawn, Mr. Moretti."

A dark, humorless smirk touched his lips. He leaned back, studying me. "A calculated answer. But you stood before my family and declared a lifelong devotion. Tell me, Isabella, what is there to love about a ruthless man ten years your senior, whose hands are stained with blood?"

"In our world, power is the ultimate aphrodisiac," I replied, my voice steady, though my palms were slick with cold sweat. I lowered my eyelashes, playing the part of a woman intoxicated by a legend. "Every woman in Chicago dreams of being the Mafia Queen to The Ghost. I simply chose to secure my place. If I could not be your wife in life, I would honor your name as your widow, until death reunites us."

Damien’s gaze darkened. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. He knew I was lying. He could see the Vendetta burning beneath my skin, the desperate need for his name to shield me while I tore the Falcones apart. But he didn't call for his Soldiers. He simply watched me, a predator observing a particularly bold prey.

"A beautiful vow," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Let us hope you survive long enough to keep it."

I offered a stiff, respectful nod. "I must return to my family. The Falcones require my... attention."

I turned and walked out of the study, my spine rigid. As the heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, I realized the terrifying truth. My fake marriage to a ghost had just become a very real, very deadly game with a monster.

*

The following evening, the air inside the Falcone Family Council Chamber was thick with the stench of cheap cigars and decaying authority.

From the shadows of the corridor, I watched through the cracked double doors. The dark oak walls were lined with oil portraits of past Falcone Dons, their painted eyes glaring down at the long mahogany table. At the head of the table sat Donna Vittoria, her face tight with desperate pride. Beside her stood Marco, holding a gold fountain pen, ready to sign the heavy parchment that would officially legitimize Leo Gallo—Angelica’s bastard—as the Falcone heir.

Angelica stood a few feet away, practically vibrating with triumph. She was moments away from securing her place as the future matriarch.

"With the blessing of the Elders," Marco began, his voice echoing in the silent room, "I, Marco Falcone, formally recognize—"

I kicked the double doors open. They crashed against the walls like a thunderclap.

Every Elder and Capo at the table jolted. Marco dropped the pen.

I walked into the chamber, the sharp click of my heels cutting through the stunned silence. Flanking me were two heavily armed De Luca Soldiers, and walking beside me, radiating cold, aristocratic fury, was my mother, Elena De Luca.

"Isabella!" Donna Vittoria hissed, half-rising from her chair. "You have no right to interrupt a sacred family council!"

I ignored her. I didn't look at Marco. My eyes were locked entirely on Angelica.

Before anyone could react, I closed the distance between us. I grabbed a fistful of Angelica’s perfectly styled blonde hair and yanked her backward. She shrieked, her arms flailing as I threw her roughly to the cold stone floor.

"Are you insane?!" Marco roared, lunging forward.

The two De Luca Soldiers instantly drew their weapons, the metallic clacks of safeties being switched off freezing Marco in his tracks. My mother stepped forward, her chin held high, her presence alone a suffocating reminder of the wealth that kept the Falcone family afloat.

I stood over Angelica, who was sobbing and clutching her scalp. I pointed a trembling finger at the jagged, red scar slashing across my cheek, making sure every Elder in the room saw it.

"Before you acknowledge this bastard," I projected my voice, cold and ringing with absolute authority, "ask his puttana(whore) mother if her hands are still stained with the blood of a De Luca daughter!"

The chamber erupted into chaos. Several Capos stood up, shouting in rapid Italian.

"Silence her!" Donna Vittoria commanded, her face pale with terror. "She is hysterical!"

"I am not hysterical, Nonna," I snapped, my voice slicing through the uproar. I turned my burning gaze to the Elders. "I have proof! Proof of how Marco and this viper plotted my murder in a freezing cellar, and how they planned to drain the De Luca coffers dry to pay off secret gambling debts!"

Marco’s face drained of all color. His hand hovered over the unsigned parchment, trembling violently as the Elders slowly turned their piercing, suspicious stares toward him.