Seraphina POV

The rhythmic clack of the ivory-headed cane ceased as my grandmother, Francesca Marino, stepped into the Grand Salon. Her cold, calculating eyes swept over the room, the black rosary beads slipping rapidly through her withered fingers. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

Sophia immediately rushed to her side, her voice trembling with manufactured grief. "Mamma, you must speak to her. Seraphina is throwing a tantrum over the betrothal, shaming our family in front of Angelo!"

Francesca’s gaze locked onto me, heavy with absolute authority. "Apologize to Angelo and your sister at once. Since the Valenti match is broken, you will accept a new arrangement immediately for our Onore (Honor)."

Carissa stepped forward, reaching for my hand with a sickeningly sweet smile. "Sera, please, just listen to Grandmother—"

I slapped her hand away. "Don't touch me." I looked straight at Francesca. "Angelo wants Carissa, and Carissa wants to be the Underboss's wife. I will not be the sacrificial lamb for their dirty little transaction."

Sophia gasped, clutching her pearls. "Such insolence! To speak of your sister this way... Who knows what you've been doing behind closed doors to act so brazenly? Perhaps you are no longer pure. A puttana (whore) who knows she cannot secure a decent match!"

I tilted my head, offering Sophia a chilling smile. "Are you questioning Grandmother's strict upbringing, Aunt Sophia? Because I have been under her roof my entire life."

Sophia’s mouth snapped shut, her face flushing ugly red.

Before Francesca could unleash her wrath, I delivered my ultimatum. "At my eighteenth birthday gala tomorrow, I will choose my own husband. Any single man with a clean name who dares to ask for my hand, I will accept."

Francesca struck the marble floor with her cane. "Madness! I will not allow you to turn this family into a circus!"

"Then let her marry my nephew, Marco Conti," Sophia interjected smoothly, her eyes gleaming with greed. "He has a few bad habits, but his bloodline is clean. It will keep her inheritance safe within the family."

Marco Conti. A degenerate gambling addict. They wanted to lock me in a new cage and drain my wealth.

I took a slow step toward the matriarch. "My adoptive mother was Isabella Gallo Marino. The original betrothal was brokered by her family. If you force me to marry a useless addict, you spit directly in the face of my uncle, Christian Gallo, and the entire Moretti family." I let the silence stretch, watching the color drain from Francesca's face. "Let me choose publicly. It proves this is my own doing, and the Morettis cannot claim you abused their blood."

The name Moretti was a curse in this house. Francesca feared the true rulers of New York far more than she hated me. Her jaw clenched so hard I thought her teeth might shatter.

"Fine," Francesca hissed, her eyes burning with venom. "Have your circus. Angelo, you will formally court Carissa."

I didn't wait for their celebrations. I turned my back on them and walked up the sweeping staircase to my suite.

The air in my room felt stagnant, like a gilded tomb. In the corner, a thin girl named Ruby was scrubbing the floorboards. Near my vanity stood Jasmine, the first maid Sophia had planted to spy on me.

"Ruby," I said, my voice cutting through the silence. "Wash up and change into something presentable. You are coming out with me."

Jasmine scoffed, crossing her arms. "Excuse me, Miss Seraphina? You're taking a third-rate scrubber out instead of your first maid? That is highly inappropriate."

I closed the distance between us in three strides. The smirk vanished from Jasmine's face as she met my dead, empty stare.

"In this room, I decide who is worthy to walk beside me," I said, my voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Your only job is to shut your mouth and obey. Kneel on the floor and reflect on your place until I return."

Jasmine opened her mouth to argue, but the sheer violence in my eyes made her tremble. Slowly, reluctantly, she sank to her knees.

I turned to Ruby, who was staring at me with wide, terrified eyes. A sudden, violent memory flashed in my mind—Ruby’s pale, lifeless face sinking beneath the ice of a frozen lake, murdered because of her loyalty to me in my past life.

Not this time.

"Hurry up, Ruby," I said softly, the gears of my Vendetta already turning. "We have an invitation to deliver."

Seraphina POV

An hour later, the suffocating air of the estate was replaced by the gritty reality of the neutral zone. I sat in the back of a bulletproof Rolls-Royce parked across from The Serpent's Kiss, an underground club hidden behind a dilapidated butcher shop.

I handed Ruby an antique gold coin bearing the secondary crest of the Moretti family, along with a folded note. My 18th birthday. Marino Estate. If you want a piece of New York, be there.

"Find Damien Falcone," I instructed, my voice steady. "Give this only to him."

Ruby swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she took the items, but she nodded and slipped out of the car. The wait was agonizing, but when she finally returned, she was breathless, her eyes wide with residual fear.

"He cleared the room the moment he saw the coin," Ruby panted, settling into the leather seat. "He looked dangerous, Miss Sera. But he smiled and said, 'Tell your princess I love a good party. I'll be there.'"

A cold satisfaction settled in my chest. The Devil had taken the bait.

On our way back to the estate, the driver took Fifth Avenue. The car slowed to a crawl in the afternoon traffic outside the luxury boutiques. Through the tinted, bulletproof glass, I spotted several Valenti Associates lingering on the corner. They pointed at my car, their faces twisted in mocking sneers. I could easily read their lips: Used goods.

Near them, a group of society wives whispered behind their gloved hands, their eyes gleaming with malicious delight.

Ruby’s fists clenched in her lap, her face flushing with indignation. "They're calling you damaged goods, Miss Sera. They're saying Carissa is the angel the Valentis deserve. I should go out there and—"

"No," I said, my voice devoid of emotion, stopping her from reaching for the door handle. "Let them talk. The dead don't need a reputation."

The humiliation didn't break me; it only fed the inferno burning in my veins. Tomorrow, I would silence them all.

Hours later, midnight draped my suite in heavy shadows. The estate was dead quiet. I stood by the window, staring out at the moonlit grounds, when a soft tap sounded against the balcony glass.

Before I could react, the door slid open. A tall, broad-shouldered shadow slipped into my room, bringing with him the chill of the night air and the sharp, intoxicating scent of aged whiskey and gunpowder.

Damien Falcone moved with the lethal grace of a predator. In a heartbeat, he crossed the room and pinned me against the wall, his large hand resting dangerously close to my throat. His dark eyes searched mine, stripping away my defenses.

"Are you playing games, little bird, or do you really want to dance with the Devil?" his voice was a low, gravelly threat that sent a shiver down my spine.

I didn't flinch. I looked straight into the abyss of his eyes. "I want to burn our enemies to the ground. I need your fire."

A slow, wicked smirk curved his lips. He reached into his tailored jacket and pulled out a polished 9mm bullet. He pressed the cold metal into my palm, his fingers lingering over mine.

"This is my promise," Damien whispered, his breath brushing my ear. "Tomorrow, I'm coming for you."

He released me and vanished over the balcony as silently as he had arrived. I clutched the bullet, the metal warming against my skin.

Suddenly, the suite doors burst open.

Jasmine marched in, flanked by Bridget, the head maid, and another girl. Jasmine’s eyes darted around the room, landing on the open balcony doors. "I heard a man's voice!" she sneered, dropping all pretense of respect. "Sophia was right. You are nothing but a puttana(whore) sneaking men into your room!"

I slowly slipped the bullet into my pocket and turned to face them. "Ruby," I commanded, my voice echoing in the tense silence. "Slap her."

Ruby didn't hesitate this time. She stepped forward and struck Jasmine across the face with a resounding crack. Jasmine shrieked, stumbling backward.

"Miss Seraphina!" Bridget gasped, stepping forward. "Have you lost your mind? For the sake of your reputation, you must—"

I grabbed the heavy crystal vase from the console table and hurled it to the floor. It shattered into a thousand glittering pieces, the violent crash making all three maids flinch.

"Fetch the butler," I ordered Ruby, my eyes locked on Bridget's pale face.

When the elderly butler arrived, taking in the shattered glass and the trembling maids, I delivered my first decree as the true heir of my bloodline.

"Jasmine is to be sold to the lowest brothel in New Orleans," I said, my tone absolute. "Break the legs of Bridget and the other one, and throw them out of the estate. I never want to see them in New York again."

The butler blanched, but the sheer authority in my gaze left no room for argument. He bowed deeply. The purge had begun.

Seraphina POV

The morning sun did nothing to warm the Grand Salon. The cold marble floor reflected the grim face of my grandmother, Francesca Marino, who sat at the head of the room, her gnarled hands resting heavily on her ivory-headed cane. The sweet, suffocating scent of lilies hung in the air, masking the rot beneath our family's polished surface.

"She has lost her mind, Mother," Sophia cried, dabbing at her dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. "Punishing innocent maids just because Angelo broke the engagement! She is a liability."

I stood tall, my expression entirely bored. "Since when do you weep for Rats, Aunt Sophia?"

Sophia’s face flushed with ugly color. "Jasmine heard a man's voice in your room! You are acting like a common—"

"And did you find a man?" I cut her off, my voice slicing through the massive room like a blade. "Or are you just spreading baseless rumors to tarnish the Marino Onore (honor) on the day of my eighteenth birthday?"

Sophia opened her mouth, but no words came out. Beside her, Carissa shrank back into the velvet sofa, playing the perfect, terrified victim.

I turned my gaze to my grandmother. "Aunt Sophia's inability to control her spies is threatening this family's reputation. If you want me to smile for the cameras today, I suggest you leash her."

Francesca stared at me, her dark eyes calculating. She didn't care about the blood on my hands; she only cared about the optics. Finally, she slammed her cane against the marble. The sharp crack made Sophia jump.

"Enough," Francesca barked. "Sophia, your incompetence is showing. Clean it up and shut their mouths for good. I will not have a scandal today."

Sophia swallowed her humiliation, bowing her head. The purge was officially sanctioned.

Hours later, the suffocating tension of the salon was replaced by the intoxicating, dangerous perfume of the estate's rear garden. Red carpets stretched across the manicured lawns, champagne towers gleamed under the afternoon sun, and a jazz band played softly in the background. The elite of New York's underworld mingled, their designer gowns and tailored suits hiding the knives they carried for one another.

I stood near the white marble dais, watching the vipers circle.

"Is it true, Sera?" a guest asked loudly, clearly prompted by my aunt. "Are you really taking suitors today?"

Sophia stepped out from the crowd, a vindictive gleam in her eyes. She had her useless nephew, Marco Conti, hovering nearby, ready to pounce on my fortune. "A Marino's word is her bond, isn't it, Sera?" she challenged, trying to trap me in my own game.

Before I could answer, Angelo Valenti stepped forward. He looked every bit the arrogant prince of New York, his jaw set in a condescending line.

"Don't degrade yourself, Sera," Angelo said, his tone dripping with fake pity. "This tantrum won't change anything. Accept your fate with some dignity."

A cold, dark amusement flared in my chest. I didn't shrink away. Instead, I walked past him, climbed the steps of the marble dais, and grabbed the microphone from the bandstand. The jazz music screeched to a halt. Hundreds of eyes snapped to me.

"It is no rumor," I announced, my voice ringing crystal clear over the silent garden. "Any man who wishes to be my husband must meet three conditions."

Sophia smirked, while Angelo shook his head in mock sorrow.

"First," I continued, my eyes locking onto Angelo's, "he must have no prior engagements. Second, he must be a true uomo d'onore (man of honor), with no stain of betrayal in his bloodline. And third, he must have the strength to stand beside me, not behind me barking orders."

The crowd erupted into shocked whispers. I had just publicly humiliated the Valenti heir and set an impossible standard. Angelo’s face twisted into an ugly sneer, his pride wounded.

Suddenly, a heavy, suffocating silence rippled from the entrance of the garden, spreading through the crowd like a drop of blood in water. The guests parted instinctively, stepping back in sheer self-preservation.

Damien Falcone walked through the parted sea of New York's elite.

The Underboss of the Chicago Falcone family wore a flawless Armani suit, but no amount of expensive tailoring could hide the lethal, predatory grace of the Devil. He moved like a black panther stalking into a pen of trembling sheep.

He stopped at the edge of the lawn. His dark, dangerous eyes bypassed everyone and locked instantly with Angelo’s. The silent, violent challenge hanging in the air between the two heirs was palpable. The game had officially changed.