Isabella POV

I forced a violent shiver to wrack my body, letting out a pathetic, broken sob. "I... I don't remember anything, *Signora*(Madam)," I stammered, keeping my eyes glued to the intricate floral patterns of the Persian rug. "Only the wine you gave me. I swear it."

From the corner of the room, Caterina scoffed. "*Bugiarda*(Liar)," she hissed, stepping forward to deliver a sharp kick to my thigh. "*Puttana*(Whore). You planned this. You wanted to spread your legs for the Don."

Bianca raised a perfectly manicured hand, silencing the maid with a lazy flick of her wrist. "Enough, Caterina. The girl was intoxicated. We must show mercy, as God commands."

She sighed, adjusting the collar of her scarlet silk robe. "My husband... Damien is a demanding man. His appetites are dark, and his touch is far too rough for a woman of my delicate constitution." Bianca paused, her tone dripping with false piety. "Furthermore, my spiritual advisor has instructed me to undergo a strict period of fasting and prayer. I cannot fulfill my marital duties while purifying my soul."

I kept my head bowed, my wet hair clinging to my cheeks. *There it is,* I thought, the icy calm in my chest hardening into a diamond. *The surrogate plan.* She needed an incubator, a disposable womb to bear the Moretti heir so she could keep her pristine body untouched and her secrets buried. In my past life, I hadn't understood until it was too late.

"The Don's needs must be met," Mrs. Russo interjected, her voice like grinding stones. "And you, dirty little rat, owe this family your life for the disgrace you've caused."

Bianca smiled sweetly, leaning back against the velvet cushions. "I am giving you a chance to atone, Isabella. You will take my place in his bed."

I needed them to believe I was exactly what they saw: a naive, easily manipulated servant. I widened my eyes, looking up at Bianca with a carefully crafted mix of awe and foolish greed. "You mean... you want me to be the Don's *amante*(mistress)?"

The question had the exact effect I desired.

Mrs. Russo lunged forward, her thick fingers clamping around my jaw like a vice. Her nails dug into my cheeks, forcing my head up. "You are no mistress!" she spat, her breath smelling of bitter coffee. "You are nothing. You will have no name, no face, no voice. You will go to him only in the pitch black, and you will leave before the sun rises. You are a shadow. If he ever discovers who you are, I will personally skin you alive and feed you to the dogs. *Capisci*(Do you understand)?"

Over Mrs. Russo's shoulder, I saw Bianca's satisfied smirk. My "stupidity" had reassured her. A greedy, simple-minded girl was the easiest tool to control.

"Yes," I choked out, letting a fresh tear spill over Mrs. Russo's knuckles. "Yes, I understand. Thank you, *Signora*. I will do whatever you ask."

Bianca nodded, a triumphant glint in her dark eyes. The devil's bargain was sealed. They thought they had chained a lamb, completely unaware they had just invited a wolf into the Don's bed.

Before Bianca could issue her next command, three heavy, rhythmic knocks echoed through the thick oak door.

The suffocatingly sweet scent of Chanel No. 5 seemed to curdle in the air.

"*Signora*," a gruff, masculine voice called from the hallway—one of Damien's loyal *Soldiers*. "The Don has returned. He is on his way up to see you."

The triumphant smirk vanished from Bianca's face, replaced instantly by stark, unfiltered panic. The air in the room turned to ice.

Isabella POV

The heavy, rhythmic knocks echoed again. The triumphant smirk vanished from Bianca’s face, replaced instantly by stark, unfiltered panic.

She shot a frantic, wide-eyed look at Mrs. Russo. The housekeeper didn't hesitate. Her meaty hands clamped onto my arms with bruising force, dragging me toward the massive, Rococo-painted silk screen in the corner of the room. She shoved me roughly into the cold, narrow shadows behind it.

"Sta zitta, o ti taglio la lingua"(Shut up, or I'll cut out your tongue), Mrs. Russo hissed in harsh, guttural Sicilian, her foul breath washing over my face.

I curled into a tight ball against the freezing wall, pressing my hands over my mouth just as the heavy oak door swung open.

Damien Moretti stepped into the cloying, Chanel-scented room. Even from my hidden vantage point, peering through a tiny slit in the silk hinges, his sheer presence sucked the oxygen from the air. He was a predator wrapped in a bespoke charcoal suit, radiating a dark, lethal authority that made the delicate French furniture seem absurdly fragile.

His dark eyes swept over Bianca. "You look exhausted," his deep, gravelly voice rumbled.

Bianca immediately lowered her gaze, her posture softening into that of a fragile, overwhelmed bride. "I... did not sleep well last night."

A dark, almost imperceptible smirk touched Damien's lips. It was the look of a satisfied predator. "Was I too rough? Are you sore?"

Behind the screen, my blood turned to ice. The memory of his heavy body, his ruthless hands pinning me down in the pitch black, flashed through my mind. He thought he was talking to his wife. He thought the whimpers he had wrung from me belonged to the pristine woman standing before him. The humiliation burned my throat like acid.

"A little," Bianca lied smoothly, her voice a breathless whisper. "I need my maid to apply some ointment. I fear I cannot accompany you to see Nonna Elena today. Please give the Elder my deepest apologies."

Damien accepted the lie easily, his ego stroked by her supposed fragility. "Rest, Bianca. I will see my grandmother alone."

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the temperature in the room plummeted. Bianca’s delicate facade vanished, replaced by a sneer of pure, aristocratic disdain. She elegantly picked up her porcelain coffee cup, taking a slow sip before turning her icy blue eyes toward the screen.

"Come out," she commanded.

I crept out from the shadows, keeping my head bowed, playing the part of the terrified prey.

"Your mother," Bianca began, her voice a lethal purr that struck straight at my only weakness. "I hear her condition at St. Mary's Hospital is worsening. The doctors there are adequate, but the best surgeons... they only serve people like us."

It was a blatant threat wrapped in a promise. A leash snapping securely around my neck. I forced my eyes to widen in terror, letting a fresh tear slip down my cheek.

Mrs. Russo stepped forward, looming over me. "The Signora is merciful. She is giving you a chance to save your miserable mother. From tonight on, you will take her place and fulfill the wifely duties. You have no name. No identity. You are a shadow in the dark. Capisci"(Do you understand)?

I looked at the two women. They thought they held all the cards. They thought my mother's illness made me a weak, desperate pawn, easily controlled by fear and scraps of mercy. They had no idea I remembered my past life, and I knew exactly how this deadly game was played.

I dropped to my knees, bowing my head in perfect, pathetic submission. "Yes. Thank you, Signora. I will do whatever you ask."

I let a beat of silence pass, making my shoulders tremble just enough to sell the performance. Then, I slowly raised my tear-streaked face, looking up at Bianca with the most humble, desperate expression I could muster.

"Signora," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I have only one small request..."

Isabella POV

"Signora," I whispered, my voice breaking perfectly. "I have only one small request... My mother is at St. Mary's Hospital. I need fifty dollars for her medicine. And just one day to bring it to her."

"Puttana ingrata!" Mrs. Russo snarled, stepping forward with her hand raised. "You dare make demands of the—"

"Enough, Russo," Bianca interrupted, her voice smooth and magnanimous. She relished this. She loved playing the merciful god to a desperate peasant. She turned her icy blue eyes back to me, studying me like a specimen beneath her glass.

"You may have tomorrow," Bianca said coldly. "We will discuss the money in the morning. Do not make me regret my charity."

"Thank you, Signora. Thank you," I wept, bowing my head as I slowly pushed myself up from the floor.

As I stood, the oversized collar of my borrowed nightgown slipped off my shoulder. The morning sunlight streaming through the French windows hit my exposed skin, illuminating the dark, violent bruises blooming across my collarbone and neck—the ruthless bite marks and possessive fingerprints Damien had left on me in the dark.

The temperature in the room instantly dropped to absolute zero.

Bianca's icy blue eyes locked onto my marked skin. The elegant, untouchable Mafia Queen froze. I saw her chest heave, her pristine, untouched body rigid with a sudden, visceral hatred. It wasn't just anger; it was the raw, agonizing jealousy of a woman confronted with the primal evidence of a man's uncontrollable lust—a lust she had never inspired.

Her beautiful face twisted into an ugly sneer. With a sudden, vicious swipe of her hand, she backhanded the remaining porcelain cup off the table. It shattered against the wall with a deafening crash, raining sharp fragments onto the Persian rug.

"Get her out of my sight," Bianca breathed, her voice shaking with a venom so pure it made my blood run cold.

Giuliana grabbed my arm, practically dragging me out of the sitting room. Once we were in the grand hallway, the maid muttered, "Wait here," and scurried off to find my new escort.

Left alone for a fleeting second, I pressed my back against the wall, inching closer to the heavy oak door that was left slightly ajar.

Inside, the sound of sweeping echoed. "Calm yourself, Signora," Mrs. Russo murmured.

"Keep treating her well," Bianca hissed, her voice tight and erratic. "Make sure she eats every bite of her meals. Did you get the herbs from the Strega?"

"Sì, Signora. The fertility herbs are already in the kitchen. She will be with child soon."

"Good," Bianca snapped. "And tomorrow, when she leaves... have the Falcone men follow her. I want to know exactly where her mother is, which doctor is treating her. Her mother is our collateral."

I pulled away from the door, my heart pounding a steady, cold rhythm against my ribs. Fertility herbs. Collateral. They thought they were weaving an inescapable web around a foolish girl.

Heavy footsteps approached. A different maid, Alessia, marched down the hall. She didn't have Giuliana's timid demeanor. Her dark eyes raked over me, lingering on my bruised neck with naked, burning envy.

"Follow me," Alessia spat.

She led me away from the opulent main house, deep into the labyrinth of the servants' wing. The air grew damp and cold. Finally, she shoved me into a cramped, freezing room at the end of a dead-end corridor. A narrow iron bed and a small wooden table were its only furnishings.

Alessia slammed a tray onto the table. It held nothing but cold, congealed scraps.

"You stay in here," she sneered, stepping back into the doorway. "You think you're special because the Don touched you? You're nothing but a dirty secret."

She didn't wait for my reply. The heavy door slammed shut, and the metallic clack of a lock turning echoed in the silence.

I stood in the dim light of my new cage, staring at the locked door. Alessia's eyes had been practically glowing with resentment. She wanted the power, the attention, the dangerous proximity to the Don that I had been forced into.

A slow, dark smile touched my lips. This one... her jealousy was a weapon I could use.