Isabella POV

I lay perfectly still, the heavy velvet curtains blocking out the pale Chicago moon, turning the master bedroom into a suffocating tomb. The air was thick with the cloying scent of Hudson's cheap cologne mingling with my own gardenia perfume. Beside me, the rhythmic, oblivious snoring of my husband grated against my nerves.

I turned my head slightly, studying his face in the gloom. He looked so harmless in his sleep, a pathetic man who believed he had successfully manipulated his naive wife. But beneath my calm exterior, the fiery chaos of my past life's memories had crystallized into a glacier of pure, calculated hatred.

My Vendetta would not be a simple bullet to the head. Death was a mercy Hudson Higgins did not deserve. I was going to strip him of everything he coveted. I would tear away the Falcone favor he had bought with my flesh. I would drain the wealth he had built upon my dowry. I would crush his fragile, pathetic masculine pride until he was nothing but a hollow shell, begging on his knees for an end I would deny him.

I stared into the dark canopy above, making a silent vow to the shadows. For my sweet daughter, Josie. For my mother, whose life was collateral damage in his greedy climb. I would ensure the Higgins name was entirely erased from the Chicago night.

The next evening, the execution of my plan began.

With a few carefully placed, "innocent" suggestions, I had stroked Hudson's inflated ego enough that he proudly escorted me to The Onyx Club. He wanted to parade his untouched, submissive wife, completely unaware that he was walking a predator right into the hunting grounds.

The Onyx Club was a theater of power. A grand, sweeping staircase of white marble dominated the foyer, its cold brass railings gleaming under the blinding light of massive crystal chandeliers. The thick red carpet absorbed our footsteps, but it couldn't absorb the sudden, suffocating silence that fell over the room.

I looked down from the top of the stairs.

Don Damien Falcone was ascending.

He moved like a shadow that had swallowed the sun. Tall, broad-shouldered, and impeccably dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit, the Devil of Chicago radiated an aura of absolute, terrifying authority. Beside him walked Frederick 'Freddie' Solis, the Falcone family's Consigliere. Freddie was an older, sharp-eyed man whose tailored elegance hid the cunning mind of a viper. He was the architect of the Don's strategies, and, as I now knew, the broker of my ruin.

Hudson puffed out his chest, a pathetic attempt to look like he belonged in their orbit. But as the distance between us closed, Damien didn't even glance at my husband. Those bottomless, predatory eyes locked entirely on me.

Time seemed to stretch as we drew level on the marble steps. This was my moment.

I turned my head slightly, meeting the Don's intense stare. I didn't look away. Instead, I offered him a smile I had practiced in the mirror until my facial muscles ached. It was a delicate, trembling upward curve of my lips—innocent, fragile, and laced with a haunting brokenness.

It was Adela's smile.

The impact was instantaneous. A violent storm flared in Damien's dark eyes. His imposing frame actually faltered, his footsteps coming to a dead halt on the stairs. The raw, obsessive hunger that flashed across his face was so potent it made my pulse jump. He was completely, irrevocably hooked.

But in that split second of the Don's distraction, my peripheral vision caught the real prize.

Hudson and Freddie Solis exchanged a fleeting look. It was a subtle nod from the Consigliere, answered by a smug, sickeningly proud smirk from my husband.

The final puzzle piece clicked into place. It wasn't just Hudson's desperation; it was a calculated conspiracy. Freddie Solis had orchestrated this trade, and Hudson had eagerly played his part. My hit list had just grown by one.

The air around Damien grew impossibly heavy, thick with a dark, possessive energy that seemed to crush the oxygen from the room. Hudson's smugness evaporated instantly. The sheer, terrifying weight of the Don's undivided attention on me finally pierced through my husband's thick skull.

Hudson's face drained of all color. A bead of cold sweat broke out on his temple. Panic, raw and primal, seized him.

"We need to go," Hudson hissed, his voice trembling.

Before I could react, his clammy hand clamped down hard on my upper arm. His grip was bruising, devoid of any of the fake tenderness he had shown last night. He yanked me forward, dragging me down the remaining steps like a piece of cumbersome luggage, desperate to escape the suffocating gravity of the Don.

I didn't stumble. I kept my spine perfectly straight, letting him pull me toward the exit, knowing that the eyes of the Devil were burning into our backs.

Damien POV

The world stopped. The low, thrumming jazz of The Onyx Club faded into a dull, meaningless hum. On the grand marble staircase, she looked back at me.

Isabella.

That was the name my Consigliere had whispered to me days ago, a mere footnote in a background check. But the smile she gave me right now—fragile, shattered, yet laced with a silent, desperate plea—was a ghost brought to life. It was Adela. But beneath that haunting resemblance, there was a spine of steel Adela had never possessed. It hit me with the force of a physical blow, locking the air in my lungs.

Beside her, the pathetic excuse for a man, Hudson Higgins, was practically vibrating with terror. The stench of his sour sweat and cowardice drifted up the stairs, polluting the air around her. He gripped her arm, his knuckles white, dragging her toward the exit like a thief fleeing a crime scene. Yet, she didn't stumble. Her back remained perfectly straight, a white rose refusing to snap in the mud.

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. In that single heartbeat, Isabella Flores ceased to be just a curious replacement. She became a necessity. An absolute obsession.

I didn't linger on the stairs. I bypassed the crowded floor and headed straight for my private suite on the top floor. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn back just enough to let the city lights bleed into the dark room, the air thick with the scent of aged whiskey and expensive Cuban cigars. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a god looking down at the filthy streets of Chicago.

Down below, the valet brought around a cab. I watched as Higgins roughly shoved Isabella into the backseat. Even through the thick glass, I could read the violent, erratic jerks of his body. He was shouting at her, his face twisted in a pathetic display of misplaced authority. He was trying to reclaim his fragile manhood after cowering before me.

And Isabella? She simply turned her head, staring out the window into the night, completely indifferent to his tantrum. Her apathy was a silent, ringing slap to his face.

A dark, violent fury coiled in my gut. Higgins was putting his filthy hands on something that belonged to me. He was dirtying my possession.

The heavy oak door clicked open behind me. Frederick 'Freddie' Solis stepped into the room. As my Consigliere, Freddie was a man with snake-like eyes and a mind built for the family's dirtiest, most delicate negotiations. He was the architect of tonight's little theater.

I didn't turn around. I picked up the silver letter opener from my mahogany desk, the cold metal grounding the violent urge I had to snap someone's neck.

"Was this your idea of a subtle introduction, Freddie?" My voice was dangerously quiet.

Freddie cleared his throat, the sound tight. "I thought you would want to see her in person, Don Falcone. To confirm the... resemblance." He stepped closer, though keeping a respectful distance. "Isabella Flores. Daughter of a ruined legitimate family. She came with a heavy dowry, which went straight to the man who married her—Hudson Higgins, one of our Associates. He's ambitious. He thought offering her up to your attention would earn him a seat at the big table."

I traced the sharp edge of the blade with my thumb. An Associate. A bottom-feeder who sold his own wife for a scrap of power.

I turned to face Freddie, pointing the tip of the silver blade toward the window, toward the street where the cab had disappeared.

"Do you think," I started, the ice in my tone making Freddie stiffen, "that a man like that deserves her?"

Freddie swallowed hard, a bead of sweat forming at his temple. He knew better than to misread my mood. "No, Boss. He is nothing."

I tossed the letter opener onto the desk. It landed with a sharp, final clatter. I thought of Isabella's straight back, her haunting smile, and the crude way Higgins had shoved her into the car.

"A man like that doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as her," I said, my voice dropping to a lethal register. "It's an insult... to my possession. Fix it."

Isabella POV

The cab ride away from The Onyx Club was suffocating. Hudson's fingers dug into my arm, his chest heaving with a mix of terror and misplaced rage. I kept my gaze fixed on the passing streetlamps of Chicago, ignoring his erratic muttering. I didn't need to look at him; my mind was miles behind us, lingering in the penthouse we had just fled.

Even though I wasn't there, the memories of my past life painted the scene with brutal clarity. Right now, Frederick 'Freddie' Solis—the Falcone family's snake-eyed Consigliere—was standing before Don Damien Falcone. Freddie would be laying out my life like a ledger: the daughter of a ruined legitimate family, the heavy dowry that bought my marriage to an Associate, and Hudson's pathetic gamble to trade me for a seat at the table. I knew Damien was listening in that terrifying, absolute silence of his, his dark eyes judging Hudson's worth. And I knew Hudson had already been found wanting.

But the swift execution I expected didn't come.

Days bled into one another inside the Higgins townhouse. The walls, paid for by my dowry, felt like a velvet-lined cage reeking of Hudson's cheap cologne and my own lingering gardenia perfume.

Hudson was unraveling. The silence from the Falcone estate was driving him mad. He paced the halls, jumping at every knock, desperate for the promotion he thought he had bought with my flesh. To soothe his bruised ego, he tried to reclaim his territory—me. Every night, he approached our bed with that sickening, entitled gleam in his eyes. And every night, I used my daughter as a shield.

Josie is crying, I would say, slipping out of his grasp. She needs her mother.

Hudson couldn't argue without looking like a monster. More importantly, his underlying fear of what the Don might do if he bruised his new possession kept his hands tied. He was forced to sleep in his study, leaving me alone in the dark.

Standing before the brass-rimmed mirror in my bedroom, I traced the line of my jaw. I practiced the fragile, shattered smile that had hooked Damien on the stairs. It was Adela's smile. Freddie had taught me how to mimic the Don's dead ghost in my past life, molding me into the perfect, compliant pet.

But my reflection mocked me. The timeline was wrong. By now, Freddie should have sent his men to collect me. Damien's inaction was a glaring deviation from the past. Had I overplayed my hand? Was the Don's paranoia stronger than his obsession? A cold knot of unease tightened in my stomach. I couldn't afford to be passive. If Damien Falcone was changing the rules of the game, I had to adapt. I would not be a victim again; I would be the architect of my own Vendetta.

A timid knock broke my concentration. "Ma'am," the maid murmured through the door. "Mr. Higgins is asking for you in his study."

I smoothed the skirt of my dress, masking my cold calculation with a veil of wifely obedience.

Hudson's study was a monument to his mediocrity, suffocating under the stench of stale cigars and cheap whiskey. When I pushed the heavy oak door open, I found him standing by the bar cart. His hands were shaking so violently that the amber liquid sloshed over the rim of his crystal glass, soaking into the lapel of his tailored suit.

He didn't even bother to curse. He just stared at the stain, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. When he looked up at me, his eyes were bloodshot, swimming with a pathetic, desperate anxiety. The silence from the Don was breaking him.

"Hudson?" I asked softly, playing my part.

He closed the distance between us, his sour breath washing over my face as he grabbed my hand. His grip was painfully tight, his knuckles white. He was a drowning man trying to anchor himself to the only thing he thought he still owned.

"Isabella," he rasped, his voice trembling with a sickening mix of fear and forced authority. "You're my wife. I need you to stay in our bed tonight. Leave Josie with the nanny. I need you with me."