Isabella POV

The spectacle in the main hall had served its purpose. Eleanor, disgusted by the public display of our fractured bloodline, ordered the guards to drag Caitlin away from the prying eyes of the lower-ranking members. We moved to the Private Chapel, a small, suffocating room paneled in dark walnut. Dozens of white candles flickered before a marble statue of the Virgin Mary, the air thick with the heavy scent of frankincense and old wood.

Caitlin was thrown onto the cold stone floor at the foot of the altar. Gina and Bridget stood trembling near the entrance. I remained silently by my grandmother’s side, the shadows of the chapel hiding the cold satisfaction in my eyes.

Eleanor stood tall, her silver wolf-headed cane resting firmly on the ground. She looked down at the ruined girl like a judge presiding over the damned.

"Make your choice, Caitlin," Eleanor commanded, her voice echoing off the stone walls.

Caitlin sobbed hysterically, her torn emerald dress pooling around her. "Mama, please! Don't let her send me away!" she shrieked, reaching a trembling hand toward Gina.

Eleanor struck the floor with her cane. *Clack.* "The convent or the slum. Choose now, or I will execute the highest family discipline and erase your name from the Carson ledger entirely. You will be nothing."

The threat of becoming a nameless nobody finally broke through Caitlin’s hysteria. Shaking violently, she choked out the words that sealed her fate. "The convent... Sicily."

Gina threw herself forward, tears streaming down her face. "Mother Eleanor, I beg you! Let her serve her punishment here. House arrest! She has lost her purity, isn't that punishment enough for a girl?"

Eleanor’s eyes blazed with a terrifying, cold fury. "You watched her humiliate Isabella in the Moretti estate. You conspired to hand our shipping lines to our enemies. And now you dare speak of punishment?" Eleanor took a step toward her daughter-in-law. "One more word, Gina, and I will call Declan to sign the banishment papers. You will be sent back to the Gallo family in disgrace, a laughingstock to the entire Chicago Outfit."

The words hit Gina like a physical blow. In our world, a woman banished back to her maiden family was socially dead. Gina’s mouth snapped shut, her face draining of all color.

"Your greed poisoned this branch," Eleanor continued, her tone absolute. "You will hand over the ledgers and keys to the laundromats and the funeral homes immediately. Furthermore, the marriages of all second-branch children will now be decided solely by me."

At that, Bridget’s head snapped up. Her eyes, usually cast down in feigned innocence, flashed with sharp calculation. She was secretly plotting to marry Marco Moretti to seize power; she could not afford to let our grandmother control her betrothal. Moving with subtle urgency, Bridget reached out and gave her mother’s skirt a sharp, hidden tug.

Gina caught the hint. Desperate to preserve Bridget’s chances of climbing the mafia ladder, Gina swallowed her pride and her tears. "I... I will surrender the ledgers, Mother Eleanor."

"Go pack them," Eleanor ordered dismissively. "Bridget, go assist your mother."

I watched from the shadows as Bridget guided her broken mother out of the chapel. Bridget had just sacrificed her mother’s power to protect her own ambition. She was far more dangerous than Caitlin ever was.

The guards hauled a weeping Caitlin out through the side door, destined for a ship to Italy.

The heavy oak doors clicked shut, sealing the chapel. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the soft crackle of the candle flames. The scent of frankincense suddenly felt suffocating.

Eleanor turned her back to the altar and faced me. The anger that had been directed at Gina and Caitlin was gone, replaced by something far more intense and unreadable. Her eagle-like eyes locked onto mine, stripping away the facade of the innocent victim I had played all night. She knew. She knew the flawless execution of my Vendetta was not just self-defense, but a calculated slaughter.

The air in the small room grew incredibly heavy.

"Kneel, Isabella," Eleanor commanded, her voice dropping to a low, chilling register that left no room for hesitation.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I slowly bent my knees, the freezing marble seeping through the fabric of my dress as I lowered myself before the Matriarch.

Isabella POV

The freezing marble seeped through the thin fabric of my black dress as I knelt before the altar. Eleanor stood over me, the silence in the small chapel heavy with the suffocating scent of frankincense and melting wax.

She slowly lowered her silver wolf-headed cane, placing the cold metal tip firmly under my chin. With a slight upward pressure, she forced me to raise my head and meet her piercing, eagle-like gaze.

"Was it your design from the start, Isabella?" she asked, her voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated against the stone walls. "To push your cousin into the abyss?"

I didn't blink. I didn't tremble. "Yes, Nonna. She dug the grave; I merely pushed her in."

I expected a strike. I expected the wrath of a Matriarch who had just lost a piece of her bloodline. Instead, a dark, complex gleam of approval flickered in her weathered eyes. She withdrew the cane, resting both hands on its silver hilt.

"A true Carson heir must know how to endure pain," Eleanor said, her tone shifting from a judge to a sovereign. "But more importantly, she must know how to make our enemies bleed ten times over. You have your father's ruthlessness, Bella. But remember this—your Vendetta must always serve the family, not just your own wrath."

She reached into the deep folds of her dark skirt and pulled out a heavy, antique silver ring. It bore the ancient Carson crest—a snarling wolf. She held it out to me, the silver catching the candlelight.

"From this day forward, you are not just my granddaughter," Eleanor declared, her voice absolute. "You are the blade in the shadows. Rise, Isabella."

I took the ring, the cold metal a heavy, bloody promise against my palm, and stood.

*

Damien POV

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, watching the violent blizzard bury Chicago in white. The glass was freezing, but the blood in my veins ran hot with calculated malice. Behind me, the shadows of the room concealed my Enforcer, Silvio, and a young Soldier, Luca.

"Marco's alliance with the Carson girl was a play for the docks," Silvio reported, his voice devoid of any inflection. "A direct challenge to your authority over the shipping lines, Boss."

"That Isabella Carson is a ruthless one, though," Luca chimed in, unable to hide the raw awe in his voice. "Flipped the trap right onto her own blood. The streets are already whispering about the Irish ice queen."

I didn't turn around. Luca's words only confirmed what I already knew—she was a queen forged in fire. I waved a hand, silencing the boy. "Continue, Silvio."

"There is something else, sir. Regarding the night of the fire." Silvio stepped forward, the temperature in the room seemingly dropping. "I investigated the anomaly you reported."

Silvio handed me a folded piece of paper. "Your whiskey was spiked at the celebration dinner. Viviana Falcone. She used an ancient Sicilian mixture—a potent aphrodisiac laced with heavy hallucinogens. She has been seen meeting privately with your stepmother, Caterina, multiple times this month."

The paper crumpled in my fist. My mind violently snapped back to that night. The missing hours. The uncontrollable, burning fever in my blood that had turned me into a mindless beast. The phantom memory of soft, pale skin, the scent of white roses mixed with copper, and a pair of terrified, defiant emerald eyes in the dark.

*Marco never touched you.* Caitlin’s mocking words to Isabella echoed in my head.

My chest tightened with a sudden, suffocating force. The baby she lost in that burning room. The child that had sparked her bloody Vendetta.

It wasn't Marco's. It was mine.

I had planted my heir in her womb while blinded by Caterina's poison, and my own family had slaughtered it. The realization didn't bring sorrow; it brought a violent, possessive rage that threatened to tear my sanity apart. She was mine. Her pain was mine. Her vengeance was mine.

I didn't wait for Silvio to finish. I grabbed my coat and walked out into the freezing night.

I moved like a ghost through the blizzard, bypassing the heavy security of the Carson-controlled hotel with the ease of a predator hunting in familiar territory. The faint, lingering scent of her guided me through the silent, dimly lit corridors until I stood outside the heavy oak doors of their private chapel.

I pushed the door open just a fraction.

Through the crack, illuminated by the flickering light of dozens of white candles, I saw her. Isabella was kneeling alone before the marble Virgin Mary. Her slender figure looked like a delicate flower about to be snapped by the winter wind, yet her spine was rigidly straight, radiating an unbreakable, lethal grace.

The contradiction of her fragility and her absolute ruthlessness sank like a rusted hook deep into my chest.