Isabella POV

The roaring heat of the flames was gone, replaced by the biting chill of silk sheets. I gasped, my lungs still burning with the phantom taste of smoke and ash. My eyes snapped open to an unfamiliar ceiling, shadowed in the dim light of a sprawling, immaculate room. The scent of expensive cologne, rich cigars, and a faint trace of antiseptic filled the air. Damien Moretti’s private suite.

I looked down at my left hand. The gaping wound from Caitlin’s stiletto had been professionally bandaged, the stark white gauze a mocking contrast to the blood that still stained my torn dress.

*My baby. My family. Gone.*

The agony threatened to swallow me whole, a suffocating wave of grief. But as I stared at the pristine walls of my new cage, the tears refused to fall. The naive, terrified Isabella had burned to ash in the North Wing. What remained was something hollowed out, filled only with the freezing, absolute clarity of hatred. I had nothing left to lose. Only my Vendetta.

A sound pierced the heavy silence. High-heeled shoes clicking against the hardwood, and a voice—Caitlin’s—low and triumphant. She was on the phone. "Yes, Mother... It's done. The Irish bitch is ash... Marco is waiting. By morning, I will be the future Mrs. Moretti."

Her words were a spark in a room full of gunpowder. She thought I was dead. She thought she had won, on her way to claim her prize in Marco’s bed. A cold, predatory clarity washed over me, overriding the agonizing pain in my body. This was my first move.

I forced myself off the bed, my legs trembling but my resolve absolute. I crept to the heavy oak door of the suite, opening it just a fraction. Down the dimly lit, luxurious corridor, Caitlin was strutting toward Marco’s room, her emerald dress swaying. She reached for the brass handle.

I didn’t burst from the shadows like a startled animal. I moved like a predator.

Adrenaline masked the weakness in my limbs. Just as she turned the knob, before she could even register my presence, I slammed my good hand into her back, shoving her violently into the dark room.

She stumbled forward with a startled shriek. I grabbed the heavy oak door and yanked it shut, throwing my entire weight against it as I slid the heavy exterior deadbolt into place.

*Bang! Bang!*

"Hey! Who's out there? Open this door!" Caitlin screamed, her fists pounding against the wood. Panic laced her voice as she realized she was trapped.

I leaned my forehead against the door, my breathing ragged. The wound on my left hand tore open from the exertion, fresh, warm blood seeping through the white bandages and smearing onto the wood.

"Bella? Is that you? You're dead!" she shrieked, her voice cracking.

I pressed my lips close to the narrow crack of the doorframe. My voice was devoid of any human warmth, a demonic whisper echoing her own cruelty. "This isn't justice, cousin. This is the beginning of my Vendetta."

Inside, the pounding stopped. A heavy, slurred male voice echoed from the depths of the room, followed by a dark, drug-fueled laugh. Marco. Caitlin’s terrified screams morphed into desperate, muffled sobs as the reality of her trap set in. She was locked in with the monster she had helped create.

I stepped back. With cold precision, I used the torn hem of my ruined dress to wipe my fresh blood from the brass handle, erasing my presence.

My vengeance delivered, the adrenaline abruptly vanished. The world tilted dangerously. I dragged my feet, stumbling back toward the open door of Damien’s suite. Every step was a battle against the encroaching darkness.

I crossed the threshold, my vision tunneling. My knees buckled, and I fell forward, bracing for the harsh impact of the floor.

It never came.

I crashed into a wall of solid muscle. Strong, unforgiving arms wrapped around me, catching me with effortless grace. I forced my heavy eyelids open, tilting my head up.

Damien Moretti stood there, a phantom materialized from the shadows. He hadn't just returned; he had been watching. His flawless, sculpted face gave nothing away, but his narrow, pitch-black eyes were fixed on me. They didn't hold pity or surprise. They held the cold, calculating gleam of a predator appraising a newly discovered, highly dangerous weapon.

His gaze dropped to my bleeding hand, then shifted toward the hallway, where the faint, muffled sounds of Caitlin's ruin still echoed.

Damien POV

She weighed nothing. As she collapsed against my chest, Isabella felt like a fragile bird, yet she reeked of smoke, copper, and absolute carnage. It was the scent of a seasoned soldier, not a sheltered Irish mafia princess.

I lifted her effortlessly, carrying her away from the open door and laying her on the dark silk sheets of my bed. Her fiery red hair fanned out like spilled blood against the pillows. I took her left hand, carefully unwrapping the ruined, crimson-soaked gauze. The stiletto wound had torn completely open. She had used her mutilated hand to shove her cousin into Marco’s room, weaponizing her own agony to seal their fate.

I didn't call for a doctor. I took the medical supplies from my en-suite and cleaned the gaping wound myself. My fingers brushed against her pale, freezing skin, but my blood ran hot. I had expected a weeping collateral bride, a victim to be pitied and protected. Instead, right under the nose of the entire Moretti estate, she had executed a flawless, ruthless *Vendetta*. She was a wounded, bloodthirsty wolf. And she was magnificent.

Heavy, hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, snapping my attention away from her pale face.

I moved silently to the door of my suite, leaving it cracked just a fraction. Down the hall, my stepmother, Caterina, marched toward Marco’s room like a wrathful queen. She was flanked by two of our Capos and a handful of her loyal soldiers. She had heard the screams. She had come to catch the "Irish curse" in a compromising position, ready to ruin Isabella and elevate her golden boy.

"Break it down," Caterina ordered sharply, her voice dripping with venomous anticipation.

A soldier kicked the heavy oak door. It splintered and crashed open.

The stench of cheap gin, opium, and sweat rolled out into the pristine hallway. Caterina stepped forward, a triumphant sneer on her face—until she actually looked inside.

Through the gap in my door, I watched the color violently drain from my stepmother's face. Marco was sprawled on the sofa, half-naked, his eyes glassy and rolling back from the drugs, slurring incoherent curses. On the floor, Caitlin Carson was sobbing hysterically, her emerald dress torn, her dignity shattered.

There was no Isabella. Only the filthy, undeniable ruin of the Moretti heir, exposed in front of the family's core members.

Caterina gasped, stumbling back as the Capos exchanged dark, disgusted looks. Marco’s reputation was dead.

I closed my door silently, locking the chaos out. I turned back to the bed, my dark eyes locking onto the sleeping girl. She had crippled my brother without firing a single bullet. My desire for her shifted, hardening into a dark, possessive obsession. She was the perfect weapon. And she was going to be mine.

*

Isabella POV

I woke to the heavy, suffocating silence of the suite. The throbbing in my left hand had dulled to a numb ache, freshly bandaged and clean.

I pushed myself up against the headboard, my breathing shallow. Faint, muffled sounds of shouting and a woman's desperate weeping drifted through the thick walls. Caitlin. A cold, sharp thrill of satisfaction coursed through my veins, quickly followed by a hollow emptiness. I had survived the night, but I was still trapped in the serpent's nest.

The shadows in the corner of the room shifted.

Damien Moretti stepped into the dim light, the faint glow of the city illuminating his flawless, merciless features. The scent of expensive cologne and rich cigars wrapped around me, a suffocating reminder of his power. He moved with lethal grace, stopping right at the edge of the bed. He looked down at me, his pitch-black eyes stripping away every defense I had left.

"You made a mess, little bird," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in my chest.

I didn't flinch. I met his stare, my green eyes burning with the remnants of the fire I had escaped. "They deserved it."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward—a microscopic movement that wasn't a smile, but a predator's dark approval. He leaned down, planting his large hands on the mattress on either side of me, trapping me in his shadow.

"Your Vendetta has begun," he whispered, his breath brushing against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "But from now on, you hunt under my command. You are mine now, Isabella. Your revenge, your body, your soul... all mine."

I stared into the abyss of his eyes, realizing the terrifying truth. I had escaped Marco's butcher block only to sign a contract with the devil himself.

Damien straightened up, adjusting his tailored cuffs. "Rest. The sun will be up soon."

He turned and walked toward the sitting area, leaving me in the cold silk. I looked toward the window. Dawn was hours away, and with it would come Caterina’s desperate, venomous wrath. She would try to wash her son's sins in my blood. I tightened my uninjured hand into a fist. Let her try.

Isabella POV

The morning sun poured through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Moretti estate's Morning Room, yet it offered no warmth. The expensive Persian rugs, the velvet sofas, and the stern oil paintings of Moretti ancestors all radiated a cold, suffocating authority. The air was thick with the scent of freshly brewed espresso, expensive perfumes, and the unmistakable, metallic tang of an impending ambush.

I stood silently in the shadows just behind my grandmother, Eleanor Carson. My left hand, freshly bandaged by Damien, throbbed with a dull ache, hidden beneath the folds of a borrowed, modest black dress. I watched Caterina Moretti play the gracious hostess, her smile tight and her eyes darting nervously toward the hallway leading to the East Wing guest quarters. She was waiting for the trap to spring.

Suddenly, a muffled sound drifted from down the hall—a heavy thud, followed by a low, suppressed moan.

Caterina’s perfectly drawn eyebrows snapped together in a display of feigned outrage. "Scusate, signore" (Excuse me, ladies), she announced, her voice carrying over the clinking of porcelain teacups. "It seems some of the staff have forgotten their place. I must deal with this lack of discipline."

Before she could take a step, Francesca Gallo, the wife of a prominent Capo and Caterina’s chief rival among the women, let out a sharp, venomous laugh. "Oh, Caterina, your discipline here is truly lacking lately. Let’s just hope it isn’t another Moretti man failing to control his urges."

The words were a poisoned needle. The color drained from Caterina’s face, and the entire room fell into a dead, heavy silence. The wives exchanged knowing, malicious glances.

My grandmother, Eleanor, did not look amused. She struck the floor once with her silver wolf-headed cane. The sharp *clack* echoed like a gunshot.

"Mrs. Moretti," Eleanor said, her voice a low, gravelly command that demanded absolute obedience. "If there is idle gossip threatening the honor of this house, it must be investigated immediately. The reputation of a Carson girl allows for not a single stain."

Caterina’s jaw tightened, but under the crushing weight of a Matriarch’s gaze, she had no choice. "Of course, Eleanor. Let us see."

We moved as a flock of vultures toward the East Wing. Two Moretti soldiers stood at the end of the corridor, looking deeply uncomfortable. At Caterina’s sharp nod, they kicked the heavy oak door open.

The room was plunged in shadows, the heavy drapes drawn tight. The stench of cheap whiskey, sweat, and sex rolled out into the pristine hallway. On the bed, two figures were tangled in the ruined sheets, scrambling in the sudden intrusion of light from the doorway.

Before anyone’s eyes could adjust to the gloom, Caterina gasped loudly. She didn't even look at the bed. Instead, she spun around to face my grandmother, her hands flying to her mouth in a flawless performance of shock and devastation.

"Oh, mio Dio... Eleanor..." Caterina cried out, her voice trembling with fake sorrow. "I cannot believe it... Isabella... How could she do something so shameful?"

The accusation hit the hallway like a bomb. The murmurs erupted instantly. The women behind us gasped, their eyes wide with scandalized delight. Francesca Gallo opened her mouth to mock Caterina’s eyesight, but the damage was already done. The narrative had been set. I was the whore.

Caterina stepped closer to my grandmother, her voice dropping into a vicious, condemning hiss meant for everyone to hear. "I suppose it is the wild Irish blood in her veins. They do not understand honor like we Sicilians do. With her parents dead, her lack of proper breeding is... expected, but this is unforgivable."

Eleanor’s face turned bone-white with fury. Her knuckles turned translucent as she gripped her cane, ready to strike the Moretti woman down for insulting our bloodline.

It was time.

I stepped out from the deep shadow behind my grandmother’s imposing figure. The rustle of my black dress was the only sound as I moved into the light of the doorway. I kept my posture perfectly straight, my green eyes locking onto Caterina’s triumphant face.

"Mrs. Moretti," I asked, my voice as calm and freezing as the Chicago winter. "Are you speaking about me?"

The whispers died instantly. The silence that followed was absolute, suffocating.

Every head in the hallway snapped toward me. Eyes bulged. Mouths fell open. Caterina froze, the fake tears drying instantly on her cheeks as all the blood rushed from her face, leaving her looking like a corpse. She stared at me, then slowly, in sheer terror, turned her head back toward the dark room.

If I was standing right here... who was the woman in the bed?