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?

Isabella POV

Caterina’s face turned a sickly, ashen gray. Her eyes darted from me to the heavy oak door and back again. The realization of her catastrophic blunder shattered her carefully crafted mask of Sicilian elegance.

"What are you doing out here?" she hissed, her voice trembling with a volatile mix of panic and fury.

I tilted my head, my voice a soft, confused whisper. "I don't understand. Isn't Caitlin in that room?"

That was the spark that ignited the powder keg. Caterina let out a guttural, unhinged shriek. She lunged forward, her hand slicing through the air.

*Smack.*

The slap echoed down the corridor like a gunshot. My head snapped to the side, a sharp, burning pain blooming across my left cheek. I tasted copper. I didn't stumble. I didn't raise a hand to defend myself. I simply turned my face back to her, my green eyes locking onto her wide, manic ones.

The hallway plunged into a suffocating, dead silence.

I reached up, my fingertips lightly brushing my stinging cheek. My voice was not loud, but in that absolute quiet, it carried to every corner of the wing. "Mrs. Moretti. My father, Liam Carson, may have bled out for this alliance, but Carson blood has not run dry. My upbringing is the sole responsibility of my grandmother, the Matriarch of the Carson family. Since when is it your place to strike me?"

Eleanor’s silver wolf-headed cane slammed into the hardwood floor. *Clack.* The sound made Caterina flinch.

Francesca Gallo let out a low, mocking tsk. The other wives exchanged condemning glares. Striking an allied family's daughter in front of her Matriarch was a gross violation of our world's unspoken laws.

Under the crushing weight of Eleanor’s murderous glare and the collective judgment of the Outfit's wives, Caterina’s chest heaved. She swallowed hard, her eyes burning with a promise of death. "Mi dispiace" (I apologize), she choked out, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "My nerves... got the better of me."

She immediately tried to salvage the wreckage. "I must go find Caitlin. Come, Isabella, let us leave this mess to the staff." She reached out to grab my arm.

I stepped back, letting her hand grasp empty air. I turned my back on her entirely and faced my grandmother. I did not kneel, but I bowed deeply, my posture rigid with formal respect.

"Nonna" (Grandmother), I said, my tone ringing with solemn gravity. "I came to this wing to rest with my cousin Caitlin. Now she is missing, and there are strange sounds coming from that room. I beg you, as the Matriarch of the Carson family, to take charge. Seek the truth. Find my cousin."

Caterina gasped, stepping forward. "Eleanor, this is unnecessary—"

"Silence," Eleanor commanded, her voice a low rumble of thunder. She looked at Caterina with utter disdain, then turned to the two Carson soldiers flanking her. "Open the door."

Caterina was trapped. The color drained from her face completely.

But before the soldiers could take a step, Eleanor raised her cane, halting them. Her sharp, calculating eyes bored into mine. She needed her judgment to be airtight. "Isabella. Tell me exactly where you were resting before you came out here."

Every eye in the corridor snapped back to me. I felt the weight of their stares—some pitying, some suspicious, Caterina’s desperate and venomous.

This was it. The final trap.

I raised my uninjured right hand and pointed a steady finger directly at the closed oak door. I kept my voice eerily calm, devoid of any hesitation. "The room I was resting in, Nonna... is that one."

The air in the hallway instantly turned toxic. The sympathetic murmurs died, replaced by sharp gasps of revulsion. The wives’ faces twisted into masks of disgust. Even Eleanor’s stoic expression faltered, a flicker of profound disappointment crossing her weathered features.

Caterina’s terror vanished, replaced by a sudden, vicious gleam of triumph. She thought I had just confessed to orchestrating the entire scandal. In the eyes of every woman present, I had just transformed from a wronged victim into a venomous, calculating liar who had sacrificed her own blood for a petty rivalry.

I lowered my hand and waited for the door to open.