Isabella POV

The acrid smell of burning velvet and wood filled my lungs, but the choking smoke was my salvation. Down the hall, the heavy boots of Marshall Soldiers thundered against the floorboards, their shouts echoing through the estate as the fire alarm finally wailed. The chloral hydrate still pulled at my limbs like a dark tide, but the pure, unadulterated adrenaline of my Vendetta kept me moving.

I slipped past the chaos, pressing my back against the cold plaster of the servant's corridor. I knew exactly where they would hide her.

The storage closet at the end of the hall was locked, but the cheap mechanism was no match for the heavy silver hairpin I pulled from my messy updo. A sharp twist, a satisfying click, and I pushed the door open.

The stench of mothballs and dust hit me. In the dim light, Adrienne was bound to a chair, a filthy rag shoved into her mouth. Her eyes, wide with sheer terror, flooded with tears the second she saw me.

I dropped to my knees, my fingers working frantically at the coarse ropes. "I've got you," I whispered, pulling the gag from her mouth.

Adrienne gasped for air, her whole body trembling. "Signorina... thank God. They drugged you. Adina and Donna Carmella... they planned it all."

"I know," I said, helping her to her feet. "But I need to know the rest. Why Hoy Casey?"

"The bootlegging routes," Adrienne sobbed, clinging to my arm. "The Marshalls are losing the turf war. Carmella promised the Irishman the western smuggling channels if he played along. They were going to let him have you in the secluded guest room, then send the guards in to catch you. Treason. They wanted you dead and your trust fund in their pockets."

A cold, hollow laugh threatened to escape my throat. My husband, Alistair, and his family were willing to sell my life to a rival boss just to secure a liquor route and a diamond necklace.

"Where is the room?" I asked, my voice devoid of any warmth.

"The east wing. Room four," she stammered.

"Good." I turned toward the dormant fireplace in the servant's quarters and picked up a heavy, solid brass poker. The metal was freezing against my palm. "Stay behind me."

We moved swiftly through the shadows. The fire in my suite had drawn everyone to the west wing, leaving the east corridors eerily deserted. Just as we neared the intersection, hurried footsteps and panicked cursing broke the silence.

"The fire wasn't part of the plan! If she burns to death before Casey gets to her, the deal is off!" Adina's shrill voice echoed, followed by the frantic scurrying of Carla, the rat.

I pressed myself against the alcove, gripping the brass poker with both hands. As Carla rounded the corner first, her eyes darting nervously, I stepped out of the darkness.

I didn't hesitate. I swung the heavy brass rod, catching Carla squarely on the back of her neck. A sickening crack echoed, and she crumpled to the floor like a broken doll, out cold.

Adina stopped dead in her tracks. The color drained from her arrogant face, her mouth opening to scream.

Before a single sound could escape her lips, I lunged forward and brought the hilt of the poker down hard against her temple. Adina's eyes rolled back, and she collapsed in a heap of expensive silk and pearls.

"Help me drag them," I ordered Adrienne, my heart beating in a slow, terrifyingly calm rhythm.

We shoved Carla into a nearby linen closet, locking it tight. Then, I grabbed Adina by her arms, hauling her dead weight down the hall and kicking open the door to Room four. I threw my sister-in-law onto the center of the luxurious mattress. With ruthless efficiency, I tore the expensive evening gown from her body, leaving her in nothing but her sheer, scandalous undergarments.

The trap was reset. The prey and the predator had just switched places.

I turned to Adrienne. She was staring at me, her breath hitching at the coldness she found in my eyes.

"Downstairs, Carmella's birthday party is in full swing," I said, my voice a deadly whisper. "Hoy Casey is waiting for a signal. I need you to go down there, find him, and tell him the lady of the house is waiting for him in Room four. Tell him she is eager."

Adrienne swallowed hard. She knew the reputation of the Irish boss. He was a monster who fed on the fear of women. Sending her to speak to him was a gamble with her life.

"Do you understand what I am asking of you?" I asked, stepping closer.

Adrienne looked at Adina's unconscious body, then back at me. The hatred for the family that had abused her hardened her features. She gave a single, resolute nod. "I will bring him to the slaughter, Signorina."

I watched her slip out the door and disappear down the corridor. A pang of guilt pierced my chest, but I crushed it instantly. To survive a world of wolves, I had to become the most ruthless one of all.

I turned and walked toward the French doors that led out to the estate gardens. The freezing Chicago wind whipped my face as I stepped into the snow-covered night, my hand slipping into my coat pocket to trace the cold, metallic edges of the detonator I had hidden there hours ago.

Isabella POV

The freezing Chicago wind whipped my face, biting through my thin coat, but I barely felt the cold. I crouched behind the snow-draped stone rockery in the estate garden, the rough granite pressing into my spine. My thumb traced the cold, metallic button of the detonator in my pocket.

Footsteps crunched heavily against the fresh snow.

I held my breath, peering through the frosted branches of a dead rosebush. Adrienne was walking down the illuminated pathway toward the east wing. Beside her was Hoy Casey. The Irish boss was a hulking mass of a man, his face flushed with cheap whiskey and unadulterated lust. He was rubbing his thick hands together, a predatory, sickening grin plastered across his face. He truly believed he was walking into a secret rendezvous to conquer the lady of the Marshall estate. His arrogance blinded him to the slight tremble in Adrienne's shoulders.

They stopped in front of Room four. Adrienne kept her head bowed, playing the part of the submissive servant perfectly. She gestured to the door, whispering something I couldn't hear.

Casey didn't even look at her. He eagerly turned the brass knob and stepped into the dark room where Adina lay unconscious on the bed. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him.

The trap was sprung.

Adrienne didn't hesitate. She gave a single, barely perceptible nod toward the dark garden and vanished into the shadows, heading back to the main hall just as I had instructed.

I pulled the detonator from my pocket. The heavy metal felt like the weight of my Vendetta. This was never just about punishing Adina or ruining Carmella's birthday. This was about Alistair. By detonating a stash of military-grade dynamite beneath the guest wing and burying a rival boss in the rubble, I was framing the Marshalls for the ultimate sin. Hoarding illegal weapons and assassinating a boss on their own territory would bring the absolute wrath of The Commission down upon Alistair's head. And Catarina Casey, Hoy's ruthless wife, would unleash the full force of the Zetta family upon them.

I pressed the button.

For a split second, there was only the howling wind. Then, the night tore open.

A deafening roar shattered the winter silence. The ground violently heaved beneath my boots. The entire east wing erupted in a blinding, apocalyptic pillar of orange and red fire. The shockwave hit me like a physical blow, sending a spray of snow and dirt over the rockery. Wood splintered, glass shattered, and the roof of the guest wing caved in on itself in a fiery collapse.

Through the smoke, I saw a Marshall Soldier who had been patrolling the perimeter get lifted entirely off his feet. He was thrown through the air like a discarded ragdoll, crashing into the frozen hedges, unmoving.

Over the ringing in my ears, the muffled, frantic screams from the main hall began. I could perfectly picture the chaos inside—Adrienne bursting into the ballroom, her face pale with feigned terror, shrieking to Carmella and Catarina Casey that Hoy was caught in the blast.

The Marshall family was officially bleeding.

It was time to move. I turned, keeping my back to the inferno, and hurried along my predetermined escape route through the deepest shadows of the garden. The snow was slippery, and the flashing amber light from the flames cast long, distorted shadows across the statues.

I rounded the sharp edge of the rockery, my eyes fixed on the servant's gate in the distance.

Suddenly, I slammed into a solid wall of muscle.

Before I could even gasp, a large, gloved hand clamped over my mouth, violently jerking me backward into the pitch-black alcove of the stones. My back hit a broad, hard chest.

Panic spiked through my veins. I thrashed, my hands clawing at the leather glove, but the grip was like iron.

Then, the smell hit me. It wasn't the acrid smoke of the explosion. It was the overwhelming, metallic stench of fresh, hot blood, mixed with the sharp scent of winter mint and expensive cologne.

"Quiet," a voice murmured against my ear. It was a low, smooth baritone that sent a shiver of pure terror down my spine.

The man turned me around, pinning me against the freezing stone. My wide eyes adjusted to the shadows, taking in the immaculate burgundy suit that seemed to absorb the fiery glow of the burning estate. His face was devastatingly handsome, carved from marble, but his dark eyes were dead, cold, and terrifyingly calm.

My gaze darted downward for a fraction of a second. Half-buried in the snow at his expensive leather shoes lay the bodies of two Marshall Soldiers, neat bullet holes drilled perfectly between their eyes.

I looked back up into the face of Damien 'The Ghost' Guerrero, the chief Enforcer of The Commission.

Isabella POV

I stared up at the man pinning me against the freezing granite, my breath catching painfully in my throat. The amber light from the burning guest wing flickered across his chiseled jaw, casting half his face in demonic shadow.

He didn't look like a man who had just executed two people. He looked like a god of death who had merely swatted away a pair of annoying flies.

My eyes darted again to the two Marshall Soldiers bleeding out into the pristine snow at his feet. The precision of the kills—single shots, dead center between the eyes—screamed of a professional. Then, the flashing firelight caught a glint of metal at his waist. Pinned to his leather belt was a solid gold St. Christopher medal.

The ultimate symbol of The Commission.

Pure, unadulterated terror spiked through my veins. I hadn't just bumped into a rival thug; I had interrupted the boogeyman of the Chicago underworld during a sanctioned execution. Damien 'The Ghost' Guerrero was the blade The Commission used to sever rotting limbs from their empire. And I was a witness.

"You've had a busy night, Mrs. Marshall," Damien murmured. His voice was a low, smooth baritone that barely carried over the howling wind and the distant wail of sirens, yet it commanded the space with absolute authority.

He knew exactly who I was. He knew I was the one who had just turned the east wing into a blazing inferno.

My mind raced, calculating my odds of survival in fractions of a second. Running was suicide. Screaming for help would only bring Alistair's men, who would kill me just as quickly once they realized what I had done. I was trapped between the fire I had started and the ice of the man standing before me.

I had to give him a reason not to snap my neck. I needed a lever, something The Commission wanted more than my silence.

I forced my chin up, refusing to let my trembling show. I met his dead, obsidian eyes. "Killing me is the easy choice, but it's not the profitable one."

A dark, mocking amusement flickered in his gaze. He didn't reach for the gun holstered under his immaculate burgundy suit jacket, but his posture shifted, becoming infinitely more dangerous. He was waiting for the punchline before he pulled the trigger.

"The ledger," I said, forcing the words past the tight knot in my throat. "I know where Alistair keeps his secret ledger. It details every Thompson that found its way to Chicago, bypassing The Commission."

The amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by a sudden, terrifying intensity. The air between us seemed to drop ten degrees. I had hit the exact nerve I was aiming for. He was here investigating Alistair's illegal arms hoarding.

Before I could even blink, Damien moved.

His large, leather-clad hand shot out, wrapping around my throat. He slammed me hard against the rockery, knocking the wind out of my lungs. The rough stone bit into my shoulder blades, but it was nothing compared to the crushing grip on my windpipe.

"You think you can bargain with me, little bird?" he whispered, leaning in so close I could feel the heat of his breath against my cheek. The scent of winter mint and fresh blood was intoxicatingly overwhelming. "I could snap your neck and tear this estate apart brick by brick to find what I need."

Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. My hands instinctively flew up, gripping his thick wrist, but it was like trying to move a steel beam. He was testing me, searching my eyes for a bluff, for weakness.

I dug my nails into his leather glove and fought for a single gasp of air.

"That ledger..." I choked out, my voice a desperate, raspy whisper. "It doesn't just lead to Alistair. It leads to the Romanos."

The name hung in the freezing air between us like a live grenade. The Romanos were the Sicilian suppliers, the missing link The Commission had been hunting for months.

For a long, agonizing second, Damien didn't move. His thumb rested heavily against my frantically beating pulse, feeling the sheer terror and absolute certainty coursing through my veins. Slowly, the crushing pressure around my windpipe eased, though his hand remained firmly wrapped around my neck, keeping me pinned to the stone.

His dark eyes narrowed, studying my face with a new, calculating coldness. The immediate threat of death receded, replaced by the heavy, suffocating weight of his scrutiny.