Isabella's perspective

The bulletproof SUV stopped in front of the skeleton of an abandoned brewery from the Prohibition era. Rusty copper stills stood in the shadows, like silent, decaying giants, defying the gray sky.

"Wait here," I ordered Maddox and Jax.

The two soldiers exchanged an uneasy glance, their hands instinctively hovering over their holsters, but they nodded nonetheless.

The gauze on my palm was clean-I had just changed it this morning, although a faint rusty color still seeped through. The flesh underneath was scabbing over, but every time I flexed my fingers, a dull pain shot through my elbow.

I slipped inside alone. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and the ghostly, suffocating aroma of aged whiskey. As I walked deeper into the decaying floorboards, the faint sound of running water behind me caught my attention.

Beside a broken water pipe leading to a rusty sink stood a shirtless man. He was scrubbing fresh bloodstains from his white shirt. My breath caught in my throat. His physique was like that of a cold, ruthless god in Roman sculpture, his back muscles flowing with the tension of a predator. Hearing my footsteps, he turned around. His deep, wild eyes, seemingly unconcerned about the blood on his hands, locked onto mine.

"Does this scenery suit your taste, little kitty?" he drawled, his tone carrying the arrogance of a street thug.

His demeanor carried the reckless arrogance of a low-ranking soldier, but the overwhelming sense of aggression emanating from him was something no ordinary thug could possess. My instincts screamed wildly: this was a predator toying with his prey.

I maintained a mask-like coldness. "To reveal your location in a graveyard like this is tantamount to suicide."

A sinister smirk spread across his lips. "I'm not that easy to kill. What's a woman dressed in haute couture silk doing here at Blackwater Creek?"

"Looking for a specific medicinal fungus." I blurted out, my eyes darting rapidly through the shadows behind him.

Just then, I saw it. Beneath a piece of decaying wood beside his heavy leather boots, half-hidden, lay a worn cigar box, bearing a faded yet exquisite emblem. It was the mark of Gary the Ghost. He was indeed here.

With this dangerous stranger present, I couldn't act rashly. "Looks like I've come to the wrong place," I muttered, deliberately taking a step back.

"Leaving so soon?" His gaze followed my every move, a sharp interest igniting in his eyes that sent shivers down my spine.

"I've got what I needed," I said, turning and leaving decisively. The instant I stepped back into the light, I seemed to hear him snap his fingers, followed by a low command directed at the air: "Find out who she is."

Back in the SUV, my heart was pounding. I didn't look at Jax or Maddox. I pulled a folded piece of paper from my coat-a blank sheet of paper on which I had written a line in cipher before leaving the estate: "Old ledger. I know your hiding place. See you tonight. Same place." I had intended to slip it under the floorboards where the cigar box was kept. But the stranger's appearance disrupted my plans.

I must find another way.

"Drive to the edge of town," I instructed, "and then come back. We're not leaving now."

Two hours later, as night deepened, I returned to the brewery alone-this time, I walked along the other side of the collapsed wall, where the floorboards didn't creak. The stranger was gone. I found the cigar box, pried it open with my bandaged fingers, and slipped the cipher note inside. Then I retreated into the shadows and waited quietly.

An hour past midnight, a staggering figure emerged from the darkness. It was Gary's Ghost-a emaciated old man with cloudy eyes, his voice hoarse like a rusty door hinge. He opened his cigar box, read my note, and froze.

"Who sent you?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

I stepped out of the shadows. "There's no one else here. I came alone. And I know that Senator Whitmore's 1987 campaign funds were sponsored by the Chinese Triads. There were ten pages of records in that ledger."

The ghost's face drained of color instantly. This information had never been written down-it existed only in his memory. I have just proven that I know more than any living person.

What followed was an hour of tense negotiations. He agreed to a preliminary alliance: he would never sell the ledger to Damian Valenti. In exchange, once I extracted the pages I needed, I would provide him with a new identity and ensure his safe departure. We shook hands-his bony hand surprisingly strong-and the deal was struck.

By the afternoon of the following day, the stench of decay in Blackwater Creek had been replaced by the luxurious aromas of Chicago's Gold Coast. Three days had passed since Angelo's thoracentesis. His condition was now stable-the fluid hadn't returned-but his lungs remained fragile. Dr. Rossi had warned me against strenuous exercise, prolonged exposure to cold drafts, and a persistent cough for weeks to come. But he was alive. That was enough.

Although I had reached a preliminary agreement with the ghost, looking at Angelo before me, this victory still felt incredibly heavy. My son's face was pale, and the dark circles under his eyes constantly reminded me how close we had come to the edge of the cliff. A dry cough rumbled in his little chest, and he put his tiny fist to his mouth.

My heart ached when his eyes caught sight of a handcrafted gelato shop lighting up. I hesitated. The cold would sting his throat. But the expectation in his eyes-the first spark of normal childhood I'd seen since leaving the motel-broke my defenses. I stopped the convoy. He deserved even a moment of sweet, normal time. I'd let him have less.

We stood on the sun-drenched street, Angelo holding his strawberry cone. He carefully licked it, then coughed-once, twice-and smiled at me. I smiled back, ignoring the soreness in my bandaged hand, and took his other hand. For a second, he looked like an ordinary five-year-old boy, untouched by the Mafia's poison. But then, his little hand suddenly gripped my coat.

"Dad..." he whispered, his voice trembling.

I froze. Following his gaze across the bustling street, my blood ran cold.

Outside the gleaming window of a high-end jewelry boutique stood my ex-husband, Damian Valenti. He wasn't even looking at us. His entire attention was fixed on the woman in front of him-Serafina Richie.

With a tenderness I had never experienced, not even once, in our entire marriage, Damian placed a dazzling diamond necklace around Serafina's neck. She looked up, her eyes filled with love. Damian smiled-a gentle, genuine smile that melted away all his coldness-then lowered his head and placed a lingering kiss on her forehead.

The scene was flawless. It was a public display of their perfect, flawless happiness.

A poisoned blade twisted cruelly in my heart. This was no longer just about political power or family alliances. It was the complete erasure of my existence, replacing my son's home with a gleaming new toy.

I felt Angelo's small body trembling beside me. He didn't cry-he understood too early that tears wouldn't change anything. Instead, he buried his face in my coat and murmured, "I don't want him anymore, Mom. I only want you."

The raw, excruciating wound in my heart didn't break me; it hardened into a solidified crystal. I held Angelo tightly to my side, shielding him from the man who had abandoned us. The bandage around my half-healed hand throbbed with pain-this real pain kept me conscious. I stared at the happy couple across the street, letting that cold, unbreakable vow of revenge be etched deep into my very bones.

Isabella's perspective

When I first saw them, they had already stepped out of the boutique-Damian was fastening her diamond necklace, and Seraphina tilted her head slightly to receive his kiss. Now, when I tried to pull Angelo away before they noticed, it was too late. Seraphina's gaze was fixed on us, a calculating glint in her eyes, yet her face wore a perfect, flawless smile.

She said something to Damian, tugged at his arm, and led him across the street toward us. Damian followed behind with obvious resistance, his expression icy.

By the time they reached our side of the sidewalk, I had nowhere left to retreat.

"Oh my God," Serafina said softly, her voice filled with sweet pity. She looked at Angelo's clean but faded clothes-they had been worn for three days-while deliberately keeping her distance to avoid us. "Poor child. You must have suffered a lot out there with your mother." She turned to Damian, her hand lightly resting on the front of his well-tailored suit. "My dear, shouldn't we bring Angelo back to Valenti Estate? After all, he is your heir."

Damian didn't even glance at his son. His jaw was clenched with a hint of annoyance, as if we were nothing more than a stain on the sidewalk. "Let her keep him."

These words were an irreversible death sentence for the relationship between Angelo and his son, but for Serafina, they were a revelation. I saw a subtle, triumphant shift in her eyes. She realized that Damian didn't care about the boy at all, which meant she could use another, more aggressive weapon to take him away from me.

I didn't say a word. I simply held Angelo's five-year-old hand tightly, turned around, and disappeared into the vast crowd without looking back.

An hour later, the heavy mahogany doors of the Moretti estate closed behind us. The hall was filled with the scent of old leather, cigar smoke, and an unspoken tension. Before Maria could even lead us up the stairs, a sharp whisper came from the adjacent drawing room.

"How dare she come back?" My cousin Casey's voice was venomous. "Everyone in our circle is laughing at us for taking in a woman abandoned by the Godfather. Look at her-filthy. She'll ruin my marriage prospects."

"Shut up, Casey," her sister Sophia snapped, but her face showed more weariness and resignation than a defense of me.

As I stepped into the light, Kathy turned around. Her gaze swept boldly over my dusty silk dress-the one I wore in Blackwater Creek, now wrinkled and stained-with undisguised contempt. The battle line within my own bloodline had been drawn.

Before Casey could speak again, the crisp sound of her cane hitting the ground silenced the room's clatter. My grandmother, Elena Moretti, came down the stairs. Her sharp gaze swept over my disheveled appearance, and the temperature in the room plummeted.

She waved the two girls away, leaving only my aunt, old Mrs. Moretti, standing awkwardly by the fireplace.

"My granddaughter, a direct descendant of the Moretti family, returned looking like a refugee." Elena's voice was low and imposing. "As the lady of this house, is this your standard for treating guests?"

"Mother, I didn't know they arrived so quickly-" my aunt stammered, her face flushed.

Elena interrupted her, casting a cold gaze at her aunt's personal maid, who was trembling in the corner. "Since your maid can't even do something as simple as preparing clean clothes for her mistress, then send her to the dock warehouse. Let her learn how to handle dirty goods."

My aunt turned pale, and to save face, she had no choice but to swallow her anger and nod in compliance. Elena had just drawn a red line in the sand: I am inviolable, and any disrespect will have cold consequences.

Later, Maria ran a warm bath for Angelo in our secluded suite, and I stood by the window, gazing at the Chicago skyline. With the intuition honed over those two decades of bloodshed, I knew perfectly well what was unfolding at this very moment in the Valenti family's glass penthouse.

Serafina witnessed Damian's indifference. She wouldn't pressure him. Instead, she would call that greedy, paranoid woman obsessed with the Valenti bloodline, and easily manipulated person: Damian's mother.

I could almost hear Serafina's sweet yet venomous voice through the phone, twisting the truth. The poor child is suffering... Isabella's reputation will be ruined... We cannot allow Valenti's bloodline to be raised by outsiders.

And old Lady Valenti, that easily manipulated and short-tempered woman, will surely take the bait. She will bypass Damian's authority and announce directly that she will come to Moretti Manor the next morning to reclaim her grandson.

Serafina has just fired the first shot in her custody battle, using a greedy old woman as her proxy. I turned away from the window, listening to my son's steady breathing in the next room. Tomorrow, old lady Valenti will come to seize my world, and I will be here, ready and waiting.

Isabella's perspective

The morning light streaming into the suite was exceptionally soft, a stark contrast to the heavy, suffocating feeling weighing on my heart. I sat before the antique dressing table, Maria standing behind me, gently combing my long hair with a silver-backed comb.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic rustling of a brush through my hair. Then, I saw Maria's hand stop in the mirror. Her gaze lingered on my thin, sunken cheekbones and my pale, fragile skin.

"You have suffered so much, Miss Izzy," she sobbed softly, a tear sliding down her wrinkled cheek.

That simple sentence transformed into a cruel, sharp blade. The gilded mirror vanished before my eyes, replaced by the bloody, horrifying scenes of my past life.

A deafening sniper rifle shot rang out. The air reeked of burning tar. Maria shielded me with her frail body, a bullet piercing her chest. Blood stained my hands as she uttered her last words: "Run, miss."

I gasped. My hands gripped the edge of the dressing table tightly, my knuckles turning white from the force. The air seemed to fill with the suffocating smell of rust and death. I've spent twenty years mourning her, and twenty years sharpening my grief into a blade.

I raised my hand and covered her trembling one. "It's all over now, Maria," I said calmly, though my heart was pounding violently in my chest. "I assure you, no one will ever be able to hurt us again."

In my heart, I made a silent vow to the departed souls of the past. This time, I will be the one holding the gun.

A rapid knocking shattered the silence inside. Maddox, the manor guard, entered. His face was grave as he handed over a heavy parchment envelope sealed with deep red wax.

It bears the Valenti family crest.

I peeled back the seal. Inside was a letter with crude, crooked handwriting, revealing the uncultured arrogance of old Lady Valenti. It was a vulgar and forceful ultimatum, declaring that she would personally visit Moretti Estate the next morning to "drag Valenti's heir back from the ditch."

But what caught my attention wasn't her pathetic threats. Tucked behind her letter was a crisp little piece of paper. Unsigned, it contained only two cold words typed by Damian on his typewriter:

Let her go.

He loosened the rope binding his mother. Damian didn't care about Angelo at all, and didn't bother to fight for him, but his inherent arrogance made him allow his mother to wage this proxy war, just to humiliate me. This was the most extreme and chilling abandonment of his own flesh and blood.

I didn't cry. The innocent girl who would weep for Damian's cruelty was dead. I folded the letter, my mind already calculating the angle at which I should plunge the blade into their perfect life.

Ten minutes later, I entered my grandmother's private study.

This room, the nerve center of Elena Moretti's power structure, was filled with the scents of aged paper and ink, expensive brandy, and the faint metallic odor of a well-maintained firearm in a drawer. Elena Moretti sat by the flickering fireplace, her sharp gaze scrutinizing me as I handed her the letter.

She read it without a word. When she put down the letter, her jaw tightened, and the temperature in the room plummeted. "That street shrew is too audacious," Elena scoffed, referring to Damian's mother. "Does she really think she can just walk into my house and steal my great-grandson?"

"She can't take him away." I sat down calmly across from her. "But we shouldn't see this as a display of the Valenti family's power, Grandmother. It's an admission of their weakness."

Elena raised her silver eyebrows, intrigued. "Explain."

"Damian is a shrewd and calculating godfather. He wouldn't fight a pointless custody battle with crude letters; he relies on lawyers and bullets." I leaned forward, calmly analyzing. "This isn't Damian's game. This is Seraphina's. She needs Angelo to solidify her undisputed position as the Mafia queen, but she clearly couldn't convince Damian to care about the child. So, she manipulated that greedy old woman to do the dirty work for her."

I tapped the armrest. "Seraphina is getting anxious. She doesn't have the absolute control over Damian that she seems to have. And Old Lady Valenti is nothing more than a blunt weapon that we can easily break."

Elena stared at me for a long time. Her initial pity for this down-on-her-luck granddaughter slowly faded, replaced by a deep, admiring respect. She no longer saw an abandoned woman, but a strategist, a woman reborn from the flames ignited by the Valenti family.

"You've grown a body of steel, Isabella," Elena murmured, a dangerous smile playing on her lips. She poured two glasses of amber brandy and pushed one toward me. "Let old lady Valenti come tomorrow. We'll show her what happens when a wild dog breaks into a lion's den."