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."