Isabella POV

The hissing of the old radiator was the only sound in the cramped living room, a sharp contrast to the deafening silence that had fallen over my parents. My father, Arturo, stared at the peeling wallpaper, the muscle in his jaw ticking rhythmically as the dark, simmering rage fully took hold of him.

I didn't let the silence linger. If I wanted to ensure they never looked back at the Hobbs family with an ounce of regret, I had to twist the knife.

"Think about Aunt Bette's face today, Mom," I said softly, keeping my gaze locked on my mother's tear-filled eyes. "She stood in that opulent parlor and painted a severe drug addict as a prince. She knew exactly what Elzada Velasquez's son was. She knew they needed a disposable girl from the slums to act as *Collateral* to cover up his filthy scandals. She was practically gift-wrapping me for a slaughterhouse just to earn a political favor for her own son."

Annabel let out a broken, suffocated gasp. The last fragile thread of her blind loyalty to her bloodline snapped. For years, she had endured Hertha’s bloodline humiliation and Bette’s venomous sneers, believing that her subservience would eventually earn us a sliver of protection. Realizing that her own family viewed her daughter as nothing more than garbage to be traded broke her completely. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with quiet, agonizing sobs.

Arturo moved then. He crossed the small space and pulled my mother into his chest, his arms wrapping around her trembling frame. When he looked up at me, the subservient posture of a lowly Associate was gone. In his eyes, I saw the fierce, unyielding resolve of a father.

"I may just be an Associate," Arturo said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "But I am the one who balances their dirty ledgers. I know how to hide money, and I know how to survive. We don't need Dolphus Hobbs' table scraps to live." He tightened his grip on my mother. "From this moment on, we are done with them. I will not let that toxic *Family Bond* drag my daughters into an early grave."

Annabel wiped her face, her makeup smudged but her expression hardening into something I had never seen before—courage. She reached out and took my hand, her grip surprisingly strong.

"You are not going to the Velasquez estate, Isabella," she vowed, her voice trembling but absolute. "Even if it means we have to face the Romero family's Selection Gala. I would rather risk the unknown than hand you over to monsters we already know."

A heavy weight lifted off my chest. The hardest battle—saving my parents from their own naive loyalty—was won.

"Thank you," I whispered, squeezing her hand before stepping back. "I'm going to get some rest."

I turned and walked out of the living room, leaving them to find comfort in each other. The hallway was dim and freezing, the draft from the poorly insulated windows biting at my ankles.

"Bella?"

I stopped. Standing by the doorframe of our shared bedroom was Abby. My six-year-old sister was clutching her worn stuffed bear, her large, dark eyes wide with a maturity that no child in the mafia world should possess. She had heard everything.

I knelt on the cold floor, bringing myself to her eye level. "Hey, bug. Why aren't you in bed?"

Abby stepped forward and grabbed my hands. Her tiny fingers were still cold from the blizzard, but her grip was fierce. "I'm going to learn how to shoot," she whispered, her voice deadly serious. "I'm going to grow up fast, and I'm going to learn all the rules. I'll be a shield for you and Mommy and Daddy. I won't let the bad people sell you."

My breath hitched. The sheer innocence and fierce protectiveness in her vow struck a chord so deep inside me it physically ached.

I forced a gentle, reassuring smile, reaching up to smooth her messy hair. "You don't have to be a shield, Abby. That's my job."

I pulled her into a hug, resting my chin on her small shoulder. As I closed my eyes, the freezing hallway faded. The phantom stench of gasoline and mold filled my nostrils. I felt the blistering, agonizing heat of the underground cell at the Velasquez estate. I heard the roaring flames that had consumed my flesh, and the cruel laughter of Kiana Velasquez echoing from the floor above.

*I died once.*

The realization was a cold, hard stone in my chest. I had burned to ash in that gilded cage, weeping for a mother who had already died of a broken heart, leaving Abby completely alone in a world of wolves.

I opened my eyes, staring into the dark shadows of the hallway. The gentle sister Abby was hugging was a ghost. In her place was a woman forged in hellfire.

Let the Romero Selection Gala come. Let the high-born daughters and the ruthless Capos gather. I would walk into the heart of the Romero estate, and I would carve a bloody path through anyone who dared to threaten my family again.

*Vendetta.* It was the only law I recognized now.

Isabella POV

A few days later, the biting cold of Brooklyn was replaced by the suffocating opulence of the Romero Estate's Grand Foyer.

The administrative hall was a stark physical representation of the mafia's hierarchy. Crystal chandeliers cast a cold, brilliant light over polished marble floors, while heavily armed Soldiers patrolled the perimeter. On one side, terrified Associates like my father, Arturo, stood in a tense line for the grueling Annual Audit. On the other, the daughters of affiliated families gathered in the registration lounge for the Selection Gala, draped in designer silk and false smiles.

I stood near a marble pillar, keeping my eyes downcast, when the sharp click of expensive heels approached.

"I told you she'd be here, looking like a beggar," Bianca Hobbs sneered. My cousin crossed her arms, her eyes flashing with spite. "Refusing the Velasquez match was the stupidest thing you've ever done, Isabella. You're destined to rot in the slums."

Beside her stood Kiana Velasquez.

The moment I saw Kiana's face, the phantom smell of gasoline and burning flesh filled my lungs. This was the woman who had locked me in a lightless cell, the woman who had laughed while telling me my mother died of a broken heart. My nails dug into my palms until the skin nearly broke, but I forced my expression to remain perfectly blank.

Kiana looked me up and down with absolute disgust. "So this is the Associate's trash who thought she was too good for my brother," she mocked, her chin raised in arrogant superiority. "You should be on your knees thanking us for even considering your filthy bloodline. But it doesn't matter. I'm only here today as a formality. With my family's standing, Underboss Damien is already mine. The Mafia Queen's seat belongs to me."

I wanted to wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze until her eyes bulged. Instead, I caught a glimpse of movement near the grand entrance.

Kloe Klein had just walked in.

Surrounded by four heavily armed guards, Kloe wore a custom haute couture gown that cost more than my father's lifetime earnings. She was Old Money—the granddaughter of the Graham family and the heiress to the Klein financial empire. She was notoriously proud and despised the nouveau riche.

I immediately dropped my gaze, adopting a mask of trembling reverence, and raised my voice just enough to carry across the polished floor.

"Of course, Miss Velasquez," I said, my tone dripping with loud, exaggerated awe. "With your family's immense power and your undeniably noble bloodline, the Underboss will surely choose you. We bottom-feeders wouldn't dare compete with the future Mafia Queen."

The words hit their mark perfectly.

Kloe Klein stopped dead in her tracks. Her piercing blue eyes snapped toward us, her lips curling into a vicious sneer.

"Noble bloodline?" Kloe's voice echoed through the lounge, sharp as a stiletto. She stepped closer, her guards parting the crowd like the Red Sea. "The Velasquez family are nothing but nouveau riche thugs who cook their casino books. How dare a smuggler's daughter speak of 'noble blood' and the Mafia Queen's seat in the Romero foyer?"

Kiana paled, her arrogant facade crumbling instantly. "Lady Klein, I—I didn't mean—"

Bianca foolishly tried to intervene. "She was just putting this Associate's daughter in her place—"

"Shut your mouth, Hobbs," Kloe snapped, her gaze pinning Bianca like a dead insect. "Speak again, and I'll have my grandfather strip your father's port routes before dinner."

Suffocated by the absolute crushing weight of Kloe's ancient bloodline, Kiana and Bianca didn't dare utter another word. Faces flushed with deep humiliation, they turned and practically fled the lounge.

Kloe then turned her sharp gaze to me, assessing the girl who had sparked the confrontation. I shrank back against the pillar, my shoulders trembling, looking exactly like the terrified, powerless slum girl I was supposed to be.

Seeing no threat in my pathetic display, Kloe scoffed softly, lost interest, and walked away toward the VIP registration room like a conquering queen.

I kept my head down, but a cold smile touched my lips. The seed of hatred between Kiana and the most powerful girl in the estate had been planted.

With my registration complete, I slipped away from the glamorous lounge and descended into the shadows of the underground garage to wait for my father. The air here was thick with exhaust and cheap tobacco.

I found Associate Alfred near the loading docks, quietly organizing crates after being berated by a Capo. I knew from my past life that Alfred was incredibly sharp and knew how to keep his mouth shut.

I stepped out of the shadows and handed him a thick envelope of cash, along with an unmarked, sealed letter.

"For Javier Velasquez," I whispered, holding his surprised gaze. "The eldest son in the wheelchair. Use the blind drops. No one sees you."

Alfred felt the weight of the cash, gave a curt nod, and pocketed the envelope without a single question.

As I walked back toward the stairwell, my heart beat with a steady, ruthless rhythm. That letter contained the financial trails of Elzada's embezzlement and the proof of her murdering Javier's mother. I had just handed Javier the knife to gut his own family.

Now, I only needed my father to survive his grueling three-day financial audit. Once he was out, we would use our meager savings to bribe the lower clerks, bury my name at the very bottom of the Selection list, and disappear entirely from Damien Romero's radar.

Isabella POV

Three agonizing days. That was how long the Romero Annual Audit lasted.

When my father finally stumbled through the door of our cramped Brooklyn apartment in the early hours of the morning, he looked like a hollowed-out ghost. The audit room was a notorious slaughterhouse for Associates; a single misplaced decimal in the ledgers usually ended with an Enforcer putting a bullet in the back of the accountant's head. Arturo slumped at the kitchen table, his hands trembling as he gripped a cup of cheap espresso, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to the hell he had just survived.

Before he could even finish his coffee, a sharp, demanding knock rattled our front door.

It swung open to reveal Bette Hobbs. My aunt stepped into our dingy living room like she was gracing a landfill, her Botox-stiffened face contorted in a permanent sneer. She reeked of suffocating Chanel perfume, her oversized designer bag clutched tightly against her chest. She had timed this perfectly, hoping to catch my father at his weakest.

"Look at this place," Bette scoffed, not bothering to greet us. She turned her condescending glare to my mother. "I'm here to do you a favor, Annabel. Elzada Velasquez is still willing to take Isabella. I’ve smoothed things over. You will sign the betrothal papers today, and Isabella will conveniently miss the Selection Gala. It’s a glorious opportunity for a family of your... standing."

My mother stood perfectly still. A few days ago, she might have cowered. But knowing that Bette was trying to sell me to a violent drug addict just to eliminate competition for her own daughter, Bianca, had burned away the last of Annabel's timid obedience.

"If it’s such a glorious opportunity, Aunt Bette," I interjected smoothly from the hallway, "why don't you marry Bianca to him?"

Bette’s face flushed a mottled, ugly red. She whipped around to face my father. "Control your insolent brat, Arturo! You are nothing but a disposable Associate. You should be on your knees thanking me! With the way you look, you'll probably catch a bullet to the brain in the next audit anyway. This marriage is the only thing that will keep your pathetic family off the streets when you're dead!"

The air in the room turned to ice.

Annabel didn't cry. She didn't flinch. She stepped forward, her eyes blazing with a maternal ferocity that made even Bette take a step back.

"Get out," Annabel said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

"Excuse me?" Bette sputtered.

"I said get out of my house!" Annabel shouted, pointing a trembling finger at the door. "You come into my home, insult my husband who actually works for this syndicate, and try to feed my daughter to a monster? Your own son is a useless parasite who can't even earn his rank as a Soldier, yet you dare curse my husband's life? We are done with the Hobbs family. We don't need your toxic bloodline."

Bette’s jaw dropped in sheer outrage. Stripped of her false benevolence and humiliated by the illegitimate sister she despised, she let out a venomous shriek. "You will regret this, Annabel! You will all rot!"

She stormed out, her expensive heels clicking furiously down the hallway. My mother slammed the door shut, severing our ties to the Hobbs family forever.

Once the silence settled, I sat across from my father. "Dad, we have to act now," I urged quietly. "When I was at the estate, I saw Einar Romero. He’s dying. The Old Don is blind to it, but Underboss Damien is just waiting in the shadows. A war for the Don's seat is coming, and it’s going to be a bloodbath. We cannot let my name get anywhere near the top of that Selection list."

Arturo rubbed his exhausted face, the gravity of the impending mafia civil war settling over him. "You're right. If we get noticed, we become collateral." He stood up, a newfound determination in his weary eyes. "I know the lower clerks who process the Gala files. I'll use our escape fund. Fifty thousand dollars should be more than enough to bury your file in the reject pile."

For the next few days, we breathed a fragile sigh of relief. The bribe was paid. The clerks had assured my father that my name was pushed to the very bottom of the lowest tier. We were safe.

Until the morning the preliminary list was announced.

There was no standard rejection letter in our mailbox. Instead, a Romero Enforcer personally delivered a heavy, black cardstock envelope to our door. My father’s hands shook as he broke the wax seal.

I looked over his shoulder, my blood running completely cold.

My name wasn't buried at the bottom. It was printed at the very top of the Core VIP Candidate List, circled in dark crimson ink, stamped with the personal, undeniable crest of Underboss Damien Romero.