Isabella POV

Damien spoke rapid, hushed Italian into the receiver, his voice devoid of the raw, possessive heat that had just scorched my skin. He hung up and turned his back to me, adjusting his cuffs with the lethal precision of a Don preparing for war.

A sharp knock echoed through the penthouse. Damien didn't flinch. He strode to the door, opening it just enough to allow a man in a tailored suit to step inside. The man—a family doctor, judging by the discreet black bag—kept his eyes strictly on the floor. He handed Damien a small paper cup and a glass of water, then vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

Damien walked back to the bed. His obsidian eyes were unreadable, stripped of any lingering desire. He held out the cup. Inside rested a single, stark white pill.

Plan B.

The message was deafeningly clear. Whether he remembered our past life or simply saw me as a nameless Falcone threat who had stumbled into his bed, he was severing any possibility of a future. He was denying me the chance to ever carry a Moretti heir, erasing the ghost of the son we once had before he even existed.

"Swallow it," Damien commanded, his voice a sheet of ice.

My throat tightened, but I didn't cry. The Isabella who would have wept for his affection had died in a freezing lake. I took the pill, placed it on my tongue, and drank the water, maintaining unbroken eye contact with the Dark Don.

Satisfied, Damien turned on his heel. He walked out of the suite without a backward glance. I scrambled to the door, clutching the ruined silk sheet to my chest, only to watch the private elevator doors slide shut, sealing him away.

The silence of the room crashed down on me. The sweat on my skin turned frigid, and suddenly, the chill wasn't just from the air conditioning.

It was the water.

My knees buckled as the phantom sensation of Lake Michigan swallowed me whole. I could feel the pitch-black, freezing current dragging me down. I could hear Rosalie’s sweet, venomous voice whispering my failures on the pier, her manicured hands shoving me into the abyss while Julian Bellini watched with dead, indifferent eyes.

I gasped for air, my nails digging into the plush carpet. The memory shifted, violently tearing me from the lake and throwing me onto the damp grass of Calvary Cemetery.

*The screech of van tires. The brutal hands of Julian's associates grabbing my hair. And then, Bianca—my sweet, timid maid—slamming her body into my attackers.*

*"Run, Isa! Run!"*

Her agonizing screams echoed in my skull as they dragged her into the van instead of me. She had died so I could live a few more miserable days.

I slowly pushed myself off the floor, my reflection in the hallway mirror catching my eye. Pale. Bruised. But alive. Damien Moretti was an enemy, Julian was a monster, and Rosalie was a parasite. I was entirely alone, but this time, I knew the rules of the game.

By the time I was transported back to St. Jude’s Sanctuary—the remote gothic retreat my family used as a cover for my temporary "disappearance"—the storm inside me had settled into a cold, calculated fury.

I stood in the shadowy loggia of the sanctuary, watching the midnight rain lash against the stone arches. Footsteps echoed behind me.

"Isa!"

I turned to see Bianca rushing down the corridor, her face pale with worry. She was alive. Whole. The sight of her made my chest ache, but I forced my expression to remain blank.

"Francesca just arrived with the car," Bianca said breathlessly, wringing her hands. "She brought a message from Lady Rosalie. There are rumors of gang violence erupting on the main highway tonight. Rosalie insists we leave immediately and take the old canyon road back to the estate. She says it's a much safer route."

The canyon road.

A bitter, knowing smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. It was the exact same script. The "safe route" was a dead zone, the perfect stage for Rosalie’s hired thugs to ambush my car so Julian could swoop in, take a staged bullet for me, and bind my naive heart to his forever.

"Is something wrong, Isa?" Bianca asked, stepping closer.

"No, Bianca," I said softly, my eyes drifting toward the gravel driveway where Francesca and the black Lincoln Town Car waited in the dark. "Tell Francesca we will take the canyon road. I wouldn't want to disappoint my sister."

Isabella POV

Before stepping out into the freezing midnight air, I told Bianca I needed a moment to fetch my heavy coat from the parlor.

The sanctuary’s main hall was swallowed in shadows, smelling of damp earth and extinguished beeswax candles. On a mahogany side table sat an empty bourbon bottle, likely left behind by one of the night guards. I wrapped my hand in a thick velvet napkin and struck the base of the bottle against the stone edge of the fireplace. *Crack.*

The sound was sharp but muffled by the storm outside. I sifted through the wreckage with clinical precision, selecting a jagged, triangular shard of glass. It was heavy and lethal. I slid it up the sleeve of my wool coat, the razor-sharp edge resting dangerously close to my own pulse.

When I finally walked out to the gravel driveway, the black Lincoln Town Car was idling in the dark. Its exhaust plumed like dragon’s breath in the biting wind, and the vehicle itself looked less like a sanctuary and more like a polished hearse.

Francesca stood by the open rear door, her face pale but her eyes gleaming with a frantic, nervous energy.

"Isabella, thank God," Francesca breathed, her voice dripping with manufactured relief. "We must hurry. Lady Rosalie sent word that the main highway is compromised. Rival families are clashing near the borders."

I paused, pulling my coat tighter around myself. "Perhaps we should wait until dawn, Francesca," I murmured, feigning a naive tremble. "The dark is so... unpredictable."

"No," Francesca insisted too quickly, her eyes darting toward the driver's seat. "The secluded canyon road is much safer at night. We won't draw any attention under the cover of darkness. Trust me, Isa."

*Trust me.* The exact words she had used in my past life. The script was playing out flawlessly.

I gave a slow, obedient nod and climbed into the cavernous back seat. Bianca slid in beside me, her hands clasped nervously in her lap. Francesca took the rear-facing jump seat opposite us. The heavy doors slammed shut, sealing us inside a vault of black leather and tinted glass. The engine hummed, and the car lurched forward, plunging us into the pitch-black route Julian Bellini had meticulously designed for my demise.

The silence in the cabin was suffocating. The only sound was the rhythmic thud of the tires against the uneven asphalt as we ventured deeper into the desolate canyon.

I looked at Francesca’s shadowed face, watching the way she obsessively checked her wristwatch.

"Francesca," I said softly, my voice barely rising above the hum of the engine.

She snapped her attention to me, forcing a tight smile. "Yes, Isa?"

"I was just thinking about my mother," I lied, my tone wistful and vulnerable. "Do you remember that lullaby she used to sing to me when I was frightened? The one about the Sicilian fisherman?"

Francesca blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sentimental question. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before a sickeningly sweet, rehearsed warmth flooded her features.

"Of course, *piccola mia*," she cooed, using an Italian endearment she had never once uttered in her life. "She sang it beautifully. It always brought you such peace."

My mother had never sung to me. She despised the ocean, and she certainly never sang about fishermen.

Francesca was reciting a script, playing the role of the caring guardian right up until the moment she delivered me to the slaughter. The absolute confirmation of her betrayal washed over me, freezing the last drop of mercy in my veins.

I leaned back against the cold leather seat and closed my eyes. Beneath the heavy wool of my coat, my fingers curled inward, the jagged edge of the glass shard biting deeply into my palm.

Isabella POV

The Lincoln swayed gently as it navigated the winding, uneven asphalt of the canyon road. That subtle, rhythmic rocking motion, combined with the suffocating darkness beyond the tinted windows, violently yanked me backward in time.

Suddenly, I wasn't sitting on plush leather; I was plunging into the freezing, ink-black depths of Lake Michigan. The memory hit me with the force of a physical blow. I could feel the biting cold invading my lungs, the desperate, agonizing thrashing of my limbs as the water swallowed me whole. But worst of all were the hands. Strong, familiar hands gripping my hair, ruthlessly forcing my head under the murky surface. Through the distorted, bubbling water of my past life, I had seen Rosalie standing on the pier, her lips curled into a victor's cruel smile, while Francesca—the woman who had brushed my hair and sung me to sleep—held me down until my vision went black.

The phantom water receded, leaving only the icy fire of *Vendetta* burning in my veins. I blinked, my focus snapping back to the dimly lit cabin.

Francesca was still talking, her voice a sickening hum of false reassurance. "...we'll be out of the canyon soon, Isa. Just relax. The darkness is our friend tonight."

I didn't hesitate. I lunged.

My left hand clamped brutally over Bianca's mouth, pinning the poor girl back against the seat before she could even register the movement. With my right hand, I drove the jagged glass shard across Francesca's throat in one vicious, unbroken arc.

The thick wool of her collar offered no resistance. Hot, dark blood sprayed across the pristine leather interior, splashing against the window with a sickening splatter. Francesca’s eyes bulged in sheer terror, her hands flying to her ruined throat as a wet, gurgling sound escaped her lips. She thrashed, her polished facade crumbling into the primal panic of a dying rat. I watched her bleed out with absolute detachment until her body finally went limp, slumping heavily against the door.

Bianca was trembling violently beneath my grip, her muffled screams vibrating against my palm. Her wide eyes darted from the gruesome corpse to me, filled with absolute horror.

"Listen to me," I hissed, my voice devoid of any emotion, cutting through the hum of the engine. "She was a rat. She was driving us straight into an ambush orchestrated by Julian Bellini and my sister. If I didn't kill her, we would both be dead, or worse."

I slowly released my hand from Bianca's mouth. She gasped for air, tears spilling down her pale cheeks, but she nodded, her sheer survival instinct overriding her panic.

"Help me," I commanded.

Working quickly in the cramped, blood-soaked space, we stripped Francesca of her outer jacket. I took off my heavy wool coat and draped it over her cooling shoulders. My fingers were slick with her blood as I pulled my signature ruby hairpin from my own hair and shoved it deep into Francesca's messy bun. In the dark, with her face obscured by her tangled hair, she was a perfect decoy.

"When the car stops, you run," I told Bianca, grabbing her by the shoulders to force her to look at me. "You find a cab, or you walk until you find a phone, and you go straight to The Seraphim."

Bianca choked on a sob, her eyes widening further. "The Seraphim? But... that's Don Damien Moretti's club. It's suicide to go there uninvited."

"It's the only place Julian's men won't dare to look," I said firmly, wiping a smear of blood from my thumb. "Tell the guards at the door you belong to Isabella Falcone. Survive, Bianca. I will find you."

Up ahead, the driver—likely another one of Julian's paid associates—began to slow the vehicle down. The tires crunched against the gravel shoulder of the secluded highway. Through the cracked window, the roaring sound of a rushing river filled the silence, masking the scent of copper inside the cabin. The stage was set.