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.

Isabella POV

Once Bianca’s trembling silhouette disappeared into the suffocating darkness, I was left entirely alone with the dead. The deafening, relentless roar of the rushing river below the embankment swallowed the silence, providing the perfect cover for what needed to be done.

I pulled open the driver’s side door. The metallic stench of fresh blood was already thick in the cramped cabin. Francesca was dead weight, her body slipping awkwardly against the pristine leather. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed her under the arms and hauled her forward.

It was messy, exhausting work. As I dragged her toward the front seat, my heel caught on the slick, wet gravel of the shoulder. I went down hard. A sharp, blinding pain shot up my left ankle, stealing the breath from my lungs. I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted copper, refusing to let out a sound. *Vendetta.* The word pulsed in my veins, a dark mantra that fueled my adrenaline.

Ignoring the throbbing agony in my leg, I forced myself back up. I hauled Francesca the rest of the way, slumping her heavily over the steering wheel. I adjusted my heavy wool coat over her shoulders, ensuring it draped naturally, and made sure my signature ruby hairpin caught the faint moonlight in her messy bun. From a distance, the illusion was flawless. She was me.

Limping heavily, I scrambled up the steep, muddy embankment and melted into the freezing shadows of the dense woods. I crouched behind a thick oak tree, my injured ankle burning, and waited.

I didn't have to wait long.

About fifteen minutes later, the screech of tires violently pierced the night. Headlights slashed through the darkness as a black Cadillac swerved to a halt near the abandoned Lincoln. The theater had officially begun.

Men piled out of the vehicle, shouting crude, rehearsed curses into the cold air. A few exaggerated gunshots rang out, echoing off the canyon walls. Then, stepping into the fray like a savior descending from the heavens, was Julian Bellini.

Even in the dim light, his bespoke royal blue suit stood out. He moved with the arrogant swagger of a man who believed he was the undisputed hero of this narrative. He engaged in a brief, highly theatrical scuffle with his own hired *associates*. From my vantage point in the shadows, I watched with cold detachment as Julian deliberately turned his body, allowing one of the men to drag a blade across his arm.

Blood instantly stained the expensive blue fabric. A calculated sacrifice for his "beloved."

Having played their part, the hired men scattered into the night. Julian clutched his bleeding arm, his face twisting into a mask of manufactured agony and desperate devotion. He sprinted toward the Lincoln, his breath visible in the frigid air.

He wrenched the driver's side door open.

"Isa!" Julian’s voice cracked perfectly, a masterclass in fake heartbreak. "Don't be afraid, I'm here! I'll protect you!"

Without a second of hesitation, he lunged forward. He wrapped his arms tightly around the stiffening, blood-soaked corpse of my traitorous maid, burying his face in her hair, completely blind to the cold reality of the dead flesh in his embrace.

I stood perfectly still in the shadows, the icy wind biting at my cheeks, watching the Underboss of the New York outfit cradle a dead rat.