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.

Isabella POV

I stood perfectly still in the freezing shadows, watching the Underboss of the New York outfit murmur desperate, rehearsed sweet nothings into the ear of a dead woman.

Julian Bellini held Francesca’s stiffening corpse against his bleeding arm, the deep cut he had intentionally allowed his own men to inflict ruining the sleeve of his royal blue Versace suit. It was a flawless performance of a tragic hero, entirely wasted on a corpse.

A second pair of headlights suddenly cut through the darkness, tires crunching over the gravel as another car pulled up behind the abandoned Lincoln. The passenger door swung open, and Rosalie stepped out into the biting wind. Her face was carefully arranged into a mask of frantic, sisterly concern, ready to witness the grand finale of her orchestrated rescue.

It was time for my cue.

Taking a deep breath of the icy air, I stepped out from behind the thick oak tree. I leaned heavily on my injured ankle, letting a genuine wince of pain twist my features as I limped into the harsh glare of the headlights.

"Rosalie? Julian?" I called out, my voice trembling with the perfect pitch of a terrified victim.

Julian’s head snapped up. He stared at me standing by the tree line, his brow furrowing in profound confusion. Slowly, mechanically, he looked down at the woman in his arms. The moonlight caught the graying hair slipping from my ruby hairpin, illuminating the pale, lifeless, and distinctly aged face of my maid.

With a visceral, choked sound of absolute revulsion, Julian shoved Francesca away. Her body hit the gravel with a dull, heavy thud, rolling limply against the tire of the Lincoln. He scrambled backward, wiping his bloodstained hands on his trousers as if he had just embraced the plague.

"Isa?" Rosalie stammered, her carefully constructed facade slipping as her eyes darted frantically between me and the dead body on the ground. "What... what happened here?"

"It was terrifying," I whimpered, wrapping my arms around myself as I hobbled closer. "Francesca was so worried about the route you suggested, Rosalie. She said it was too dangerous. She insisted on wearing my coat and hairpin to scout ahead, just in case."

Diana, Rosalie’s personal maid, rushed forward and knelt beside Francesca’s crumpled form. Her hands shook as she examined the body. "She's dead, Miss Rosalie," Diana gasped, looking up with wide, horrified eyes. "She’s been stabbed in the chest."

I buried my face in my hands, letting my shoulders shake as if I were sobbing. Beneath the cover of my palms, a cold, triumphant smile stretched across my lips.

*Stabbed in the chest.* Julian’s hired thugs had done exactly what they were paid to do—make it look like a lethal ambush. In the dark and the chaos, they hadn't noticed that the woman they were stabbing was already dead. They hadn't seen the deep, jagged slice across her throat that I had carved with a shard of glass hours ago. Julian Bellini had just provided the perfect, airtight alibi for my first *Vendetta*.

Lowering my hands, I turned my gaze to Julian. He was still on his knees, his face pale and slick with cold sweat, clutching his bleeding arm.

I limped toward him, my eyes wide with manufactured awe. "Julian... your arm," I breathed softly, ensuring my voice carried over the roar of the river. "You fought those ruthless men off. You risked your own life."

"I thought it was you in the car," he gritted out, his voice tight with a mixture of physical pain and dawning humiliation.

"But I am perfectly safe," I replied, tilting my head with a look of pure, innocent admiration. "Yet you still bled for Francesca. I never knew the Underboss of the Bellini family was so... merciful. To take a blade for a lowly servant."

Julian’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter.

"When word of this reaches Chicago," I continued, twisting the invisible knife deeper into his fragile ego, "the entire underworld will weep at your noble sacrifice. A true hero to the working class."

The humiliation radiating from him was palpable. The grand, romantic savior had been reduced to a bleeding fool who cuddled a dead maid. His eyes, dark and venomous, locked onto mine. The murderous rage simmering in his gaze was no longer an act.

Beside him, the silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I shifted my gaze to Rosalie. Her hands were balled into tight fists at her sides, her chest heaving as she stared at the ruined wreckage of her perfect plan. The shock in her eyes was rapidly melting away, replaced by a volatile, desperate fury that was just begging to be unleashed.