Isabella POV

The heavy oak doors of the Matriarch's Suite closed behind me, shutting out the rest of the house. The room still reeked of Carmella's cloying, sweet perfume, but the morning sun spilling over the Persian rugs felt like a victory. It was my first morning back in my mother's sanctuary, and I knew the counterattack was coming.

It didn't take long. Beatrice entered without knocking, trailed by two young maids I recognized instantly. In my past life, they had been the ones to hold me down while Beatrice slapped me.

"I've brought you some capable hands, Isabella," Beatrice said, her smile brittle and her eyes darting around the room, already looking for places to pry.

"No, thank you," I replied smoothly, gesturing to two older, marginalized servants I had already summoned to my side. "Marta and Anna will serve me. Those girls are what Carmella is used to. I wouldn't dream of taking away the last bit of familiarity my cousin has left."

Beatrice's face tightened into a furious, ugly mask. She opened her mouth to invoke her authority as the Capo's wife, but I cut her off.

"In this room, Beatrice, I only require loyalty," I said softly, my tone leaving no room for debate. Defeated and humiliated in front of the staff, she turned on her heel and marched out.

But Beatrice was a venomous snake, and she struck back that very afternoon.

I needed a discreet way out of the estate to contact my allies, so I requested the key to the North Gate. Beatrice seized the opportunity immediately.

"A trueborn daughter of a Caporegime sneaking through the servant's gate?" she mocked, standing at the top of the grand staircase. "It would bring *disonore*(dishonor) to the Russo name. Absolutely not."

By evening, I looked out my window and saw two of her loyal Soldiers stationed at the North Gate. They weren't guarding it; they were watching me. My sanctuary had officially become a gilded cage.

I needed more power. I needed the Morettis.

The next day, I secured permission to visit The Plaza Hotel under the guise of formally thanking Eleonore Falcone Moretti. Her penthouse suite smelled of fresh lilies and old money.

I sat across from her and placed the heavy onyx rosary on the mahogany table. "I cannot keep this, Signora. It is too precious a symbol."

Eleonore pushed it back toward me, her eyes gleaming with approval. "It belongs with someone who understands its weight, Isabella."

I met her sharp gaze, deciding to play my biggest card. "Then let me offer a warning in return. In three days, the Marino family will use the dockworkers' strike as cover to move a shipment of illegal Chicago artillery. Federal agents are already watching the drop."

Eleonore's expression shifted instantly from polite warmth to profound, calculating shock. The intelligence I just handed her was priceless. I saw the exact moment she stopped looking at me as a fragile girl to be pitied, and started looking at me as a formidable asset.

Before she could ask how I knew, the heavy double doors of the suite swung open. The air in the room instantly dropped ten degrees.

Damien 'The Prince' Moretti stepped inside. He was a towering figure of bespoke black wool and lethal grace, his dark eyes devoid of any human warmth. Beside him, straining against a thick leather leash, was a massive black Doberman.

The moment I saw his face, a phantom ache struck my chest. But before I could even breathe, the Doberman snapped its leash. It ignored Eleonore's gasp and charged directly at me. I braced for teeth, but instead, the beast dropped its heavy head into my lap, whining softly and nudging my trembling hand.

Without thinking, a ghost of a memory slipped past my lips. "*Mio Nero...*"(My little black...)

Damien's eyes turned to absolute ice. He crossed the room in two massive strides, his hand violently yanking the dog back by its collar. He leaned in, his broad shoulders blocking out the light, his face mere inches from mine. The scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne wrapped around my throat like a snare.

"What did you do to my dog?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that promised violence.

"Damien, enough," Eleonore intervened sharply, stepping between us. "Isabella was just leaving."

I stood up, my heart hammering against my ribs under his murderous glare. I offered a stiff curtsy and fled the suite, leaving the Prince of New York and his mother to the heavy silence I had just created.

Damien POV

The heavy double doors clicked shut, severing the girl from my sight, but the scent of her—something clean and cold, like winter rain—lingered in the stifling air of the penthouse.

I released Caesar’s collar. The massive Doberman paced the Persian rug, whining softly at the closed door. My jaw clenched. Caesar hated strangers. He was trained to tear out the throat of anyone who approached me without permission. Yet, he had dropped his heavy head into Isabella Russo’s lap like a tamed pup. And she had called him *Mio Nero*.

"A remarkable girl," Aurora murmured, breaking the heavy silence. My sister-in-law sat gracefully on the velvet sofa, her perfect, statuesque features betraying nothing but polite observation. "It takes a rare kind of nerve to stand before the Prince of New York and not shatter."

My mother, Eleonore, didn't look at me. She was staring at the heavy onyx rosary Isabella had left on the mahogany table. "Nerve, and unparalleled intelligence," my mother corrected, her voice taking on that iron-clad tone she usually reserved for the Commission. "She just handed us the Marino family's throat on a silver platter. A debt of blood for my life, and now a strategic asset." She finally lifted her sharp gaze to meet mine. "This requires more than a polite thank you, Damien. It requires a permanent alliance."

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. I didn't speak. I simply rested my hand on Caesar’s sleek head. Sensing my rising lethal intent, the dog let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the room.

Aurora, ever the survivor, recognized the shift in the atmosphere. She stood up, smoothing her flawless skirt. "I should check on the gala preparations. Excuse me, Eleonore. Damien." She slipped out of the suite, leaving the battlefield to the two most powerful women in the Moretti family and me.

"Don't look at me like that, Damien," my mother snapped, shedding her maternal warmth for the ruthless pragmatism of a Falcone daughter. "She is exactly what this family needs. What *you* need to solidify your reign."

"I am the Don," I said, my voice a deadly, quiet rumble. "My reign is solidified by blood and fear, not by chaining myself to a seventeen-year-old girl who plays parlor tricks with my dog."

"She saved my life!"

"And I am grateful," I shot back, stepping closer, my towering frame casting a long shadow over her. "I will drown her father in gold. I will elevate her family's status. But I will not marry a calculating little stranger just because you think she's a good luck charm."

"You are being blind and arrogant," Eleonore countered, her eyes flashing.

I let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Marry her to me, and you're not giving her a crown. You're signing her death warrant. I'll have to send a funeral wreath along with the wedding ring. My enemies will tear her apart just to get to me."

My mother opened her mouth to argue, but I cut her off. Anger was a useless weapon against Eleonore Moretti; I needed to use the cold logic of a Don.

"Stop thinking like a matchmaker and start thinking like a Matriarch," I commanded, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling window. "Did you look at her? Really look at her?"

Eleonore frowned, her anger faltering. "What do you mean?"

"She just handed us a piece of intelligence that could shift the balance of power in New York. She saved your life. Yet, she walked in here wearing a dress without a single designer label. It was well-tailored, but old." I turned to face my mother, watching the realization dawn in her eyes. "Her stepmother, Beatrice—a woman who flaunts new diamonds at every charity dinner—didn't accompany her to meet the most powerful woman in the city. Why?"

My mother’s silence was my answer.

"Her hands were perfectly clean, no rings, no bracelets," I continued, my voice dropping to a clinical murmur. "And her eyes... she didn't look at this room with awe. She looked at the exits. She looked at me like she was calculating how long it would take me to kill her. That’s not the gaze of a pampered Capo's daughter. That’s the gaze of a hostage."

The romantic illusion shattered, replaced by the cold, hard paranoia of our world. Eleonore stared at the rosary, her expression hardening into something dangerous.

Without another word to me, she picked up the telephone and dialed her Consigliere.

"I need a delivery made to the Russo estate," Eleonore ordered, her voice dripping with lethal authority. "The newest Parisian couture gowns, a selection of diamonds, and an envelope with thirty thousand dollars in untraceable cash. Have a Soldier deliver it directly to the Matriarch's Suite." She paused, her eyes meeting mine. "And tell him to ensure he hands it to Miss Isabella personally. No one else."

She hung up the phone. The trap was set. If the Russo family was mistreating the girl who held the Moretti Matriarch's favor, they were about to find out what happened when you insulted the Dark Don's bloodline.

I looked out over the glittering skyline of New York, a dark anticipation coiling in my chest. Let's see how the little hostage plays this hand.

Isabella POV

The scent of Damien Moretti’s expensive cologne and the terrifying weight of his gaze still clung to my skin as I returned to the Russo Estate. I had survived the Prince of New York, but the war inside my own home was just beginning.

After paying my respects to Nonna Elena, I was immediately summoned to Beatrice’s drawing room. The space was a suffocating display of gilded mirrors and velvet, a desperate attempt by a woman from New Jersey to mimic old Italian money.

Beatrice sat on a chaise lounge, sipping tea. "Isabella," she began, her voice dripping with fake maternal concern. "I hear you visited the Plaza today. While it's good to show gratitude, running to the Morettis so frequently makes our family look desperate. It lacks dignity." She set her cup down, her eyes narrowing. "You are naive to the ways of our world. Next time, I will accompany you. I will guide you on how to properly address Signora Eleonore."

She wanted to hijack my only lifeline. I kept my posture perfectly straight, my expression serene.

"That won't be necessary, Beatrice," I replied smoothly. "Signora Eleonore and Aurora Conti both insisted I visit them often. They prefer our private conversations." I let my gaze drift around her gaudy room before meeting her eyes. "Besides, living in my mother's suite again... it makes taking that bullet for the Matriarch, and the three years of exile in Europe, finally feel meaningful."

The fake smile shattered on Beatrice’s face. The reminder of her role in my suffering, paired with my untouchable connection to the Morettis, left her speechless. I offered a polite nod and walked out, leaving her to choke on her own venom.

That evening, the dining room felt like a viper's nest. My father, Luca, was absent on "business," leaving Beatrice free to unleash her fury.

"She is ungrateful," Beatrice hissed to Angelo and Carmella, slicing her steak with unnecessary force. "I try to guide her, and she throws the past in my face."

Angelo scoffed, his narrow forehead wrinkling in disdain. "She got lucky catching a bullet, and now she thinks she's a Capo. She's nothing."

Carmella placed a comforting hand on Beatrice’s arm, her beautiful face twisted in a mask of malicious innocence. "Don't be upset, Auntie. Izzy just doesn't understand the rules yet. Perhaps we need to be stricter with her. We can't have her bringing *disonore* (dishonor) to the Russo name in public."

"You're right, Carmella," Beatrice agreed, her eyes gleaming with a dark promise. "She needs to learn who runs this house."

Their opportunity came the very next morning.

I was in the Matriarch's Suite when a heavy knock echoed through the halls. A Moretti family Soldier, his face a mask of lethal indifference, bypassed the estate's guards and delivered a mountain of garment bags and a heavy, sealed envelope directly to my room.

Word spread instantly. Within minutes, Beatrice marched into my suite, flanked by Carmella, several female relatives, and her loyal maid, Gina.

"What a generous tribute," Beatrice declared, her eyes locked hungrily on the Parisian couture labels peeking from the bags. "Gina, inventory these items and take them to the family vault. It is house rules that all major gifts be managed by the Matriarch."

Gina stepped forward, reaching for the closest bag.

"Touch that, and you'll lose your hand," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it was cold enough to freeze the room.

Gina froze. Beatrice’s face flushed with rage. "How dare you speak to my staff that way! I am the lady of this house, Isabella. You will obey the rules!"

I stepped between them and the gifts, my chin raised. "These are private gifts from the mother of the Dark Don. To confiscate them is a public insult to Eleonore Moretti." I locked eyes with Beatrice, letting the full weight of my words sink in. "If the New York underworld hears that the Russo family is so greedy and short-sighted that they steal a daughter's reward from the Morettis... it won't just be gossip, Beatrice. It will be a *disonore* that invites a war."

The word *war* hung in the air like a guillotine. In our world, disrespecting a Don's bloodline was a death sentence. Beatrice paled, her authority crumbling under the absolute, terrifying rules of the Mafia. She looked at the silent, judging faces of the other women, realizing she had been publicly humiliated and outmaneuvered.

"Fine," she spat, her voice trembling with suppressed fury. "Keep your trinkets." She turned on her heel and stormed out, the rest of her entourage scurrying after her like frightened mice.

I had won the battle, but I knew the war was far from over.

Down the hall, in the safety of her drawing room, Beatrice paced like a caged animal. Carmella sat on the sofa, weeping softly into a lace handkerchief.

"Did you see that silver gown?" Carmella sobbed. "The one covered in crystals? It's a masterpiece. I was supposed to be the star of the St. Rose Charity Gala next week, and now she's going to ruin it!"

Beatrice stopped pacing. The humiliation in her eyes hardened into pure, venomous spite. She walked over and tilted Carmella’s chin up.

"Dry your tears, *mia dolcezza* (my sweetness)," Beatrice whispered, a cruel smile twisting her lips. "You will wear that 'Starlight' gown to the gala. You will be the one everyone looks at."

"But Izzy won't give it to me," Carmella sniffled.

"Oh, she will," Beatrice promised, her voice dropping to a deadly murmur. "I will make sure she hands it over willingly."