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."

Isabella POV

The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the Matriarch's Suite, catching the sparkle of the diamonds Eleonore Moretti had sent. I sat at the vanity, watching Maria, an older maid who had served my birth mother, carefully fold the Parisian couture gowns.

Maria hesitated, her hands lingering on the silver 'Starlight' dress. "Signorina Isabella," she murmured, her voice trembling slightly. "Perhaps... perhaps it would be wise to offer one of these to Signora Beatrice? Just as a gesture of peace. She is the lady of the house, and making an enemy of her..."

I stopped brushing my hair and met Maria's worried eyes in the mirror. She meant well. She was a survivor of the old guard, terrified of Beatrice's petty wrath. But I needed absolute *lealtà* (loyalty), and loyalty could not coexist with naive illusions.

"A gesture of peace, Maria?" I asked, my voice calm but cold enough to make her flinch. I turned to face her. "If Beatrice truly saw me as a daughter, why did she leave me to rot in Switzerland for three years after I took a bullet for this family? Why did she try to force me into a servant's room the moment I returned?"

Maria paled, her hands dropping to her sides.

"She doesn't hate me because I am difficult," I continued, stepping closer, letting the harsh truth strip away the polite veneer of this house. "She fears me. She is an outsider from New Jersey who knows that my trueborn blood threatens everything she has stolen for her bastard children. Any kindness she shows is merely a performance. This isn't a family disagreement, Maria. It is a war for survival."

Maria stared at me, the color draining completely from her face. The horrifying realization of Beatrice's true nature finally shattered her lifelong habit of submission. She swallowed hard, her eyes filling with a new, hardened resolve. "I understand, Signorina. My eyes are open."

With Maria firmly secured as my eyes and ears, I braced for Beatrice's retaliation. Since she couldn't attack me openly without insulting the Morettis, she resorted to a campaign of petty sabotage.

Over the next few days, my suite became a silent battlefield. My morning coffee arrived tasting of burnt ash. My dinners were served lukewarm. The luxurious silk sheets on my bed were quietly replaced with coarse, scratchy cotton. It was a calculated attempt to break my composure, to make me run to my father complaining like a spoiled, hysterical child.

I gave her nothing. I drank the bitter coffee without a grimace. I slept on the rough cotton without a word. My absolute indifference infuriated Beatrice more than any screaming match ever could. It proved that her childish games were useless against me.

But Beatrice's frustration bled into her golden boy, Angelo. And Angelo, unlike his mother, lacked the cunning to hide his rage.

It happened on a bitter morning in mid-December. I was walking past the central fountain in the estate garden. The water had been shut off for the winter, and a thin layer of white ice coated the marble basins. The air was biting, smelling of frost and dead leaves.

"Think you're untouchable now, don't you?"

I stopped. Angelo stepped out from behind a stone pillar, blocking my path. He wore a flashy silk shirt under his coat, his narrow forehead creased with ugly fury.

"You disrespect my mother. You parade around this house like you own it, bringing *disonore* (dishonor) to our name," he spat, closing the distance between us. "You need to be taught a lesson, Izzy."

I didn't back away. I knew exactly what was about to happen. I had lived this moment before. In my past life, he had shoved me into the freezing water, sparking a fever that nearly killed me. But this time, I had already sent Maria to fetch my father under the guise of a "pressing estate matter."

"Are you going to teach me, Angelo?" I asked, my voice dripping with quiet mockery.

His face twisted in rage. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. The cheap metal clicked open, the blade gleaming in the pale morning light. "I'll carve that arrogant look right off your face," he snarled, lunging forward to slash the flat of the blade against my cheek.

He was slow. Sloppy.

Before the blade could even graze my skin, I flicked my wrist. The leather *frusta* (whip) I kept concealed up my coat sleeve snapped out like a striking viper. The weighted tip coiled tightly around Angelo's wrist. I yanked hard.

Angelo yelped in pain. The switchblade clattered onto the icy cobblestones with a sharp, metallic ring.

"What in the name of God is going on here?!"

The thunderous roar echoed across the garden. I released the whip, letting it slide seamlessly back into my sleeve, and turned to see my father, Luca, storming down the pathway. His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying fury. He had seen everything—his supposed heir pulling a street thug's weapon on his own sister, only to be effortlessly disarmed by a seventeen-year-old girl.

Angelo froze, his eyes darting from the dropped knife to our father. "Papa, she—"

"Shut your mouth!" Luca bellowed, closing the distance in seconds. He didn't look at me; his blazing eyes were fixed entirely on the pathetic, trembling figure of his son. "You pull a blade on family? And you let a girl disarm you? You are useless!"

Without another word, Luca planted his heavy boot squarely into Angelo's chest.

With a pathetic cry, Angelo flew backward, crashing over the marble edge and plunging directly into the freezing, ice-crusted water of the fountain.