Seraphina POV

Marco's fingers dug brutally into my flesh as he dragged me out of the shadowed alcove and back into the blinding light of the Grand Foyer. The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut behind us, drawing the immediate, suffocating attention of the Stark family core.

Marco shoved me forward slightly, putting on a sickeningly perfect mask of sorrow. He looked at his grandfather. "Don Silas, Arabella is unwell. The trauma of the lake... her mind is completely fractured. For the sake of the Stark reputation, she has agreed to be transferred to a sanitarium in Switzerland. She will be cared for, but she must relinquish her title."

I let out a cold, echoing laugh that sliced through the heavy silence.

"So, Marco," I projected my voice, ensuring every syllable bounced off the black-and-white marble walls, "your love for my 'resurrection' is just asking me to make room for you and your mistress, and then disposing of me like trash?"

Marco turned ashen, his jaw working soundlessly. Don Silas's face darkened like a thundercloud, the sheer disrespect of Marco's transparent cowardice offending his ruthless sensibilities.

Isabella sneered. Shoving Marco's pathetic frame aside with absolute disgust, she marched right up to the head of the family.

"A Stark bride does not share her home with a ghost," she spat, her chin raised in arrogant defiance. "You choose, Don Silas. The Moretti alliance, or this... thing."

The air in the foyer turned to ice. It was a blatant, unforgivable challenge to a Don's authority.

Before Silas could unleash his wrath, Aunt Francesca glided across the room. She stepped into Isabella's personal space, leaning in close. I strained to hear the matriarch's venomous whisper.

"The doctors in our family are very discreet, but not deaf. A baby conceived before the wedding... what a scandal that would be for the proud Moretti family."

The blood instantly drained from Isabella's face. The arrogant mafia princess deflated, trapped by her own reckless sin. Trembling with suppressed rage, she pivoted and stalked toward me.

"I don't know what game you're playing," Isabella hissed, her voice a lethal thread meant only for my ears, "but I know how to make people disappear for good. Leave, or you'll end up back at the bottom of the lake."

There it was. The confession.

I looked at her twisted, hateful face, and leaned in, my voice a soft, venomous caress. "You had to murder an innocent people to get this far, and you still ended up as a replacement bride, carrying another man's bastard in your belly."

Isabella's sanity snapped.

"Arabella is dead! She deserved to die!" she shrieked, her voice tearing through the foyer like shattered glass. She pointed a trembling finger at me, commanding her personal bodyguard. "Shut her mouth! Permanently!"

The hulking man lunged at me. I didn't freeze. Years of surviving in the shadows, of bleeding for every ounce of my strength, took over. I pivoted, dodging his meaty hands, grabbed his wrist, and twisted sharply. With my free hand, I slipped the heavy dagger from his belt. I kicked the back of his knee, sending him crashing to the marble floor with a sickening thud.

I stood over him, twirling the stolen blade effortlessly. In the periphery, I saw Damien step out of the shadows, his dark eyes flaring with a dangerous, consuming intrigue. He wasn't looking at a broken wife anymore; he was looking at a weapon.

I didn't stop. I marched toward the grand fireplace. With one vicious swipe of the dagger, I slashed the massive, oil-painted engagement portrait of Marco and Isabella. The canvas tore with a satisfying rip.

Isabella screamed. I closed the distance between us, grabbing the heavy diamond necklace—the Stark bridal gift—around her throat. I yanked. The clasp snapped, and dozens of diamonds rained down on the cold marble like frozen tears. I shoved her hard by the shoulders, sending her sprawling into the mess of her ruined dress and scattered jewels.

"Enough!"

Don Silas's roar shook the crystal chandelier. Two Stark Soldiers materialized instantly, grabbing my arms and forcing me to my knees. The cold marble bit into my skin. Don Silas towered over me, his eyes devoid of mercy.

"She is no longer a Stark. For dishonoring this family, for her madness, she is cast out. Take her away."

Take her away. The universal mafia code for execution. Marco exhaled in relief. Isabella smiled a bloody, triumphant smile from the floor.

The Soldiers hauled me up, their grips like iron. But before they could drag me toward the basement, the heavy double doors of the foyer burst open.

The estate's butler stood there, breathless and pale, his eyes wide with unprecedented terror.

"Don Silas! A messenger from New York! He says he's from the Chairman of The Commission!"

Seraphina POV

The heavy oak doors stood wide open. The messenger stepped into the Grand Foyer, his impeccably tailored suit a stark contrast to the blood and shattered diamonds scattered across the marble. The two Soldiers gripping my bruised arms hesitated, their eyes darting nervously toward Don Silas.

"A decree from the Chairman, Don Antonio Rossi," the messenger announced, his voice cutting through the suffocating tension.

Isabella's lips curled into a cruel, triumphant smile. Marco puffed out his chest. They thought this was the final judgment on my crimes, the ultimate validation of my execution.

The messenger unrolled a thick parchment, his gaze sweeping over the room before landing on me. "In recognition of the bravery of Arabella Valeriano, who rescued Eleonora Rossi from a tragic fire in Philadelphia, The Commission hereby declares the Valeriano name to be under our direct and absolute protection. Any hostility directed at its members will be considered a direct provocation against the Chairman himself."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Isabella's vicious smile froze, then shattered completely. Don Silas's face drained of all color, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. He had been seconds away from executing a woman the highest power in our world had just declared untouchable.

The messenger stepped forward, extending the parchment toward me. "Signora Valeriano. The Chairman's grace."

I didn't move. I stayed on my knees, letting the heavy silence stretch. I looked up at the messenger, my voice trembling just enough to sound like a terrified, broken victim. "I am deeply honored. But I fear I cannot accept."

The messenger frowned. "Why is that?"

"Because just before you walked through those doors, Don Silas Stark announced I was no longer a part of this family. He ordered his men to take me away." I let a single, perfectly timed tear slip down my cheek. "How can a ghost, cast out and condemned, accept the Chairman's grace?"

Don Silas choked on his own breath. If word reached New York that he had attempted to murder the Chairman's protected saint, the Stark family would be wiped off the map by morning.

"Release her!" Don Silas roared at the Soldiers. They dropped my arms as if my skin had caught fire. The Don rushed forward, his hands trembling as he reached out to help me up. "A misunderstanding. A terrible, internal misunderstanding. Arabella is, and always will be, the rightful eldest daughter-in-law of the Stark family."

As I stood, I caught movement in the shadows near the grand staircase. Damien. His dark eyes were locked onto me, no longer just observing, but burning with a dangerous, predatory fascination. He saw right through my act, and the lethal calculation in his stare told me he was utterly captivated by it.

I smoothed down my ruined dress and turned my attention to the trembling Don. "I am confused, Don Silas," I said, my voice losing its fragile tremor, replaced by cold steel. "If I am Marco's wife, then what exactly is Miss Moretti's position in this house?"

Marco swallowed hard, stepping forward with his hands raised. "Arabella, please, let's just—"

"Quiet," I snapped, my gaze never leaving Isabella. "Valeriano women do not share their husbands. I am the wife. Anyone else is not even fit to be a mistress."

Isabella lunged, but her own massive bodyguard caught her. "You bitch!" she shrieked, her pristine facade entirely gone.

Before Don Silas could fumble through an excuse, Aunt Francesca stepped into the light. Her sharp eyes had already calculated the immense value of the Commission's protection against the liability of the Moretti alliance.

"The Stark family honors its vows," Francesca declared, her voice ringing with absolute authority. She looked at Isabella with thinly veiled disgust. "Effective immediately, the Stark-Moretti engagement is suspended indefinitely."

Isabella thrashed against her guard, her face purple with rage.

I finally reached out and took the parchment from the messenger, offering him a flawless, aristocratic bow. I picked up an untouched glass of champagne from a nearby overturned tray.

"What a pity, Miss Moretti," I purred, raising the crystal flute toward her. "It seems your wedding celebrations are canceled. Let us toast to your failed alliance."

The messenger nodded approvingly. "The Chairman will be very pleased to hear the Starks made the wise choice to uphold the sanctity of marriage. He despises betrayal above all else."

That was the final blow. Isabella let out a blood-curdling scream, violently shoving Marco out of her way. Her guards had to practically drag her out of the foyer toward the guest wing, her curses echoing down the corridors like a rabid animal.

I stood amidst the shattered diamonds and ruined canvas, holding the Chairman's decree against my chest.

Seraphina POV

The adrenaline from the Grand Foyer faded into the suffocating chill of the Mistress's Suite. Arabella's room. The heavy silk drapes and unopened French perfumes felt less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded mausoleum.

Sofia, the loyal Valeriano maid who had practically raised us, fell to her knees the moment the heavy oak door clicked shut. She wrapped her trembling arms around my legs, tears streaming down her weathered face.

"They are monsters, Signorina," she sobbed, her voice barely a whisper. "Please. If you take this step, there is no turning back. They will devour you."

I reached down, gently prying her hands away, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. My reflection in the vanity mirror was a ghost—my sister's face, but with eyes forged in ice. "I know, Sofia," I murmured softly. "But the arrow has already left the bow. From this moment on, I am Arabella Valeriano. My Vendetta ends only when they drown in their own blood."

Before Sofia could reply, the suite doors burst open with a violent crash.

Isabella Moretti lunged into the room like a rabid lioness. Her designer gown was torn, her hair a tangled mess, and in her right hand, a silver stiletto blade gleamed under the chandelier. She aimed straight for my cheek, desperate to carve away the face that had ruined her.

She expected a fragile, broken wife. She didn't expect the brutal, underground training I had endured in Las Vegas.

My body reacted before my mind did. I sidestepped the lethal thrust, seized her wrist, and twisted it sharply. With a clean, ruthless sweep of my leg, I slammed her onto the Persian rug. The stiletto clattered uselessly against the baseboards.

The two Stark Soldiers who had rushed in behind her froze in the doorway, their eyes wide as they processed the effortless, lethal takedown I had just executed.

"Who are you?!" Isabella shrieked, thrashing wildly as the guards finally snapped out of their shock and hauled her up by her arms.

I smoothed the front of my dress, looking down at her with absolute disdain. "A discarded spare."

Her face contorted into something demonic. "Arabella is dead!" she roared, the veins in her neck bulging. "She is rotting at the bottom of freezing Lake Michigan! I watched her sink!"

The confession hit me like a bullet to the chest, but I swallowed the agonizing grief, forcing a condescending smile to my lips. I turned to the stunned guards. "It seems Miss Moretti's humiliation has driven her to hysteria. Take her away before she hurts herself."

As they dragged her screaming down the corridor, I locked the door. I had my confession. Now, I needed the weapon to execute her.

Hours later, under the cover of darkness, I retrieved a coded note from a hollowed-out book in the library—a dead drop from my top Soldier, Enzo 'The Ghost'. I unfolded the parchment.

Clinic records confirmed. Anti-miscarriage medication purchased under an alias.

I stared at the words until they blurred. Isabella was pregnant. She and Marco had desecrated my sister's mourning period to breed a bastard. In a devout, traditional Mafia family, a premarital pregnancy was a death sentence to a woman's reputation. I carefully burned the note, watching the ashes crumble.

The next morning, the Formal Dining Hall was a battlefield disguised as a breakfast service. The clinking of silver against porcelain echoed like gunshots.

Aunt Francesca took a deliberate sip of her espresso, her sharp eyes gleaming with malice as she looked at me. "A guardian angel," she announced loudly, ensuring her voice carried across the long mahogany table. "A pure-blooded wife brings honor and the Commission's protection to the Starks. Not like some who only drag scandal and liability through our halls."

Lena Stark's jaw tightened, her knuckles turning white around her teacup, while Marco stared at his plate, sweating profusely. Francesca was using me as a blade to carve away the main branch's authority.

The heavy dining doors swung open. Isabella was escorted in by two guards for her final dismissal before being shipped back to the Moretti estate.

Don Silas didn't even look up from his newspaper. "Bow to the Matriarch, Isabella. Then leave."

Isabella stood rigid. She sneered at Don Silas, then marched directly toward Marco. Without a word of warning, she spat at his feet.

"I am Isabella Moretti," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "I will never be anyone's replacement. I am leaving today because I am discarding you."

She turned her furious gaze to me, her eyes promising murder. "I will be back. And when I am, I will step over this imposter's corpse to take my rightful place as the lady of this house."

The guards grabbed her arms roughly, but the damage was done. The air in the dining hall grew thick and heavy, the silence stretching taut over the remnants of breakfast.