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.

Seraphina POV

The heavy silence stretching over the remnants of breakfast was shattered by the sound of heavy boots echoing in the corridor.

Before the guards could drag Isabella out of the Formal Dining Hall, the mahogany doors were shoved open. Lucia Moretti, Isabella's aunt, marched into the room flanked by two heavily armed Moretti Soldiers. Her chin was tilted in absolute arrogance, completely disregarding the fact that she had just trespassed into the heart of the Stark estate.

"Let her go," Lucia snapped at the Stark guards, her voice cracking like a whip. She didn't even offer a respectful nod to Don Silas. Instead, her venomous gaze landed on me. "Did you really think a ghost from a forgotten grave could take the place of the Stark Matriarch?"

Lena Stark stood up, her face flushed with indignation at the blatant disrespect. "Lucia, this is a private family matter. You cannot simply—"

"We are here to take our princess home," Lucia interrupted coldly, her eyes slicing through Lena. "Not to listen to the excuses of a failing family."

The insult hung in the air, a blatant declaration of war.

Panic seized Marco. The realization that his political alliance—and his future—was walking out the door broke whatever fragile composure he had left. He shoved past his mother and grabbed Isabella's wrist.

"Isabella, please," Marco begged, his voice trembling with a pathetic desperation that made my stomach turn. "Don't do this. Stay. I promise you, I will deal with her. You are the only one I want."

Isabella ripped her hand from his grasp as if his touch burned. A cruel, mocking smile twisted her lips. "Deal with her?" she sneered, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Like you dealt with Arabella? Why did you even bother orchestrating her 'accidental' drowning in the lake if you didn't have the spine to finish what you started!"

The dining hall plunged into a deathly stillness.

Marco's face drained of all color, turning the shade of a fresh corpse. He stumbled back, his eyes darting frantically toward his father. I kept my expression perfectly blank, though my heart hammered a vicious rhythm against my ribs. There it is. The confession. The final nail in his coffin.

"We are leaving," Lucia commanded, grabbing Isabella's arm.

They turned toward the exit. It was time to spring the trap.

"Are you really leaving, Isabella?" I asked. My voice was soft, laced with a sickeningly sweet concern that stopped her dead in her tracks. "The first Stark grandchild shouldn't grow up without a father's presence."

Isabella froze. Slowly, she turned around, her eyes wide with a terror so profound it stripped away her arrogance. "You're lying," she breathed, her voice shaking. "Shut up! Shut up!"

In a devout, traditional Mafia family, a premarital pregnancy during a mourning period wasn't just a scandal—it was a death sentence to a woman's honor.

I shifted my gaze to my mother-in-law, feigning innocent surprise. "Oh, Lena, surely you knew? A mother can always sense the joy of her first grandchild."

Isabella's head snapped toward Lena, her eyes blazing with betrayal. "You told her?!" she shrieked.

Lena blinked, momentarily caught off guard. But across the table, Aunt Francesca caught Lena's eye. A silent, calculating exchange passed between the two older women. A Stark heir was leverage. It was the ultimate chain to bind the Morettis.

Lena straightened her spine, her expression hardening into stone. "Yes," Lena declared, her voice steady. "She is carrying a Stark."

"No!" Isabella screamed, thrashing against her aunt's grip. "Marco, tell them it's a lie!"

Marco stared at the floor, suffocating in his own cowardice. His silence was a damning confirmation. Isabella lunged forward and slapped him across the face, the sharp crack echoing like a gunshot.

Don Silas finally moved. He folded his newspaper, stood up, and walked slowly toward the center of the room. The sheer weight of his presence forced everyone into submission.

"This concerns Stark blood," the Don decreed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that left no room for argument. "It is family business. Isabella will remain here until the child is safely born."

"You cannot keep her!" Lucia hissed, stepping forward.

Don Silas didn't even look at her. "Escort Lucia Moretti off my property. Lock down the gates."

The Stark Soldiers immediately moved in, forming a human wall between Isabella and her aunt. Lucia's face contorted with pure rage as she was forced backward out of the dining hall, leaving her niece behind.

The heavy doors slammed shut, the metallic click of the lock sealing Isabella's fate. She stood trembling in the center of the room, surrounded by the family she despised, completely and utterly trapped.