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.

Seraphina POV

The metallic click of the lock echoed in the Formal Dining Hall, sealing the room like a vault. Isabella stood frozen in the center of the wreckage, the reality of her cage finally settling over her.

I picked up my porcelain coffee cup, the rim still warm, and glided toward her pale, trembling form.

"Welcome to your new home, Isabella," I murmured, my voice a velvet whisper meant only for her ears. "The Starks' most expensive prisoner."

The words snapped the last fragile thread of her sanity. She lunged at me, though the Stark guards instantly restrained her by the arms.

"You think this will hold me?!" she shrieked, her voice tearing through the heavy silence, pointing a manicured finger at the entire Stark family. "If I am ruined, I swear to God I will drag this entire family to hell with me! I'll tell the Falcones! I'll go to the FBI! Your laundered accounts, the smuggling at the docks—" She whipped her wild, venomous eyes toward her cowering fiancé. "And you, Marco! I'll tell them exactly how we orchestrated your bitch of a wife's 'accidental' drowning!"

The threat of breaking Omertà—the ultimate, unforgivable sin in our world—sucked the oxygen straight out of the room. Marco violently flinched, his face turning the color of ash. Lena Stark's jaw clenched so hard I thought her teeth might shatter. Isabella's madness had struck the Starks' most vulnerable nerve.

"Take her to the east wing guest room," Don Silas ordered, his voice a deadly, flat rumble. "Lock her in."

As Isabella's hysterical screams faded down the corridor, Lena rounded on me, her eyes flashing with pure hatred. "Look what you've done! For your pathetic Vendetta, you've dragged this entire family to the brink of war!"

I didn't flinch. I took a slow sip of my coffee, letting the bitter liquid coat my tongue. "You are wrong, Lena. The Morettis will not start a war. At least, not right now."

The room stilled. I met Don Silas's heavy gaze, laying out the intel Enzo 'The Ghost' had secured for me. "Their youngest daughter is currently finalizing a marriage contract with the heir of the New York Falcone family. That alliance is the only way the Morettis can secure the East Coast weapon routes. They will absolutely not let Isabella's scandalous out-of-wedlock pregnancy ruin that deal." I set my cup down, the clink sharp against the saucer. "A Don always sacrifices a princess to save his kingdom."

Silence stretched across the remnants of breakfast. Don Silas tilted his head, his dark eyes assessing me not as a nuisance, but as a calculated asset. Beside him, Aunt Francesca offered a faint, approving smirk. Lena opened her mouth to argue, but found she had no ammunition left.

By late afternoon, the anticipated Moretti retaliation arrived—not with an army, but with a single black SUV. Carmela Moretti, Isabella's mother, was escorted inside by two heavily armed Soldiers.

I remained in my suite, letting my loyal maid, Sofia, act as my eyes and ears. When Sofia returned, her voice was a hushed whisper as she recounted the brutal meeting in the guest room.

"Isabella threw herself at her mother, crying to go home," Sofia reported, folding my evening shawl with trembling hands. "But Donna Carmela slapped her. Hard. She told Isabella her stupidity had jeopardized the entire family's future. She ordered her to stay here, to have the child, and act as a hostage to buy the Morettis time."

A cold satisfaction bloomed in my chest. Isabella had finally realized she was nothing but a disposable pawn.

"But there is more, Signora(Madam)," Sofia added, her eyes darkening with worry. "Donna Carmela held her and made a promise. She said, 'Endure, my daughter. I promise you, before this child is born, I will let you watch that Valeriano bastard return to the hell she belongs in.'"

I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror. Isabella hadn't been soothed by the promise. According to Sofia, she had screamed that she didn't want to be a breeding mare—she wanted to kill me with her own hands, so Marco could propose to her over my dead body.

The blood pact was sealed. The Morettis' intent to assassinate me was no longer a shadow; it was a certainty.

I stood up, smoothing the dark, expensive fabric of my dress. Carmela Moretti's visit was concluding. I walked out of my suite and headed toward the Grand Foyer to watch the Moretti matriarch depart.