Isabella POV

I was still speaking softly to Elena when the heavy oak door of the suite swung open without a knock.

Mrs. Gable, the estate’s head housekeeper, stood in the doorway. Her posture was rigid, her expression a carefully practiced mask of polite condescension. She had served the Moretti family for years, which meant she was accustomed to taking orders from Julian and, more recently, Dahlia.

"Mrs. Moretti," Mrs. Gable said, her tone dripping with false concern. "I saw Sofia leaving in tears. Usually, any changes to the household staff are cleared with Miss Vance beforehand."

I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to. I simply closed the distance between us, my eyes dropping to the delicate gold chain resting against her starched cuff.

"A beautiful Van Cleef & Arpels Alhambra bracelet," I noted, my voice dangerously soft. "Julian loves gifting those to his most... loyal associates."

Mrs. Gable stiffened, her hand twitching as if to cover the jewelry.

"But you need to understand something, Mrs. Gable," I continued, meeting her eyes with a dead, unblinking stare. "There is only one Mrs. Moretti in this house. And a failed spy quickly becomes a very messy problem for her master. You are a smart woman. You know exactly who you should be pledging your loyalty to if you want to survive the new regime."

The color drained from the housekeeper's face. The subtle threat of violence—the reality of what happened to useless pawns in our world—shattered her arrogance. She swallowed hard, her eyes dropping to the floor in sudden, absolute submission.

"Yes, Ma'am," she whispered.

"Good. Now, take me to the estate vault."

Ten minutes later, the heavy steel door of the underground vault hissed open. The air inside was sterile and cold, lined with rows of modern safety deposit boxes. Mrs. Gable handed me the master key Julian had carelessly left for the 'official' wife, then stepped back into the shadows with Elena.

I unlocked the three large boxes assigned to the Rossi dowry—the financial foundation of my marriage to Julian.

I pulled the first metal drawer open. My blood turned to ice.

There were no Swiss bearer bonds. No solid gold bars. The deeds to the prime commercial real estate in downtown Chicago were nothing but expired, worthless documents. Instead, the boxes were stuffed with tightly banded stacks of counterfeit cash and heavy blocks of gilded brass.

My hands trembled, not from sorrow, but from a rage so pure it burned. I reached for the final box—a velvet case meant to hold my late mother’s heirloom jewelry. I snapped it open. The diamonds had been pried out, replaced with cheap, cloudy cubic zirconia.

Antonio and Caterina hadn't just stolen my leverage; they had desecrated my mother's memory to cover their massive financial ruin. They thought I was too weak, too broken by Julian's rejection to ever check the vault.

They had handed me the perfect weapon.

I took a single gilded brick and the velvet box, marching back up to the Lady's Wing. I locked the door, picked up the encrypted landline on the desk, and dialed my father's private number.

"Isabella, *mia cara* (my dear)—" Antonio's voice came through, thick with fake warmth.

"Shut up," I commanded. I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. Caterina was listening. "Counterfeit bills. Gilded brass. Expired deeds. And cheap zirconia in my mother's settings."

Dead silence echoed through the receiver.

"I am giving you twenty-four hours," I said, my voice a lethal, emotionless blade. "Liquidate everything on that original dowry list. Wire the exact cash equivalent, plus the true value of my mother's jewelry, into my private Swiss account. If the funds aren't there by tomorrow morning, I will drop these gilded bricks directly onto Julian Moretti's desk."

"Isabella, you can't—" Antonio stammered, panic finally bleeding into his voice.

"I will tell him exactly how the Rossi family humiliated the Morettis," I cut him off ruthlessly. "I think a formal *Vendetta* (blood feud) would be quite entertaining. Oh, and I'll make sure all of Chicago knows the Rossi family is so bankrupt they have to rely on cheap fraud to keep up appearances. How many of your creditors will come knocking by noon?"

I didn't wait for his pathetic excuses. I slammed the phone down, severing the connection.

The Rossi family was no longer my prison. They were my puppets. And as I looked out the window at the sprawling, sunlit courtyard of the Moretti estate, I knew Dahlia and Julian would soon realize that the woman they thought they could break was the one holding all the matches.

Isabella POV

The morning sun did nothing to warm the main courtyard of the Moretti estate. The sprawling space was paved with blinding white marble, centered around a multi-tiered fountain carved with mythical beasts. It sat bone-dry and silent, a monument to the lifeless perfection of my new prison.

I stood near the manicured cypress trees, breathing in the crisp air. After my ultimatum to Antonio last night, the heavy dread in my chest had been replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.

The crunch of footsteps on gravel broke the silence.

Julian was walking toward me, his jaw set in a hard line. Clinging to his arm was Dahlia Vance. She wore a provocative, flowing white dress—a deliberate, mocking insult to a bride. She leaned into him, her eyes scanning the grounds with the entitled gaze of a queen surveying her kingdom.

"Darling," Dahlia cooed, her voice carrying easily across the open courtyard. "I think the roses here should be changed to white. It’s so much more pure, don't you agree?"

She looked at me then, a sickly sweet smile playing on her lips, waiting for me to break.

I didn't blink. I simply let my gaze drag over her, from her expensive shoes to her carefully curled hair, stripping away her elegant facade until she was nothing but the parasite she truly was.

"A whore doesn't get a vote in how this house is decorated," I said, my voice slicing through the morning air like a straight razor. "In fact, she doesn't get to speak unless spoken to."

Dahlia’s smile vanished. The color drained from her face, leaving her looking pale and suddenly very small. She gasped, her eyes welling with immediate, practiced tears as she shrank against Julian’s side.

"Julian," she whimpered.

Julian’s eyes darkened with a violent fury. He stepped forward, shielding her. "Watch your mouth, Isabella. You think because you terrorized a few maids you have power here? Dahlia is moving into the main house today. She will have the exact same status as you, and you will treat her with respect."

I let out a low, humorless laugh.

"Do it," I challenged, stepping into his space, forcing him to look down at me. "And I will request a meeting with your father. I'll play for him the recordings from our wedding night. I'll tell him, and the entire *Commissione*(Commission), how you married me not for an alliance, but to hide your pathetic affair with the bastard daughter of a Vescovi."

Julian froze. The rage in his eyes fractured, replaced by a sudden, dawning horror.

"You brought an enemy into this family, Julian," I whispered, making sure every word landed like a physical blow. "That's not just a scandal. That's treason. You'll be lucky if they only strip you of your rank and don't put a bullet in your head."

The word *treason* hung in the air, heavy and lethal. In our world, it was an automatic death sentence. Julian’s fists clenched at his sides, his chest heaving, but he didn't move. He was completely paralyzed by the realization that I held the match to his entire future.

Sensing the catastrophic shift in power, Dahlia tugged urgently at his sleeve. "Julian, let's just go. She's crazy."

Julian swallowed hard, his jaw ticking. Without another word, he turned and stalked back toward the garage, leaving Dahlia behind in his wake.

Dahlia watched him abandon her, her mask of the helpless victim slipping away. She turned back to me, her expression hardening into something desperate and calculating.

"We both have a common enemy in Caterina Rossi," she said, her tone suddenly serious, dropping the fragile act entirely. "My father... Antonio... he tells me things. I can help you destroy her."

I looked at her, genuinely amused by her audacity.

"You want me to be your weapon?" I tilted my head, offering her a smile devoid of any warmth. "So you can take your mother's place as my father's official whore? No, thank you. I'd much rather watch you two tear each other apart. It's far more entertaining."

Dahlia’s face contorted with a mix of profound humiliation and raw hatred. She opened her mouth to speak, but I had already turned my back on her, walking toward the heavy oak doors of the main house.

I had won the courtyard, and Dahlia would undoubtedly scramble to find a new, more powerful ally to save her sinking ship. But as I stepped into the foyer, I knew words and blackmail would only protect me for so long. If I was going to survive the war I had just started, I needed men who answered only to me.