Isabella POV

Lorenzo’s knees hit the marble floor with a heavy thud. He wrapped his arms around Marco and me, his usually immaculate composure shattering into quiet, desperate sobs.

"What is the meaning of this?"

My father's voice boomed from the grand staircase. Antonio Valentine froze halfway down the steps, his sharp, calculating eyes widening in absolute shock. Behind him, my mother, Sofia, let out a piercing, breathless scream.

She practically flew down the stairs, her silk robe billowing behind her. Her trembling hands cupped my cheeks, tracing my features frantically as if terrified her fingers would pass through a ghost. Her thumb brushed against the cold metal resting on my collarbone—the silver iris locket that had never left my neck.

A raw sob tore from her throat. She collapsed against me, pulling me into a crushing embrace.

"Mama, how am I here?" I whispered, my voice cracking with confusion and fear. "What happened to me?"

She shook her head fiercely, burying her face in my hair. "It's a miracle, Bella. God gave our angel back to us. Nothing else matters."

*

An hour later, the mahogany walls of my father's study felt suffocating. I sat in his oversized leather armchair, scrubbed clean and dressed in a fresh nightgown, but the chill of the cobblestones remained in my bones.

"You remember nothing?" Antonio asked gently, though his eyes were dark with unreadable calculations.

"Just my sixteenth birthday party," I murmured, rubbing my aching temples. "Everything after that is just... fog."

Antonio exchanged a heavy look with Enzo and Marco. "Five years ago today, a fisherman found you by the Adler Planetarium steps. A stiletto was driven cleanly through your chest. It was an Enforcer's work."

Adler Planetarium.

A sudden, violent spike of pain pierced my skull. I squeezed my eyes shut. A fragmented image flashed behind my eyelids: the lake, burning like liquid fire under a setting sun. The heavy, sweet scent of roses. And a voice—low, dangerous, and achingly familiar.

"Bella..."

I gasped, clutching my head. "The sunset... someone was calling my name."

"Enough," Antonio commanded instantly, his Consigliere mask slipping to reveal the terrified father beneath. "Go to sleep, piccola(little one). We will handle the rest."

Lorenzo POV

The second the study doors clicked shut behind my sister, the fragile warmth in the room evaporated.

My father turned to Marco and me, his face hardening into stone. "Three rules," Antonio said, his voice dropping to a lethal register. "First, absolute Omertà. If anyone in this house breathes a word that she is alive, I will put a bullet in their head myself."

Marco clenched his massive fists. "And the second?"

"Damien Moretti cannot know," Antonio said, a shadow of genuine dread crossing his features. "He has gone mad since her 'death'. If the Wraith finds out she is breathing, he won't return her to us. He will lock her in a gilded cage forever. We cannot let her fall into the Mad King's hands."

I adjusted my gold-rimmed glasses, my mind already calculating the terrifying risks. "And the third?"

"Vendetta," Antonio growled. "Enzo, work your informants. Marco, rally your best Soldiers. We find whoever did this before Damien does."

I nodded, the weight of tomorrow already pressing on my chest. In a few hours, the sun would rise, and my father and I would have to walk into the social club and play the grieving family on the anniversary of her death. One slip, one wrong look, and Damien would burn our entire world to the ground.

Isabella POV

My old bedroom smelled of lavender and dust. Exhaustion dragged me under the moment my head hit the pillow, but peace did not come.

I was back in the dark. It was narrow, suffocating, lined with freezing silk. A coffin. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

Then, the darkness shifted. The aggressive, intoxicating scent of whiskey, expensive cologne, and tobacco filled the claustrophobic space.

Warm lips pressed against my numb fingertips. They moved to my forehead, my eyelids, my cheeks. The kisses were agonizingly tender, yet laced with a desperate, terrifying possession.

A man's breath fanned across my ear, his voice a broken, obsessive whisper in the pitch black.

"Bella... mia anima(my soul)... my soul... Bella..."

The sheer intensity of his grief and hunger branded itself into my very core, leaving me shivering in the dark long after the dream faded.

Lorenzo POV

The bitter taste of black espresso did nothing to wash away the exhaustion coating my tongue. I hadn't slept a single second. The private Italian-American social club smelled of expensive cigars, roasted coffee beans, and the quiet, dangerous hum of power. Men in tailored suits murmured in the dim light, but my focus was entirely on maintaining the fragile mask of a grieving brother.

Capo Dominic, a gray-haired veteran of the old regime, approached our table. His weathered face was heavy with genuine sympathy. "Antonio, Enzo. I know what today is. Le mie condoglianze(My condolences)."

My father and I exchanged a microscopic glance. Antonio’s expression instantly darkened, the perfect picture of a broken man. "Thank you, Dominic," he rasped, his voice thick with practiced sorrow. "Some wounds never close."

I lowered my head, pushing my gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of my nose. "Five years," I added, keeping my tone tight, suppressed. "It feels like yesterday."

Beneath the mahogany table, my pulse hammered a frantic rhythm. Half of my racing heart was fueled by the sheer terror of the lie, the other half by the lingering, impossible euphoria of having my sister sleeping safely in her childhood bed. We played our parts flawlessly, but as Dominic nodded and walked away, a thoughtful, lingering look flashed in his eyes. It was a chilling reminder that Isabella’s return was a live grenade sitting in our parlor. We were walking a tightrope of lies.

Two hours later, the tightrope snapped.

Damien Moretti’s penthouse office was a minimalist temple of intimidation. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Chicago skyline, but the room felt like a crypt. Damien sat behind his massive ebony desk, the shadows clinging to him like a second skin. The Wraith. His pitch-black eyes locked onto us, devoid of light, devoid of sanity.

"Isabella's tomb was breached," Damien announced. His voice was a flat, emotionless drawl that sent ice straight into my veins. "Her... remains are gone."

The air in the room vanished.

Antonio, the veteran Consigliere, reacted with the speed of a striking viper. He slammed his palm onto the desk, his face twisting in manufactured fury. "Who dares desecrate her resting place? I want a Vendetta, Damien! I want the bastards who touched her bled dry!"

I stepped up beside my father, letting the genuine fear in my chest bleed into my voice as cold, calculated rage. "We will mobilize every Soldier we have. We will tear this city apart to find them."

It was a flawless performance. But Damien didn't blink.

He leaned forward, the gold of his signet ring catching the dull light. He was studying us. Dissecting us. In that agonizing silence, I realized our fatal mistake. When he delivered the news, there had been a fraction of a second of pure, unadulterated shock on our faces—not the soul-crushing agony of a wound being ripped open, but the panic of men caught off guard.

Damien didn't suspect she was alive. His madness wouldn't allow for miracles. But his paranoia was a living, breathing monster. I could see the twisted gears turning behind his dead eyes. They know my plans. They hid her body to punish me. To stop me.

"I will handle the search," Damien said softly. The quietness of his tone was far more terrifying than a scream. "Go home, Antonio. Mourn your daughter."

We turned and walked out, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. As the elevator doors slid shut, I caught sight of Damien's personal Enforcers stepping out of the shadows, their eyes fixed on us.

The Dark Don had just declared a silent war. He wasn't looking for a living girl; he was hunting for a stolen corpse he believed we were hiding. Every move we made, every breath we took, would now be watched by the Wraith's hounds.

Isabella POV

The heavy wool carpets of the Élégance boutique muffled the chaotic sounds of 1920s Chicago outside. The air inside was thick with the scent of French perfume and old money.

I stood before the massive three-way mirror, staring at a stranger. The scarlet silk evening gown clung to my curves, the fabric pooling around my feet like melted rubies. For five years, I had been a ghost trapped in a dark, suffocating sleep. But in this dress, with the delicate black netting of my hat obscuring the upper half of my face, I looked alive. I felt real.

"Take it off."

The sharp, entitled voice shattered my fragile peace. I turned to see a woman with heavily painted lips and arrogant, dark eyes glaring at me.

"Excuse me?" I asked, my voice quiet but steady.

"The dress. It's the only one in the city, and I want it," she snapped, stepping closer. Her eyes raked over my veiled hat with blatant disgust. "Take it off now. A cheap little thing hiding her ugly face behind a veil doesn't deserve to wear Schiaparelli."

My hands curled into fists. I had lost five years of my life to a monster's blade; I wasn't about to surrender my dignity to a spoiled brat. "It's not for sale anymore. I'm buying it."

Her face twisted in ugly fury. Before I could blink, she lunged, her manicured nails digging painfully into my bare shoulder as she tried to physically yank the silk down my arm.

"Stop!" I gasped, shoving her back.

The boutique manager rushed over, his face pale with terror. He pulled me aside, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "Miss, please, you must yield. That is Natalia Gallo, daughter of Capo Gallo. More importantly... she is the fiancée of Marco Valentine, The Bull. You do not want to cross her."

The blood drained from my face. Marco's fiancée?

My stomach violently churned. My brother—my fiercely loyal, protective, warm-hearted Marco—was tied to this venomous creature? I stared at Natalia, who was now smirking triumphantly. She didn't know she was bullying the very sister her fiancé had wept over just three nights ago. A fierce, protective fire ignited in my chest. I would rather die again than let this monster marry into my family.

"I said, take it off," Natalia sneered, turning to the other patrons. "I'm wearing it to the charity gala this weekend. I want to surprise my Marco. He's busy at the port today, so I have time to deal with trash like you."

She thought Marco was at the port. She had no idea he had only crossed the street to buy me my favorite cannoli.

"I'm not taking it off," I said, lifting my chin.

Natalia's eyes darkened with vicious intent. She snapped her fingers at the two massive men standing by the door—her family's Soldiers. "Hold her down. Strip the dress off her. I don't care if you tear it."

Panic seized my throat as the two men advanced. They grabbed my arms, their grips like iron vices, pinning me in the center of the boutique. I struggled wildly, but I was powerless against their brute strength.

"Let go of me!" I screamed.

Natalia stepped right into my personal space, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Let's see what you're hiding under that ridiculous netting."

She reached for my veil.

Pure, unadulterated terror spiked through my veins. If she pulled off the veil, my face would be exposed. The Omertà would be broken. Damien's hounds would find me.

As her fingers brushed the black mesh, survival instinct took over. I wrenched my right arm just enough to lean forward, and I sank my teeth into her outstretched wrist with every ounce of strength I possessed.

The taste of copper flooded my mouth.

Natalia shrieked, a high-pitched wail of agony, and stumbled backward, clutching her bleeding wrist. "You bitch!" she screamed, her face purple with rage. "Beat her! Beat her until she lets go! I'll take the fall!"

One of the Soldiers cursed and raised a massive, heavy fist, aiming straight for my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the crushing impact.

The cheerful chime of the boutique's front door bell rang through the air.

The fist never fell.

I opened my eyes. Standing in the doorway was Marco. In his left hand, he held a white pastry box tied with a neat little ribbon. But his eyes—those fierce, hawkish eyes—were locked onto the Soldier holding my arm.