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.

Isabella POV

The warm, boyish smile Marco usually wore for me vanished the second his eyes registered the Soldier's grip on my arm. It was replaced by the cold, lethal mask of The Bull.

He set the white pastry box on the glass display counter with terrifying calmness. Before the Soldier holding me could even blink, Marco crossed the room. Two sickening cracks echoed through the boutique in rapid succession. The massive men collapsed to the thick wool carpet, screaming in agony, their arms bent at grotesque, unnatural angles.

Natalia shrieked, the color draining from her heavily painted face. "Marco! What are you doing? I'm your fiancée!"

Marco didn't even look at her. He stalked forward, grabbed Natalia by the wrist—the exact one I had bitten—and dragged her stumbling toward me. His eyes burned with a dark, protective fury that made the air in the room feel heavy.

"Hit her, Bella," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that shook my bones. "Show her that no one touches a Valentine woman."

Natalia stared at me, her eyes wide with confusion and terror, still completely unaware of who was hiding beneath the black netting.

I didn't hesitate. I channeled five years of stolen life, the terror of the alleyway, and the sheer indignity of the last ten minutes into my palm. I struck Natalia's cheek with a resounding crack. She gasped, crumbling to the floor, clutching her face as tears ruined her makeup.

Marco looked down at her with absolute disgust. "The engagement is over."

He threw a thick stack of bills onto the counter for the scarlet dress, wrapped his heavy, comforting arm around my trembling shoulders, and walked me out of the boutique without looking back.

The interior of Marco's 1928 Cadillac was quiet, insulated from the roaring Chicago streets. I sat in the passenger seat, my hands still shaking slightly in my lap.

I looked at my brother's clenched jaw. "Why, Marco? Why were you engaged to a monster like her?"

He sighed, the violent rage bleeding out of him, leaving only a profound exhaustion. "After you 'died', we tracked the assassins' escape route to a freighter leaving the Chicago port. Capo Gallo controls the docks and the manifests. The engagement was the only way he'd cooperate. It was the only way to find who took you from us, Bella."

Tears pricked my eyes. My fierce, loyal brother had sacrificed his own happiness, tying himself to a viper just to avenge my ghost. I reached out and squeezed his massive hand. "I won't let that woman marry into our family."

"She won't," Marco said firmly, his grip tightening around mine. "It's done."

I took a deep breath, the lingering scent of gunpowder and expensive leather in the car grounding me. "Marco... teach me how to shoot. I don't want to be just a bird in a cage anymore. I need to protect myself."

He looked at me, surprised by the steel in my voice, before a slow, proud nod tipped his chin. "Tomorrow. We start tomorrow."

Damien POV

My penthouse office was a tomb of glass and shadows. The city lights of Chicago bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but the darkness inside me swallowed it all.

I sat behind my ebony desk, rhythmically tapping my gold signet ring against the wood. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"And then he bought the dress, left the Gallo Soldiers bleeding on the floor, and drove away with the veiled woman," my Enforcer finished, his head bowed respectfully.

I stopped tapping.

Marco Valentine, The Bull, had publicly crippled two of Capo Gallo's men and shattered a five-year alliance. Over a random woman in a boutique.

It made no sense. Marco was a brute, but he wasn't stupid enough to start a war over a whore. He had endured that engagement for years for the sake of his family's business. Unless... the woman wasn't random.

My mind raced, connecting the jagged pieces. The Valentines had lied to me at the social club. I had seen the microscopic flash of panic in Antonio's eyes when I told them the tomb was empty. They were hiding something. And this mysterious, veiled woman Marco was willing to burn bridges for was the key to their little conspiracy.

"Investigate her," I ordered, my voice a lethal whisper that made the Enforcer stiffen. "Find out everything about this woman. Where she came from, her name, what she eats for breakfast. Leave no stone unturned."

"Sì, Don Moretti(Yes, Don Moretti)," he murmured.

I turned my leather chair to face the dark skyline, the phantom scent of dried roses haunting my senses. "And the search for Isabella continues. But remember... when you find her, do not inform the Valentines. Bring her directly to me."