Isabella POV

The drive back to the estate was a blur of adrenaline, but the moment we stepped into my father’s mahogany-paneled study, the air turned to lead.

Marco stood before Antonio’s massive desk, his fists clenched at his sides as he recounted what Natalia Gallo had done in the boutique. He spared no detail—the insults, the physical assault, her attempt to tear off my veil.

My father sat perfectly still. The glass of amber whiskey in his hand didn't even tremble, but his eyes—usually sharp and calculating—darkened into a terrifying, bottomless black. It was the look of a man who ordered executions before breakfast.

"She put her hands on my daughter," Antonio said, his voice a lethal, quiet rasp.

"I want the engagement annulled, Papa," Marco demanded, his chest heaving with residual guilt and rage. "I will not tie myself to a viper who dared to touch Bella."

Before Antonio could speak, my mother stepped forward. Sofia’s face was pale, but her jaw was set in stone. She didn't ask for permission. She picked up the heavy rotary phone on the desk and dialed the Gallo residence.

"Mrs. Gallo," my mother said, her tone eerily calm and dripping with absolute authority. "The engagement between our families is over. Keep your daughter away from my blood, or I will personally see to it that she never walks the streets of Chicago again."

She slammed the receiver down. It wasn't a negotiation. It was a final, devastating verdict.

*

Sleep evaded me that night. The lingering terror of the alleyway and the chaos of the boutique kept my heart racing. Needing a glass of water, I slipped out of my bedroom and padded softly down the carpeted hallway.

As I neared my father’s study, a sliver of light spilled from the cracked door. I froze, catching the cold, clinical voice of my eldest brother, Lorenzo.

"Our informants just reported back," Enzo was saying. "Capo Gallo lost his mind when Sofia called. He dragged Natalia down to their wine cellar. Half the block heard her screaming."

I pressed my hand against my mouth, my stomach twisting.

"He is a dead man walking," Enzo continued, devoid of any pity. "Without the protection of our alliance, Damien Moretti will finally purge him. The Wraith has been looking for an excuse to clean up Gallo's dirty ledgers for months. We just handed him the match."

"Let him burn," my father replied, his voice devoid of mercy. "His daughter dared to touch my principessa(princess). This is the price."

I backed away into the shadows, my bare feet silent on the floorboards. A shiver violently racked my spine. Natalia had been cruel, but the sheer, crushing weight of my family's retaliation terrified me. I was beginning to understand that the men who kissed my forehead and called me sweet names were the same men who orchestrated ruin in the dark.

*

The next afternoon, the sun bathed the estate’s rose garden in a deceptive, golden warmth. I sat on a white wrought-iron bench, staring at a velvet-lined wooden box. Inside were the items my family had hastily retrieved from my empty mausoleum—a silver comb, a pearl necklace, and something that didn't belong.

I carefully picked it up. It was a single, perfectly preserved black rose. Its petals felt like dark velvet, completely out of place among the vibrant red blooms of our garden.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel. Marco approached, his broad shoulders relaxed for the first time in days. "It's done," he announced, sitting beside me. "Gallo accepted the broken contract. They won't breathe a word."

I smiled softly, holding up the dark flower. "Did you leave this for me, Marco? It's beautiful, but so... sad."

Marco’s eyes dropped to the black rose.

The color instantly drained from his face. His massive frame went rigid, his pupils dilating in pure, unadulterated horror. He stared at the flower as if I were holding a live grenade.

"Where did you get that?" he choked out, his voice cracking.

"It was in the box from the tomb," I said, my brow furrowing in confusion. "I thought you or Papa left it for my anniversary."

"No," Marco breathed, snatching the rose from my hand with trembling fingers. He looked around the garden wildly, as if expecting a monster to step out from the hedges. "We didn't leave this. None of us did."

"Then who—"

"Don't think about it," Marco snapped, his voice suddenly harsh and frantic. He crushed the delicate black petals in his massive fist and grabbed my arm, pulling me up from the bench. "It's a mistake. Some stranger. Come on, I promised to teach you how to shoot. We are going to the range. Now."

He dragged me toward the armory, his grip tight and desperate, leaving me to wonder what kind of ghost could make The Bull look so utterly terrified.

Isabella POV

The tense silence of our family dinner was shattered by the blaring of the estate’s perimeter alarms.

Marco was on his feet instantly, his hand flying to the holster beneath his suit jacket. A breathless guard burst into the dining room. "It’s the Wraith. His Phantom just pulled up to the rear entrance. No motorcade, just two Enforcers."

All the blood drained from my father’s face. "Hide her," Antonio ordered, his voice tight with a terror I had never heard before.

"Go to your room, Bella. Do not make a sound," Marco commanded, shoving me toward the servants' stairs.

Panic seized my chest. I turned and ran. In my pocket, my fingers blindly clutched the crushed black rose I had secretly retrieved from the garden grass earlier that afternoon. As I sprinted down the dimly lit rear hallway toward the staircase, my trembling hands fumbled. The dark flower slipped from my grasp, landing silently on the thick Persian rug. There was no time to turn back.

I reached my bedroom, my heart hammering against my ribs. I left my half-empty teacup on the nightstand and my silk nightgown draped carelessly over a chair, rushing straight to the window. Hiding behind the heavy velvet curtains, I peered down at the rear courtyard.

The sleek, black Rolls-Royce Phantom idled like a predator in the shadows. Damien Moretti stepped out. He wore a tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the moonlight, his aura so suffocatingly dark and lethal that even from the second floor, I found it hard to breathe.

My father and Marco hurried out to intercept him. "Don Moretti," Antonio said, his tone carefully measured. "Let us go to the study. We can discuss whatever business—"

Damien didn't even look at him. He bypassed the Consigliere entirely, his pitch-black eyes fixed on the wrought-iron gate leading to the rose garden.

My mother, Sofia, rushed forward, desperately blocking the gate with her own body. "You cannot go in there, Damien," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "The gardeners sprayed toxic pesticide this evening. It isn't safe."

Damien finally stopped. He looked down at my mother, a cold, mocking smirk curving his lips. "I don't mind a little poison, Sofia," he murmured.

He stepped around her effortlessly, pushing the iron gate open. My family followed him, trapped in a nightmare they couldn't control.

Damien walked slowly through the manicured paths until he reached my favorite patch of red roses. Marco stood rigid behind him, looking like a bull ready to charge, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

Damien ignored the hostility. He stared at the blooms, his voice dropping into a haunting, obsessive cadence that drifted up to my window. "Today is the anniversary. I came to feel her presence."

Below, Antonio and Marco turned ashen.

Then, the Wraith did something that made my blood freeze in my veins. He slowly tilted his head back, his dead, bottomless eyes piercing through the darkness, locking directly onto my bedroom window. It was as if he could see my soul trembling behind the glass.

"I want to see her room," Damien stated. It wasn't a request. It was a Don's Command.

Marco’s hand twitched toward his gun. Antonio instantly grabbed his son’s wrist, his fingers digging into Marco's flesh, silently begging him not to sign their death warrants.

Damien didn't wait for permission. He turned and strode toward the house.

Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs. I spun away from the window, sheer terror overriding my senses. I threw myself into the walk-in closet, pulling the louvered doors shut just as the bedroom door clicked open.

I pressed my hands over my mouth, sinking into the shadows behind a row of silk dresses. Through the narrow wooden slats of the closet door, I had a clear view of the room.

Damien stepped inside. He stopped in the center of the rug, his chest expanding as he took a deep, agonizing breath. I saw his jaw tighten as he registered the lingering scent of my perfume, the fresh tea on the nightstand, the soft silk on the chair.

"The maids," Antonio said quickly from the doorway, his voice strained. "They clean it daily. To keep it exactly as she left it."

Damien didn't look at my father. His eyes were roaming over my bed, dark and hungry.

"Get out," Damien ordered softly.

"Damien, you cannot—" Marco started, his voice vibrating with rage.

"I said, get out."

The two massive Enforcers stepped forward, physically forcing my father and brother out into the hallway. The heavy oak door was pulled shut with a definitive click, the lock turning from the inside.

The room fell into a suffocating silence. I was trapped in the dark, locked in a room with the most dangerous man in Chicago.