Isabella POV

The formal dining room of the Moretti Estate felt less like a place to gather and more like a sacrificial altar. The blood-red velvet table runner stretched across the mahogany wood, and the expensive silver cutlery was lined up with the precision of surgical scalpels. The cloying scent of white lilies mixed with chemical polish, creating an atmosphere that was perfectly, suffocatingly dead.

I stood near the head of the table, the heavy sapphire necklace resting against my collarbones like a jeweled collar.

Vincenzo strode into the room, his tailored suit immaculate. He didn't look at me, his eyes scanning the crystal glasses for smudges.

"Does Giuliana know about this?" I asked, my voice tight. "This dinner? The photo op you have planned to parade me around?"

He didn't even blink. It was as if I hadn't spoken at all. Vincenzo closed the distance between us in two long strides. He raised his hand, his cold fingers brushing against my throat as he roughly adjusted the sapphire pendant.

"It's crooked," he murmured, his tone devoid of anything human. "The assets of the Moretti family must remain perfect at all times."

Before I could swallow the bile rising in my throat, the heavy oak doors of the drawing room opened. My stepmother, Lydia, and my stepbrother, Joseph, had arrived.

Lydia reeked of cheap floral perfume and desperation. The moment Vincenzo stepped away to pour a drink at the bar, she grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the corner of the room.

"You need to get him to write the check tonight," Lydia hissed, her eyes darting nervously toward Vincenzo. "Joseph's new business needs capital."

"I can't just ask him for money, Lydia," I whispered, trying to pull away.

Her manicured acrylic nails bit painfully into my bare skin. "You think you're some *Mafia Queen* now?" she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "You are our lifeline! You are a *Collateral Bride*. Go beg him. Use your body, use your tears, do whatever it takes! If we don't pay the Rossi family, they will chop us up and feed us to the fishes. You're just as useless as your bedridden mother!"

The mention of Hazle felt like a knife twisting in my gut. I looked at Lydia's greedy, panicked face and realized there was no family here. Only parasites.

I tore my arm from her grip and walked straight to the bar. Vincenzo was watching Joseph, who was nervously wiping his sweaty hands on the expensive Italian silk sofa.

"Give them the money," I said to Vincenzo, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and exhaustion. "Pay them off so they leave. Please."

Vincenzo slowly turned his whiskey glass, the ice clinking softly. A chilling, calculated smile touched his lips. "I will handle your brother's debt. But everything has a price, Isabella." He leaned in, the scent of bergamot wrapping around me. "Tonight, when the photographer arrives, you will play the adoring wife. You will look at me like I am your entire world. When the camera flashes, you will kiss me like you crave it. Show New York how united we are."

I stared into his merciless hazel eyes. I was selling pieces of my soul just to survive the night. "Fine," I whispered.

By the time we moved to the dining room, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Vincenzo stood at the head of the table, raising his crystal glass of Barolo.

"To *La famiglia*," Vincenzo declared smoothly. "To the family bond, and above all, to loyalty. The foundation of our empire."

"To loyalty," Joseph echoed weakly, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked terrified, his eyes constantly darting to his lap.

I watched my stepbrother closely. He was acting too erratic, even for a coward in the presence of a Don. As Vincenzo took a sip of his wine, Joseph's hands fumbled under the table.

I deliberately knocked my linen napkin off my lap.

I ducked under the table to retrieve it. In the shadows beneath the heavy velvet cloth, Joseph's phone screen was illuminated. My eyes locked onto a new text message notification from a contact saved as "G.G."

*Did the Don take the bait on the port deal? Text me the moment you're clear.*

My heart stopped. G.G. Giuliana Gallo.

Joseph wasn't just a pathetic gambler. He was a rat. He was spying on the Dark Don for the Don's own mistress. And Giuliana wasn't just after my title—she was orchestrating a move against the Moretti family's core business. Vincenzo, the man who thought he controlled the world, was swallowing a poisoned bait.

I grabbed my napkin and sat back up, my blood running ice-cold. Vincenzo raised his glass to me from across the table, expecting my submission. I picked up my wine, my hand perfectly steady, and met his gaze.

Isabella POV

The Barolo tasted like ash on my tongue. I held Vincenzo's gaze across the blood-red table runner, the knowledge of Joseph's betrayal burning a hole in my chest. But before I could process the terrifying depth of Giuliana's infiltration, the heavy dining room doors opened, signaling the end of the meal and the beginning of the real performance.

Dessert was bypassed entirely. A photographer from *Vanity Fair* was ushered into the drawing room.

Vincenzo stood, his tailored suit shifting flawlessly over his lethal frame. He grabbed my arm, pulling me from my chair with an undeniable force, and dragged me toward the plush Italian silk sofa. He sat down and yanked me onto his lap. His arm wrapped around my waist like an iron band, his fingers digging painfully into my ribs.

He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. The scent of his bergamot cologne was suffocating. "Smile, Isabella," he whispered, his voice a razor blade wrapped in velvet. "Look at me like you mean it."

I thought of the rhythmic *hiss-click* of my mother's ventilator. Swallowing my nausea, I rested my head against his chest and forced a radiant, adoring smile. The camera flash blinded me, freezing the lie into eternity. The exact second the photographer lowered his lens, Vincenzo released me. The abruptness of it nearly sent me stumbling to the floor. His eyes were already dead to me, the task completed.

Once the photographer was escorted out, Joseph and Lydia leaned forward, greed practically sweating from their pores.

Vincenzo snapped his fingers. Mr. Sterling, his *Advisor*, stepped from the shadows and handed him a leather folder. Vincenzo tossed it onto the coffee table with a dismissive flick of his wrist. Joseph tore it open, his hopeful smile dying instantly.

It wasn't a gift. It was a loan agreement from the Moretti family's shylock business. Fifteen percent interest, with the Parisi family's remaining house and car listed as collateral.

"Vince, we're family..." Joseph stammered, his face pale and slick with sweat.

Vincenzo picked up his whiskey glass, the ice clinking softly. "Business is business. Sign it, or get out of my house."

Trapped and terrified, Joseph signed the predatory contract with a shaking hand. As they were dismissed, Lydia shot me a look of pure, unadulterated venom, as if I had orchestrated their ruin. I felt nothing. The last frayed thread tying me to my blood family snapped, leaving me entirely alone.

Five minutes later, Vincenzo retreated to his study, shutting the heavy oak door.

The adrenaline from the dinner was still spiking in my veins. Driven by a desperate need for leverage, I crept down the dimly lit hallway, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug. I pressed my ear against the cold wood of his study door.

He was on the phone. His tone was low, almost tender—a voice he had never once used with me.

"...the port deal bait was taken," Vincenzo murmured. A pause. Then, the words that stopped my heart entirely. "Once the deal is done, my love, I will handle the Isabella situation... permanently. This house, the master suite... it will all be yours."

A death sentence.

The terror threatened to paralyze me, but the *Vendetta* taking root in my soul swallowed it whole. I didn't have time to run. I had to strike now.

I sprinted silently to my small, forgotten study in the East Wing. From a locked drawer, I pulled out a legal draft Harper's lawyer, James Davis, had secretly prepared for me. I grabbed a blank sheet of Moretti Shipping letterhead I had stolen weeks ago. My hands flew across the keys of my hidden typewriter, perfectly replicating the "Irrevocable Transfer of Assets" document. It transferred the deed of Giuliana's luxurious Upper East Side apartment into an anonymous trust controlled by Davis.

I slipped back down the hall like a ghost. Vincenzo's study door was slightly ajar. He was pacing near the window, his back to the desk, laughing softly into the receiver.

Holding my breath, I slid into the room. I slipped my forged document right into the middle of his daily stack of papers, then retreated to the shadows of the hallway, watching through the crack.

Vincenzo finally sat down at his massive mahogany desk, still murmuring to Giuliana. Annoyed by the paperwork keeping him from his *Comare*, he began flipping through the stack, signing mechanically. He reached my document. He didn't read the fine print. He just saw the familiar company letterhead, slashed his heavy Montblanc pen across the signature line, and tossed it into the "completed" tray.

Isabella POV

I didn't sleep. The adrenaline from the dining room performance and the sheer terror of what I had just done kept my blood rushing like ice water through my veins.

At 5:00 AM, the Moretti Estate was a tomb. The pre-dawn darkness swallowed the grand hallways as I slipped out of the master suite. Every step on the Persian rug felt like walking on the edge of a knife. If Vincenzo woke up, if one of the night guards saw me, the death sentence I had overheard would be executed before sunrise.

The heavy oak door of Vincenzo's study yielded with a soft, agonizingly loud click. The air inside was thick with the ghost of his presence—aged whiskey, expensive leather, and that suffocating bergamot cologne. My heart hammered against my ribs as I approached the massive mahogany desk.

I found the "completed" tray. My breath hitched.

There it was. Vincenzo's sharp, aggressive signature slashed across the bottom of the forged Moretti Shipping letterhead, looking like a blood pact in the dim light. He had signed away Giuliana's luxurious apartment to a blind trust without a second glance. I carefully slid the paper out, folded it into a tight square, and shoved it deep into the inner pocket of my silk robe.

I had my weapon. For the first time since I was sold to this monster, the crushing power dynamic between us had shifted. He was still the Dark Don, but I was holding a match to his empire.

By 7:00 AM, the nervous energy had left my throat parched. I walked down to the cavernous kitchen for a glass of water, only to freeze in the doorway.

Vincenzo was already there. He was leaning against the cold granite island, dressed in a crisp black shirt, holding a small cup of dark espresso. His eyes, blacker than the liquid he was drinking, locked onto me. There was no anger in his gaze, only the chilling, absolute authority of a man managing his inventory.

"Giuliana and Penelope are moving into the estate today," he stated, his voice devoid of any human inflection.

The words hit me, but the shock was muted by the paper burning against my thigh. "You're bringing your mistress into our home?"

"They will take the master suite," Vincenzo continued, completely ignoring my question. He set the espresso cup down with a sharp clink. "You will pack your things. By noon, you are to be relocated to the East Wing."

The East Wing. The cramped, dusty corridors that used to house the servants and were now used for unwanted guests.

"You can't just erase me, Vincenzo," I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of indignation and disbelief.

He closed the distance between us in two strides, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over me. He didn't touch me, but his proximity was a weapon in itself. "This is my house, Isabella," he said softly, the cruelty in his tone absolute. "You are a guest. When they arrive, you will remain invisible. Do not test my patience today."

He walked past me, leaving me alone in the freezing kitchen.

At noon, I stood in my new prison. The East Wing guest room was little more than a glorified closet, smelling of stale air and forgotten things. Through the narrow, grime-streaked window, I had a perfect view of the long gravel driveway.

Three black, bulletproof SUVs rolled to a stop. Vincenzo stepped out of the lead car, opening the door himself. Giuliana emerged, wearing a pristine Chanel suit, looking every inch the victorious *Mafia Queen*. Vincenzo lifted Penelope out next, kissing the little girl's forehead with a tenderness that made my stomach twist.

Giuliana wrapped her arms around Vincenzo's neck, kissing him deeply in the broad daylight. When she pulled away, she pointed up at the master bedroom balcony—my balcony—with a triumphant laugh.

A moment later, a moving truck backed up to the garage. Two of Vincenzo's *Soldiers* began hauling my belongings out. They weren't packing them; they were discarding them. One of the men roughly tossed a cardboard box onto the gravel. It split open.

A worn, dog-eared copy of *Wuthering Heights*—the only gift my mother, Hazle, had managed to save for me—spilled out into the dirt. The soldier didn't even look down as he kicked it aside with his heavy combat boot to make room for Giuliana's Louis Vuitton trunks.

They were erasing my identity, treating my life like trash to be swept away. I watched the book lie in the dirt, my hand slipping into my pocket to grip the folded piece of paper. The humiliation burned, but beneath the ashes, my *Vendetta* was fully forged.