Isabella POV:
The next day, Rosa moved into the mansion.
Not into a guest room. Into my room. The master suite.
They relocated me to a small, stark room in the staff quarters, a space with a narrow bed and a single window overlooking a brick wall. It was more than degradation; it was a public execution of my identity. Every servant in the household saw it. They saw her clothes being moved into my closet, her cheap, cloying perfume colonizing my vanity. A coup d'état, played out in silks and scents.
Vincent's excuse was a transparent lie that cemented his betrayal. He'd told the staff-and later, his voice muffled through the locked wood of my new prison-that he and Rosa needed to be in the same room so he could "help her through the difficult parts of her pregnancy."
Bile burned the back of my throat.
A week passed. A week of solitary confinement, of meals left on a tray outside my door. A week of listening to Rosa's laughter echo from the main part of the house. I felt myself withering. The tiny life inside me felt less like a blessing and more like a chain, tying me to this hell. The thought of ending it became a constant, dark whisper in my mind.
One evening, Rosa came to my door. She didn't knock. She used a key.
She stood there, draped in one of my silk robes, a self-satisfied smirk playing on her lips. "It's a bit small in here, isn't it? I don't know how you can stand it."
I didn't answer. I just stared at her, my hatred so palpable it felt like it was sucking the oxygen from the air.
I decided to try a different tactic. A desperate gamble.
"You can have him," I said, my voice hoarse. "I'll sign whatever you want. I'll disappear. Just let me go."
Her smile widened, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was the smile of a predator that knows its prey is already caught. "Oh, Isabella. You still don't get it, do you?"
She sauntered into the room, running a perfectly manicured finger over the dusty windowsill. "I don't just want the man. I want the throne. I want to be Mrs. Falcone. I want the power, the respect. I want to be the Mafia Queen."
Her words struck me with the force of a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. It was never about love. This was a hostile takeover.
"You'll never be queen," I whispered. "You're just a soldier's daughter."
Her eyes flashed, and for a moment, the mask slipped. The viciousness I saw there was pure and terrifying. "And you're just a polished orphan the Carusos bought to sell. At least my blood is loyal to this family."
She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Vincent feels guilty about locking you up. He wants you to have this."
She tossed my phone onto the bed.
A jolt of pure adrenaline shot through me. It was a calculated move, I knew. A way for him to ease his conscience. But it was also a mistake. His mistake.
She left, the click of the lock echoing her departure. I scrambled for the phone, my hands shaking. I ignored the missed calls and texts from friends. I scrolled through my contacts, my thumb hovering over a name I hadn't dared to contact in two years.
Enzo Rossi.
The name alone brought it all rushing back. My adoptive family, the Carusos, had always been vague about my origins, only that I was an orphan they had taken in. But two years ago, a private investigator had found me, bringing a letter and a photograph from a man who claimed to be my biological father. A man named Enzo Rossi-the undisputed Capo di Capi of the Chicago Outfit, a name spoken in whispers across the country. The letter had explained that he and his wife, Bianca, had been searching for me for twenty-five years.
At the time, I had been blinded by my love for Vincent. I had my family, my life. I'd politely declined their offer to meet. I'd chosen Vincent.
Now, I clutched the phone like a lifeline. This phone was my only key. A direct line to the only power on earth greater than Vincent's.
My finger trembled as it hovered over the name.
Enzo Rossi.
I pressed the call button.
