Isabella POV
My heart slammed against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. The perfect sanctuary I had just built—a life as an untouchable, revered widow—shattered into dust. Damien Moretti was alive.
He sat behind the mahogany desk, the volcanic rock rosary wrapped around his wrist clicking softly against the wood as he rested his hand. His gray eyes, cold and analytical, stripped away my defenses in a single glance. He was waiting for an answer.
I forced my lungs to draw in the cigar-scented air. Panic would get me killed. I needed a lie, one woven so tightly with the twisted logic of our world that he couldn't easily tear it apart.
I lifted my chin, stepping out of the shadows and into the dim light. "Because a dead king is still infinitely more powerful than a living pawn, Mr. Moretti."
A dark, humorless smirk touched his lips. He leaned back, studying me. "A calculated answer. But you stood before my family and declared a lifelong devotion. Tell me, Isabella, what is there to love about a ruthless man ten years your senior, whose hands are stained with blood?"
"In our world, power is the ultimate aphrodisiac," I replied, my voice steady, though my palms were slick with cold sweat. I lowered my eyelashes, playing the part of a woman intoxicated by a legend. "Every woman in Chicago dreams of being the Mafia Queen to The Ghost. I simply chose to secure my place. If I could not be your wife in life, I would honor your name as your widow, until death reunites us."
Damien’s gaze darkened. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. He knew I was lying. He could see the Vendetta burning beneath my skin, the desperate need for his name to shield me while I tore the Falcones apart. But he didn't call for his Soldiers. He simply watched me, a predator observing a particularly bold prey.
"A beautiful vow," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Let us hope you survive long enough to keep it."
I offered a stiff, respectful nod. "I must return to my family. The Falcones require my... attention."
I turned and walked out of the study, my spine rigid. As the heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, I realized the terrifying truth. My fake marriage to a ghost had just become a very real, very deadly game with a monster.
*
The following evening, the air inside the Falcone Family Council Chamber was thick with the stench of cheap cigars and decaying authority.
From the shadows of the corridor, I watched through the cracked double doors. The dark oak walls were lined with oil portraits of past Falcone Dons, their painted eyes glaring down at the long mahogany table. At the head of the table sat Donna Vittoria, her face tight with desperate pride. Beside her stood Marco, holding a gold fountain pen, ready to sign the heavy parchment that would officially legitimize Leo Gallo—Angelica’s bastard—as the Falcone heir.
Angelica stood a few feet away, practically vibrating with triumph. She was moments away from securing her place as the future matriarch.
"With the blessing of the Elders," Marco began, his voice echoing in the silent room, "I, Marco Falcone, formally recognize—"
I kicked the double doors open. They crashed against the walls like a thunderclap.
Every Elder and Capo at the table jolted. Marco dropped the pen.
I walked into the chamber, the sharp click of my heels cutting through the stunned silence. Flanking me were two heavily armed De Luca Soldiers, and walking beside me, radiating cold, aristocratic fury, was my mother, Elena De Luca.
"Isabella!" Donna Vittoria hissed, half-rising from her chair. "You have no right to interrupt a sacred family council!"
I ignored her. I didn't look at Marco. My eyes were locked entirely on Angelica.
Before anyone could react, I closed the distance between us. I grabbed a fistful of Angelica’s perfectly styled blonde hair and yanked her backward. She shrieked, her arms flailing as I threw her roughly to the cold stone floor.
"Are you insane?!" Marco roared, lunging forward.
The two De Luca Soldiers instantly drew their weapons, the metallic clacks of safeties being switched off freezing Marco in his tracks. My mother stepped forward, her chin held high, her presence alone a suffocating reminder of the wealth that kept the Falcone family afloat.
I stood over Angelica, who was sobbing and clutching her scalp. I pointed a trembling finger at the jagged, red scar slashing across my cheek, making sure every Elder in the room saw it.
"Before you acknowledge this bastard," I projected my voice, cold and ringing with absolute authority, "ask his puttana(whore) mother if her hands are still stained with the blood of a De Luca daughter!"
The chamber erupted into chaos. Several Capos stood up, shouting in rapid Italian.
"Silence her!" Donna Vittoria commanded, her face pale with terror. "She is hysterical!"
"I am not hysterical, Nonna," I snapped, my voice slicing through the uproar. I turned my burning gaze to the Elders. "I have proof! Proof of how Marco and this viper plotted my murder in a freezing cellar, and how they planned to drain the De Luca coffers dry to pay off secret gambling debts!"
Marco’s face drained of all color. His hand hovered over the unsigned parchment, trembling violently as the Elders slowly turned their piercing, suspicious stares toward him.
