Isabella POV
The heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing Damien out of my sanctuary. I stood alone in the center of my suite, the scent of iodine and his dark, violent aura slowly fading, replaced by the familiar, elegant notes of my jasmine perfume. I walked to the crystal decanter by the window and poured myself a glass of Barolo. The Rossi blood in my veins hummed with a cold, calculating rhythm.
A soft knock interrupted the silence. Sofia, my most trusted maid, slipped inside.
"Donna Isabella," she murmured, her eyes wide with estate gossip. "The Diaz woman... she took the household ledgers to the Don's study."
I took a slow sip of the red wine. "And?"
"He dismissed her. He looked exhausted and told her he had no head for numbers. Now, she is carrying the books to Nonna Elena's parlor."
Cora Diaz. The battlefield nurse who thought stitching a Don's wounds entitled her to a throne. She naively believed that managing the estate was her first step to cementing her status as the true Mafia Queen, assuming it would be easier than dodging Irish bullets.
I set my glass down. I couldn't miss this. Slipping out of my suite, I navigated the hidden servant corridors that ran parallel to the grand halls. I knew the Moretti estate's bones better than the man who owned it.
From the shadowed alcove above the West Wing parlor, I looked down through the wrought-iron railing. Cora stood there, clutching the heavy leather-bound ledgers against her chest. She was pretty in a rugged way, but the cheap floral perfume she wore clashed violently with the room's mahogany and old money scent. Sitting in her high-backed chair was Nonna Elena Moretti—the family Elder, a ruthless matriarch who had survived two mob wars and buried three sons.
"I will manage the household with the utmost care, Nonna," Cora said, her voice laced with a desperate eagerness to please.
Nonna Elena’s weathered face remained impassive, but I caught the fleeting gleam of aristocratic disdain in her dark eyes. She didn't praise the girl's enthusiasm. Instead, she sighed heavily, her rosary beads clicking.
"Child," the old woman rasped, her tone heavy with hidden meaning. "The Moretti ledgers are not as simple as you imagine. Looking at ink on paper is useless. You must see with your own eyes where the true foundation of our family lies."
Nonna Elena rose, leaning on her silver-handled cane, and gestured for Cora to follow. I moved silently through the upper passages, tracking their descent into the bowels of the estate.
They reached the Moretti Family Vault. I stood behind the iron grating of the ventilation shaft, looking down into the cavernous space. The massive steel door, engraved with the Moretti crest, groaned open.
Cora stepped inside, her eyes wide with the expectation of unimaginable wealth—the bedrock of her future power. But the vault was a tomb of past glory. It was massive, yet suffocatingly empty. The carved alcoves along the walls, meant to hold stacks of cash and jewels, were bare, leaving only faded, mottled shadows. In the center of the cold stone floor sat a dozen old, decaying wooden crates.
Nonna Elena pointed her cane at the nearest box. "Open it."
Cora’s hands trembled as she pried the lid back. A cloud of dust rose. Inside were rolled-up antique paintings, tarnished silverware, and a pitiful scattering of silver coins and a few gold bars. It was barely enough to fund a Capo's crew for a month, let alone sustain the most powerful Mafia family in the city.
I watched the color drain completely from Cora’s face. Her optimistic confidence shattered, replaced by a raw, suffocating terror. She was staring into the abyss of the Moretti family's financial ruin. For six years, my Rossi dowry had been the invisible lifeblood keeping this hollowed-out corpse of a family walking.
Nonna Elena had shown her the truth without uttering a single insult, effectively crushing the usurper's fantasy. I stepped back from the grate, a cold smile touching my lips. Cora now knew the throne she wanted to steal was built on dust and debt. But knowing her pride, she wouldn't surrender; she would inevitably convince herself that I had deliberately left this rotting carcass for her to choke on.
