Isla's POV
I stepped out into the courtyard, the air sharp and cold against my skin. The ceremonial mantle was a dead weight over my arm. Heavy silk, embroidered with the Moretti family crest—the one Silas had promised I would one day wear as his Underboss's wife. Now it was just fabric.
Serena followed closely behind Silas, her hands clutching the lapels of his suit jacket. The same jacket I had tailored. Her fingers were where mine should have been.
She looked up at me, her eyes wide and brimming with a sickeningly artless sorrow.
Her voice, a carefully constructed tremor laced with fragility, explained that Silas was just being protective of her. She begged me not to be angry about him helping her first, her tone a masterclass in feigned innocence. Every word a knife wrapped in a lullaby.
My gaze fell to the white‑knuckled grip she had on his jacket.
I reached out, wedged the nail of my thumb into the pale crest of her knuckle until she inhaled sharply, and then peeled her fingers from his lapel, one by one.
"You are filthy,” I said, my voice a monotone. "And so is whatever twisted thing you share with my fiancé.”
Silas immediately stepped between us, his body a bulwark shielding Serena.
He warned me in a harsh, reprimanding tone not to cause a scene in front of the men. "You're an Underboss's woman. Act like it.”
Then, his expression shifted into something unbearably condescending as he promised that once today's Gala was over, he would finally get around to claiming me. "You've earned it, haven't you? Eleven years of patience.” A pat on the head for the loyal bitch.
He reached out to ruffle my hair.
I flinched back, a sharp, reflexive jerk that left his hand suspended in the empty air.
His hand hovered there for a moment. Something flickered in his eyes—confusion, then a flash of irritation. I had never pulled away before.
"Step aside,” I ordered, the words clipped and devoid of heat.
Silas let out an agitated breath.
His gaze dropped, and with a flick of his polished shoe, he kicked my ceremonial mantle—which had slipped from my arm onto the rough cobblestones—out of his way. The embroidered crest scraped against stone.
He snapped that my constant nagging was getting annoying.
Sensing her opening, Serena edged closer to him again.
She pleaded with me to let Silas escort her to the Gala altar instead of me, her voice pitched just loud enough for the onlookers to hear. With practiced skill, she weaponized the memory of her dead parents, reminding everyone that they had died as Family Soldiers. Fallen men. Sacred martyrs in the Syndicate's bloody history. And she, the orphaned lamb who deserved every comfort.
She whimpered that she felt so alone and scared today.
That was all it took. Silas grasped Serena's hand and wrapped a possessive arm around her waist.
He escorted her toward the sleek VIP transport vehicles. Before stepping inside, he looked over his shoulder and ordered me to be a good girl and wait for him to send a car.
"A good girl,” I repeated under my breath. The words tasted like copper.
I stepped aside, my face a mask of placid indifference.
I watched them leave the courtyard together.
Dozens of Syndicate members had gathered around to watch the drama unfold. The whispers rose like smoke from a smoldering fire. Pity. Amusement. Speculation on how much longer the Moretti girl would tolerate this before she broke.
Under my mother's heartbroken gaze from across the yard, I walked the rest of the way to the Gala grounds on foot.
When I arrived, I stepped up to the massive stone altar alone.
I completed my final ritual of the Old Ways in absolute solitude. The ancient words tasted like ash on my tongue. Every syllable a mockery of the future I had once prayed for.
The whispers of the crowd washed over me, but I felt nothing.
When Silas and Serena finally returned to the estate hours later, the atmosphere shifted into a roar of celebration.
Silas ordered his men to set up a lavish banquet. From my window, I watched as all the private chefs, high‑ranking Capos, and estate staff flooded into Serena's suite next door. They carried silver trays of roasted meats and bottles of expensive champagne to celebrate her initiation. Her elevation. The moment she officially outranked me.
A low‑level Soldier came to my door an hour later.
He said Silas offered to send over some leftover food if I was hungry, shifting his weight from foot to foot under my deadpan stare. Leftovers. Eleven years of loyalty, reduced to cold cuts and half‑empty bottles.
I gave no reply, only shutting the door with a solid, definitive thud that cut off his sentence.
Needing air to escape the cloying scent of their feast, I stepped out through the back doors. As the dead of night settled over the estate, the contrast became a physical pressure. My courtyard had only one small, empty table. I sat alone in the shadows with two glasses of cheap liquor.
The thumping sound of loud music and uproarious cheering echoed from the entire faction celebrating next door with Serena.
I raised a glass and took a slow sip of the burning alcohol. My fingers brushed the burner phone in my pocket. The one with only one number saved.
Without warning, the wooden door to my suite banged open.
