Isabella POV
The roaring heat of the flames was gone, replaced by the biting chill of silk sheets. I gasped, my lungs still burning with the phantom taste of smoke and ash. My eyes snapped open to an unfamiliar ceiling, shadowed in the dim light of a sprawling, immaculate room. The scent of expensive cologne, rich cigars, and a faint trace of antiseptic filled the air. Damien Moretti’s private suite.
I looked down at my left hand. The gaping wound from Caitlin’s stiletto had been professionally bandaged, the stark white gauze a mocking contrast to the blood that still stained my torn dress.
*My baby. My family. Gone.*
The agony threatened to swallow me whole, a suffocating wave of grief. But as I stared at the pristine walls of my new cage, the tears refused to fall. The naive, terrified Isabella had burned to ash in the North Wing. What remained was something hollowed out, filled only with the freezing, absolute clarity of hatred. I had nothing left to lose. Only my Vendetta.
A sound pierced the heavy silence. High-heeled shoes clicking against the hardwood, and a voice—Caitlin’s—low and triumphant. She was on the phone. "Yes, Mother... It's done. The Irish bitch is ash... Marco is waiting. By morning, I will be the future Mrs. Moretti."
Her words were a spark in a room full of gunpowder. She thought I was dead. She thought she had won, on her way to claim her prize in Marco’s bed. A cold, predatory clarity washed over me, overriding the agonizing pain in my body. This was my first move.
I forced myself off the bed, my legs trembling but my resolve absolute. I crept to the heavy oak door of the suite, opening it just a fraction. Down the dimly lit, luxurious corridor, Caitlin was strutting toward Marco’s room, her emerald dress swaying. She reached for the brass handle.
I didn’t burst from the shadows like a startled animal. I moved like a predator.
Adrenaline masked the weakness in my limbs. Just as she turned the knob, before she could even register my presence, I slammed my good hand into her back, shoving her violently into the dark room.
She stumbled forward with a startled shriek. I grabbed the heavy oak door and yanked it shut, throwing my entire weight against it as I slid the heavy exterior deadbolt into place.
*Bang! Bang!*
"Hey! Who's out there? Open this door!" Caitlin screamed, her fists pounding against the wood. Panic laced her voice as she realized she was trapped.
I leaned my forehead against the door, my breathing ragged. The wound on my left hand tore open from the exertion, fresh, warm blood seeping through the white bandages and smearing onto the wood.
"Bella? Is that you? You're dead!" she shrieked, her voice cracking.
I pressed my lips close to the narrow crack of the doorframe. My voice was devoid of any human warmth, a demonic whisper echoing her own cruelty. "This isn't justice, cousin. This is the beginning of my Vendetta."
Inside, the pounding stopped. A heavy, slurred male voice echoed from the depths of the room, followed by a dark, drug-fueled laugh. Marco. Caitlin’s terrified screams morphed into desperate, muffled sobs as the reality of her trap set in. She was locked in with the monster she had helped create.
I stepped back. With cold precision, I used the torn hem of my ruined dress to wipe my fresh blood from the brass handle, erasing my presence.
My vengeance delivered, the adrenaline abruptly vanished. The world tilted dangerously. I dragged my feet, stumbling back toward the open door of Damien’s suite. Every step was a battle against the encroaching darkness.
I crossed the threshold, my vision tunneling. My knees buckled, and I fell forward, bracing for the harsh impact of the floor.
It never came.
I crashed into a wall of solid muscle. Strong, unforgiving arms wrapped around me, catching me with effortless grace. I forced my heavy eyelids open, tilting my head up.
Damien Moretti stood there, a phantom materialized from the shadows. He hadn't just returned; he had been watching. His flawless, sculpted face gave nothing away, but his narrow, pitch-black eyes were fixed on me. They didn't hold pity or surprise. They held the cold, calculating gleam of a predator appraising a newly discovered, highly dangerous weapon.
His gaze dropped to my bleeding hand, then shifted toward the hallway, where the faint, muffled sounds of Caitlin's ruin still echoed.
