Damien POV
She weighed nothing. As she collapsed against my chest, Isabella felt like a fragile bird, yet she reeked of smoke, copper, and absolute carnage. It was the scent of a seasoned soldier, not a sheltered Irish mafia princess.
I lifted her effortlessly, carrying her away from the open door and laying her on the dark silk sheets of my bed. Her fiery red hair fanned out like spilled blood against the pillows. I took her left hand, carefully unwrapping the ruined, crimson-soaked gauze. The stiletto wound had torn completely open. She had used her mutilated hand to shove her cousin into Marco’s room, weaponizing her own agony to seal their fate.
I didn't call for a doctor. I took the medical supplies from my en-suite and cleaned the gaping wound myself. My fingers brushed against her pale, freezing skin, but my blood ran hot. I had expected a weeping collateral bride, a victim to be pitied and protected. Instead, right under the nose of the entire Moretti estate, she had executed a flawless, ruthless *Vendetta*. She was a wounded, bloodthirsty wolf. And she was magnificent.
Heavy, hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, snapping my attention away from her pale face.
I moved silently to the door of my suite, leaving it cracked just a fraction. Down the hall, my stepmother, Caterina, marched toward Marco’s room like a wrathful queen. She was flanked by two of our Capos and a handful of her loyal soldiers. She had heard the screams. She had come to catch the "Irish curse" in a compromising position, ready to ruin Isabella and elevate her golden boy.
"Break it down," Caterina ordered sharply, her voice dripping with venomous anticipation.
A soldier kicked the heavy oak door. It splintered and crashed open.
The stench of cheap gin, opium, and sweat rolled out into the pristine hallway. Caterina stepped forward, a triumphant sneer on her face—until she actually looked inside.
Through the gap in my door, I watched the color violently drain from my stepmother's face. Marco was sprawled on the sofa, half-naked, his eyes glassy and rolling back from the drugs, slurring incoherent curses. On the floor, Caitlin Carson was sobbing hysterically, her emerald dress torn, her dignity shattered.
There was no Isabella. Only the filthy, undeniable ruin of the Moretti heir, exposed in front of the family's core members.
Caterina gasped, stumbling back as the Capos exchanged dark, disgusted looks. Marco’s reputation was dead.
I closed my door silently, locking the chaos out. I turned back to the bed, my dark eyes locking onto the sleeping girl. She had crippled my brother without firing a single bullet. My desire for her shifted, hardening into a dark, possessive obsession. She was the perfect weapon. And she was going to be mine.
*
Isabella POV
I woke to the heavy, suffocating silence of the suite. The throbbing in my left hand had dulled to a numb ache, freshly bandaged and clean.
I pushed myself up against the headboard, my breathing shallow. Faint, muffled sounds of shouting and a woman's desperate weeping drifted through the thick walls. Caitlin. A cold, sharp thrill of satisfaction coursed through my veins, quickly followed by a hollow emptiness. I had survived the night, but I was still trapped in the serpent's nest.
The shadows in the corner of the room shifted.
Damien Moretti stepped into the dim light, the faint glow of the city illuminating his flawless, merciless features. The scent of expensive cologne and rich cigars wrapped around me, a suffocating reminder of his power. He moved with lethal grace, stopping right at the edge of the bed. He looked down at me, his pitch-black eyes stripping away every defense I had left.
"You made a mess, little bird," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in my chest.
I didn't flinch. I met his stare, my green eyes burning with the remnants of the fire I had escaped. "They deserved it."
The corner of his mouth twitched upward—a microscopic movement that wasn't a smile, but a predator's dark approval. He leaned down, planting his large hands on the mattress on either side of me, trapping me in his shadow.
"Your Vendetta has begun," he whispered, his breath brushing against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "But from now on, you hunt under my command. You are mine now, Isabella. Your revenge, your body, your soul... all mine."
I stared into the abyss of his eyes, realizing the terrifying truth. I had escaped Marco's butcher block only to sign a contract with the devil himself.
Damien straightened up, adjusting his tailored cuffs. "Rest. The sun will be up soon."
He turned and walked toward the sitting area, leaving me in the cold silk. I looked toward the window. Dawn was hours away, and with it would come Caterina’s desperate, venomous wrath. She would try to wash her son's sins in my blood. I tightened my uninjured hand into a fist. Let her try.
