Isabella's perspective
In this secluded suite in the east wing of the Moretti estate, the air is thick with the scents of aged wood, lemon varnish, and an almost suffocating stillness. It's a gilded cage draped in a heavy dust cover, but for tonight, it's my fortress.
I gently placed Angelo on the huge four-poster bed. He fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, his little hands still clenched into fists, the lingering fear from the day.
With each heartbeat, the raw, bleeding flesh on my palms throbbed with pain. In the dim light, I unwrapped the dirty strips of cloth that had been wrapped around my hands in the mine. The wounds were deep, bleeding in places, the edges jagged from the hammer's thud. I went to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and let the cold water wash over my swollen skin. The stinging pain was sharp and dizzying, but I didn't flinch. I found an old first-aid kit under the sink-disinfectant, gauze, medical tape. With my teeth and trembling fingertips, I did my best to bandage my hands, making sure it was tight enough to stop the bleeding, but leaving a little room for my fingers to move.
When I returned to the table, faint traces of blood were already visible through the white gauze.
I pulled out a thick sheet of paper with a gold embossed design. My stiff, swollen fingers could barely hold the pen. The first few letters were crooked and trembled on the paper from the excruciating pain. I stopped, took a deep breath, and forced my hand to steady itself. This time, the strokes became extremely sharp-not elegant, but cruelly precise, each stroke a struggle against the burning pain in my palm.
"Maria," I called softly.
She emerged from the shadows, her eyes still reflecting the shock of our confrontation at the door. I handed her the letter. The pulling motion shifted the gauze, and a new, bright red stain immediately appeared around her thumb.
"I need you to get these things through the family's underground channels. Don't leave any written record, and don't ask why."
Maria took the list, her eyes sweeping over the unspecified industrial reagents and high-concentration extracts. Her hands trembled uncontrollably. "This isn't medicine at all... My God, Miss, what dangerous trump card are you planning to concoct?"
She looked at me as if I were a stranger. And indeed I was. The innocent girl she once served was dead, buried in the abyss of a bloody future that only I remember.
"These are all necessary," I said, my flat, cold tone leaving no room for argument.
I turned away and walked towards my son. As I passed the doorway, a faint, rust-colored bloodstain remained on the gauze. An invisible boundary had been drawn. Maria swallowed hard, clutched the note tightly to her chest, lowered her head, and fell into silent submission, filled with fear.
By noon the following day, we were already seated in the back of an armored SUV, flanked by two Moretti family escort cars. This convoy was supposed to take us directly to a heavily guarded safe house on the shores of Lake Wisconsin.
I moved my fingers around in the gauze. After a night, my fingers were a little stiff, but the bleeding had stopped. I could make a fist-it hurt, but I could still use it.
I stared at the gray-white afterimage of the highway outside the tinted car window. We were almost at the exit for Blackwater Creek Town.
In my previous life, this desolate, forgotten rusty town was where Damian and Serafina found their greatest trump card. That decaying land harbored "Gary the Ghost"-a former strategist of a rival family whom everyone thought was dead. He held a black ledger, a book of sins with enough leverage to blackmail a current U.S. senator. It was that ledger that gave Damian the political capital to crush the Falcone family and reign supreme in Chicago.
This time, I will not let them succeed.
I leaned forward-because my fingertips were numb, I could only press the button on the driver's side panel with the heel of my hand. "Next exit to get off the highway."
The Moretti family head, who was driving, glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Miss Isabella, the Godfather's orders are to head straight for the safe house."
"Get off the highway," I repeated, my voice lowering.
Maria grabbed my arm, her face deathly pale. Her fingers touched my bandaged hand, and I forced myself not to gasp. "Isabella, please! Blackwater Creek is a graveyard. It's full of scumbags and drug addicts. It's not a place for you, and it's certainly not a place for Angelo!"
"I know exactly where that is." I shook off her hand. The movement sent a sharp pain through my wrist. I stared intently at the leader in the rearview mirror. The air in the car instantly became heavy, filled with the suffocating pressure emanating from me. "We'll stop here. Now."
The leader's jaw was clenched, but the unwavering certainty in my voice completely shattered his resistance. He turned on his turn signal.
The armored convoy left the wide highway and headed down the ramp towards a dying town. Ahead, blocked-off shops and crumbling brick factories stood like rotten teeth under the gloomy sky. Maria sobbed, clutching Angelo tightly to her chest.
I clenched my bandaged hands tightly into fists on my knees-the bandages stretched taut, a dull ache spreading down to my elbows. This pain was a wake-up call. I was no longer the weak woman who had left the manor. I had become a harder blade.
My gaze was fixed on the rusty water tower in the distance. The game was set; I was ready to capture the enemy's queen.
