Isabella POV
Three agonizing days. That was how long the Romero Annual Audit lasted.
When my father finally stumbled through the door of our cramped Brooklyn apartment in the early hours of the morning, he looked like a hollowed-out ghost. The audit room was a notorious slaughterhouse for Associates; a single misplaced decimal in the ledgers usually ended with an Enforcer putting a bullet in the back of the accountant's head. Arturo slumped at the kitchen table, his hands trembling as he gripped a cup of cheap espresso, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to the hell he had just survived.
Before he could even finish his coffee, a sharp, demanding knock rattled our front door.
It swung open to reveal Bette Hobbs. My aunt stepped into our dingy living room like she was gracing a landfill, her Botox-stiffened face contorted in a permanent sneer. She reeked of suffocating Chanel perfume, her oversized designer bag clutched tightly against her chest. She had timed this perfectly, hoping to catch my father at his weakest.
"Look at this place," Bette scoffed, not bothering to greet us. She turned her condescending glare to my mother. "I'm here to do you a favor, Annabel. Elzada Velasquez is still willing to take Isabella. I’ve smoothed things over. You will sign the betrothal papers today, and Isabella will conveniently miss the Selection Gala. It’s a glorious opportunity for a family of your... standing."
My mother stood perfectly still. A few days ago, she might have cowered. But knowing that Bette was trying to sell me to a violent drug addict just to eliminate competition for her own daughter, Bianca, had burned away the last of Annabel's timid obedience.
"If it’s such a glorious opportunity, Aunt Bette," I interjected smoothly from the hallway, "why don't you marry Bianca to him?"
Bette’s face flushed a mottled, ugly red. She whipped around to face my father. "Control your insolent brat, Arturo! You are nothing but a disposable Associate. You should be on your knees thanking me! With the way you look, you'll probably catch a bullet to the brain in the next audit anyway. This marriage is the only thing that will keep your pathetic family off the streets when you're dead!"
The air in the room turned to ice.
Annabel didn't cry. She didn't flinch. She stepped forward, her eyes blazing with a maternal ferocity that made even Bette take a step back.
"Get out," Annabel said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
"Excuse me?" Bette sputtered.
"I said get out of my house!" Annabel shouted, pointing a trembling finger at the door. "You come into my home, insult my husband who actually works for this syndicate, and try to feed my daughter to a monster? Your own son is a useless parasite who can't even earn his rank as a Soldier, yet you dare curse my husband's life? We are done with the Hobbs family. We don't need your toxic bloodline."
Bette’s jaw dropped in sheer outrage. Stripped of her false benevolence and humiliated by the illegitimate sister she despised, she let out a venomous shriek. "You will regret this, Annabel! You will all rot!"
She stormed out, her expensive heels clicking furiously down the hallway. My mother slammed the door shut, severing our ties to the Hobbs family forever.
Once the silence settled, I sat across from my father. "Dad, we have to act now," I urged quietly. "When I was at the estate, I saw Einar Romero. He’s dying. The Old Don is blind to it, but Underboss Damien is just waiting in the shadows. A war for the Don's seat is coming, and it’s going to be a bloodbath. We cannot let my name get anywhere near the top of that Selection list."
Arturo rubbed his exhausted face, the gravity of the impending mafia civil war settling over him. "You're right. If we get noticed, we become collateral." He stood up, a newfound determination in his weary eyes. "I know the lower clerks who process the Gala files. I'll use our escape fund. Fifty thousand dollars should be more than enough to bury your file in the reject pile."
For the next few days, we breathed a fragile sigh of relief. The bribe was paid. The clerks had assured my father that my name was pushed to the very bottom of the lowest tier. We were safe.
Until the morning the preliminary list was announced.
There was no standard rejection letter in our mailbox. Instead, a Romero Enforcer personally delivered a heavy, black cardstock envelope to our door. My father’s hands shook as he broke the wax seal.
I looked over his shoulder, my blood running completely cold.
My name wasn't buried at the bottom. It was printed at the very top of the Core VIP Candidate List, circled in dark crimson ink, stamped with the personal, undeniable crest of Underboss Damien Romero.
