Isabell POV
The silence that followed my declaration was heavy, pressing against my eardrums like the pressure before a storm. My father, Jerrold, stared at me, his cigar forgotten in his hand, ash dropping onto the floorboards. He was looking for the crack in my mask, the tremble of fear that should have been there.
I gave him none. I stood with my hands clasped, head bowed just enough to suggest submission, but my spine was steel.
"No!" The cry came from the corner of the room. Maria, our old housekeeper, scrambled forward, her arthritic hands grasping at my arm. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, wet with tears. "No, *bambina* (child). You cannot. You do not know what you say."
She turned to my father, her voice rising in hysteria. "Signore, please! You cannot send her to the Griffith estate. They say the Don... they say he has ice in his veins. He will break her like a twig!"
"Silence, woman!" Father barked, though his eyes never left me.
Maria ignored him, clutching my fingers tightly. "Isabell, listen to me. The stories... the women who go into that house, they become ghosts. He is a monster."
I looked down at Maria. I loved her; she was the only mother figure I had ever known in this cold, loveless house. But love was a luxury, and right now, it was an obstacle.
"It is my duty, Maria," I said softly, pulling my hand from her grip. I infused my voice with a tremor of staged bravery, the kind that men like my father mistook for resignation. "Someone must pay the price for our family's safety. If Emmalee cannot..." I let my gaze drift to my half-sister, who was still huddled on the floor, wiping her eyes. "Then I must."
Emmalee looked up at me, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of guilt and overwhelming relief. She truly believed I was walking to the gallows for her.
"Isabell..." she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You would do that for me?"
*For you?* I wanted to laugh. *I am doing this to escape becoming you.*
Father grunted, finally tossing his cigar into the fireplace. "The girl has a point. She's tougher than you, Emmalee. Less likely to embarrass us with tears." He walked over to me, his heavy hand landing on my shoulder. It wasn't a gesture of affection; it was the appraisal of a merchant checking the quality of his goods. "You are a bastard, Isabell. You have no claim to the Talley name, not really. But if you do this... if you secure this alliance... you will earn your keep."
"I understand, Father," I replied, keeping my eyes lowered.
"Good." He turned away, dismissing me as if the transaction was already complete. "Go pack. I will call the Griffith *Consigliere* in the morning. We will tell them Emmalee has fallen ill—a hysteria of the womb—and that we are sending our other daughter. A stronger stock."
As Father marched out of the room to pour himself a drink, Emmalee scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around me. She smelled of vanilla and naivety.
"Thank you," she sobbed into my shoulder. "Oh, Isabell, thank you! You saved my life. Now I can be with Coleton. We’ll be so happy. He’s going to make partner soon, and we’ll have a little house, and—"
I patted her back mechanically, my eyes staring over her shoulder at the peeling wallpaper.
She was a fool. A beautiful, blind fool.
Emmalee thought Coleton Joseph was her savior. She saw a handsome young lawyer with a charming smile. I saw the truth she was too sheltered to notice.
I knew about the Joseph family. I knew that Coleton’s father hadn’t died of a heart attack as they claimed; he had been executed in a basement in New Jersey for being a *Rat*. In our world, the sin of the father stains the son forever. Coleton was marked. He would never be a partner. He would never be trusted. He was a pariah scraping by on the crumbs the *Made Men* dropped, tolerated only because he was useful for filing paperwork.
And his mother... *Dio*, that woman was a viper who would strip Emmalee of every cent of her dowry before the honeymoon was over.
Emmalee wasn't running toward freedom. She was running toward a life of mediocrity, social exile, and the slow, suffocating death of a housewife married to a coward. She was trading a golden cage for a cardboard box.
"I'm happy for you, Emmalee," I lied, my voice smooth. "Go to him. Be happy."
She pulled back, beaming at me through her tears. "I will. And don't worry, Isabell. Maybe... maybe the Don isn't as bad as they say."
"Maybe," I said.
She hurried out of the room to call her lover, her footsteps light and eager.
I stood alone in the center of the living room. Maria was still weeping in the corner, crossing herself and muttering prayers for my soul.
Let her pray. I didn't need God. I needed power.
I walked to the window and looked out at the dark street. Somewhere out there, in the heart of the city, Damian Griffith was waiting. They called him a monster. They said he had no heart.
Good.
A heart was a liability. Emmalee had one, and it was leading her straight into a trap. I placed my hand against the cold glass, watching my reflection. I didn't see a victim. I saw a woman who had just negotiated her way out of hell.
I wasn't going to be the sacrificial lamb. I was going to be the one holding the knife.
