The Dead Bride's Vicious Mafia Comeback

Seraphina POV

The water of Lake Michigan was a graveyard.

Even now, a year later, the biting chill of that stormy night lived in my marrow. I could still see the taillights of Isabella Moretti's signature red Alfa Romeo bleeding into the dark as she fled the private pier. I had arrived exactly two minutes too late. Two minutes to watch the freezing black water swallow my twin sister, Arabella.

Marco Stark, the man who had sworn to protect her, had traded her life for a political alliance with the Moretti family. They called it a tragic accident. They burned her body before I could even demand an autopsy. But I knew the truth. And in our world, blood could only be washed away by blood. Vendetta.

The clinking of crystal glasses pulled me back to the present.

The lavish ballroom of the Stark-owned hotel reeked of bootleg champagne, expensive Cuban cigars, and the arrogant stench of power. It was March, the height of the Prohibition era, and the wedding of Marco Stark and Isabella Moretti was the crown jewel of Chicago's underworld.

I stood in the shadows near the service doors, adjusting the veil of my white mourning gown. I was the ghost they hadn't invited.

"To the happy couple," the emcee announced, his voice echoing over the microphone. "If the bride and groom would please step forward to cut the cake."

The crowd erupted into applause. I caught the eye of a waiter across the room—Enzo 'The Ghost', my most loyal ally. He gave a barely perceptible nod.

Click.

The ballroom plunged into absolute darkness.

Screams erupted. The sound of chairs scraping and the metallic clatter of Tommy guns being cocked echoed through the cavernous room. Before the panic could fully take hold, a single, blinding spotlight snapped on, piercing the blackness and landing dead center on the dance floor.

On me.

I stood perfectly still, a vision in white silk, looking exactly like the woman they had buried a year ago.

Marco dropped his champagne flute. The crystal shattered against the marble floor, the sound sharp as a gunshot. All the blood drained from his face. Beside him, Isabella looked as though she had seen the devil himself, her manicured hands trembling violently.

At the head table, Silas Stark, the Don of the family, sat frozen. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.

I locked eyes with Marco, my voice slicing through the dead silence of the room, cold and steady. "Bound by omertà, sealed in blood. Until the earth claims us, and even after the maggots feast, I am yours."

They were the private vows Marco had whispered to Arabella on their wedding night. Words no one else could possibly know.

"Arabella?" Marco choked out, stumbling backward. "No... no, you're dead."

"A Stark never truly lets go of what belongs to him, Marco," I said, my voice echoing eerily. "Did you think a little water could wash away our vows?"

The ballroom erupted into chaos. Capos shouted orders, and guests scrambled toward the exits. But before Marco could utter another pathetic word, a shadow detached itself from the head table.

Damien Stark.

The Underboss. Marco's cousin, and the most lethal enforcer in Chicago.

He moved with the terrifying, fluid grace of a black panther. I didn't even have time to brace myself before he crossed the distance. His large, calloused hand clamped around my throat, lifting me off my feet and slamming me hard against the nearest pillar.

Pain exploded in my spine. I gasped, clawing at his iron grip.

"Who the fuck are you?" Damien snarled, his face inches from mine. His dark eyes were bottomless pits of violence.

"Ask Marco," I wheezed, forcing a mocking smile. "Or maybe ask about the shipment at the South Side docks... the one the O'Banions intercepted last Tuesday."

Damien's eyes narrowed. The grip on my windpipe tightened. Enzo had done his job well; those were Stark secrets no outsider should know.

"You're a dead woman," he whispered, his thumb pressing into my carotid artery.

I thrashed against him, and as I did, the sheer silk sleeve of my gown tore. The fabric slipped down my shoulder, exposing my inner arm to the harsh glare of the spotlight.

Damien's gaze dropped. He froze.

Right there, stark against my pale skin, was a red, leaf-shaped birthmark. And right beside it, a jagged, faded pink scar.

I felt the exact second the murderous intent in Damien's body shifted into something entirely different. His breathing hitched. The hand around my throat loosened just enough to let me drag in a ragged breath, his thumb suddenly tracing the edge of the pink scar with a terrifying, obsessive reverence.

He recognized it. I didn't know why, or from where, but the realization hit him like a physical blow.

"Damien, kill her!" Isabella shrieked from the stage. "Shoot her right now!"

Damien didn't even look at the bride. His eyes, burning with a dark, possessive fire, locked onto mine.

"You're coming with me," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Before I could scream, his fist came down hard against my temple. The opulent ballroom, the screaming guests, and Damien's intense stare all dissolved into a blinding flash of white, followed by absolute, heavy black.