Chapter 9 9

Isabella POV

"We can go to a small town in Ohio," I pleaded, my voice trembling with perfectly calibrated desperation. "Far away from Chicago. We can hide from him, Hudson. Please."

Hudson's face contorted in sheer, unadulterated horror. He gripped my arms so tightly his fingernails bit into my flesh. "Are you insane?" he hissed, his eyes darting toward the heavy bedroom door as if the Don's enforcers were already lurking in the hallway. "Defy a *Don's Command*? The Falcone family would hunt us down like dogs! There is no hiding from them, Isabella. They would kill us. They would kill Josie, your mother-everyone!"

He shook me slightly, his chest heaving as he wrapped his cowardice in the noble shroud of sacrifice. "I am doing this to protect us! It is for the survival of this family!"

I stared into his bloodshot eyes, letting his words wash over me. He was a phenomenal actor, but I knew the script. In my past life, I had eventually learned the devastating truth: Don Damien Falcone had offered Hudson a clear choice. His wife, or his life. Hudson hadn't hesitated to trade my body for his breathing rights and a promotion. He wasn't a victim of the Mafia's absolute power; he was a willing merchant.

The microscopic sliver of hope I hadn't even realized I was holding onto-the hope that maybe, just maybe, the man I had married possessed a shred of decency-shattered into dust. My heart turned to absolute ice. He was no longer my husband. He was the first name on my *Vendetta* list.

I let my shoulders sag, draining the fake desperation from my eyes until they were tragically hollow. I looked down at the floor.

"I understand, Hudson," I whispered, my voice deadened and defeated. "For Josie... I will do it."

The transformation was sickening.

His fabricated tears dried instantly. The heavy, tragic slump of his shoulders vanished, replaced by a breathless, greedy relief that he couldn't quite mask. He let go of my arms, exhaling a long, shaky breath.

"You're making the right choice, Isabella," he said, his tone shifting from a grieving husband to a pragmatic manager. "Remember, this is for Josie." He leaned in, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "Tonight. A black car will be waiting in the back alley behind the townhouse. Take nothing with you. Just get in."

I gave him a single, numb nod. He turned away, already lost in the arrogant ecstasy of his impending rise within the Falcone ranks, completely oblivious to the monster he had just awakened in his own bedroom.

Hours later, the suffocating tension of the townhouse drove me into my private bathroom. I locked the heavy oak door behind me. The white marble floor was freezing beneath my bare feet, a stark contrast to the warm, thick steam billowing from the clawfoot tub the maid had drawn for me.

I walked over to my vanity and opened the bottom drawer, pulling out a small, unassuming glass vial. Gardenia essential oil.

I unscrewed the cap and let three heavy drops fall into the scalding water. The sweet, cloying, and almost fatal scent instantly bloomed in the humid air. It was the signature scent of Adela-the ghost who haunted the Don's cold heart, his dead first love. In my past life, I hadn't known why Damien Falcone looked at me with such violent, obsessive hunger until it was far too late. Now, I knew I was her exact replica. And this scent would be the first bullet in my gun.

I slipped out of my clothes and stood naked before the brass-rimmed mirror. I traced the reflection of my twenty-one-year-old body. Flawless, youthful, and entirely unaware of the brutal end it had met in my previous life. I remembered the freezing cold, the suffocating despair, and the way I had died at twenty-four, broken by the Falcone family's cruelty and the vicious rumors that had painted me as a willing whore.

Never again.

I stepped into the hot water, letting the gardenia scent seep into my pores, baptizing myself in the very obsession that was meant to destroy me. I wasn't walking into a cage tonight; I was walking onto a battlefield. They wanted a fragile, tragic pawn to manipulate. I would give them a queen forged in hellfire.

When I finally stepped out of the tub, my skin was flushed and radiating the intoxicating scent of the Don's dead lover. I slipped into a fresh white silk robe, tying it loosely at my waist. It was time to face the coward waiting on the other side of the door, and I knew exactly how to shatter the last pathetic remnants of his pride before the black Cadillac arrived.