The heavy oak doors of the parlor closed, sealing my fate-or so they thought. I retreated to my bedroom on the second floor of the Rowland Estate. It was a sprawling, gilded cage overlooking the manicured, lifeless gardens. There was nothing of mine in this room that felt truly mine anymore; the French antique furniture and heavy silk drapes felt alien and suffocating.

Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the memory of my past life bled into the present. I remembered Catherine meticulously preparing my "dowry" for my marriage to Harrison: twenty heavy mahogany trunks. It wasn't until much later I discovered that at least half of them were stuffed with old newspapers and bricks. She had saved face for Washington society while hoarding the real wealth for herself, and my father, Arthur, had watched in silent, complicit approval. The overlap of the two lifetimes extinguished any lingering flicker of mercy I held for them. They weren't family; they were a rot that needed to be excised.

A frantic knock broke my reverie. Sofia, my loyal maid, slipped into the room, her face pale and her hands wringing her apron.

"Ma'am," she breathed, her voice trembling. "The staff... the whole house is talking." She hesitated, then spilled the poison Connor had so carefully planted. Last night, Damien Franco had been at *The Green Mill* jazz club. He had dropped ten thousand dollars on a brand-new Duesenberg for his mistress, a singer named Carmela.

Sofia expected tears or outrage. She thought this was the ultimate humiliation for a new fiancée. But I only felt a cold, terrifying clarity. Connor had conveniently let this slip to Liam, knowing Liam's temper would ensure the rumor reached me. Connor was a master of psychological warfare, testing my breaking point.

But the name *Carmela* struck a entirely different chord in my memory. In my previous life, my eldest brother Sean had been beaten to death in the alley behind *The Green Mill*, fighting over that exact woman. A pawn, a symbol, a catalyst for tragedy. I wouldn't let history repeat itself blindly.

After dismissing a bewildered Sofia, I sat at my vanity, staring at my reflection. My brothers were vultures circling a carcass. Sean, the cold pragmatist, didn't care about my humiliation as long as the Franco alliance held. Liam, the hypocrite, reveled in it because it validated his disdain for the mafia. And Connor... Connor had actively handed them the knife. The blood tie was dead.

The next morning, the true depth of their betrayal arrived in the form of Mrs. Eleanor Reid. My mother's most trusted confidante and my financial advisor laid the ledgers on my bed.

"They've rigged the real estate division, Isabella," she said, her voice tight with suppressed rage. She pointed to the bottom of the list. "They transferred two dilapidated warehouses in the West Loop to your name. They are burdened with exorbitant back taxes and tied to undocumented gang debts. It's a financial trap designed to bankrupt you within months."

I traced the ink on the page. A trap to them, perhaps. But in the heart of Chicago, on what would soon be my husband's territory, toxic assets tied to the underworld weren't just liabilities. They were leverage.

"We must contact your mother's family in Boston," Mrs. Reid pleaded, touching my hand gently. "They have the wealth and power to offer you sanctuary. You cannot survive this alone."

I pulled my hand away. "No, Eleanor. We won't contact them."

I couldn't tell her the truth. I didn't deserve their sanctuary. In my past life, desperate to secure Harrison Davies's political career, I had anonymously leaked shipping intel that bankrupted my maternal grandfather's fleet. I had destroyed the only people who truly loved me to please a family that ultimately threw me to the wolves.

In this life, that betrayal hadn't happened yet. To them, I was still their beloved granddaughter. But the phantom blood on my hands made the thought of facing them unbearable. More importantly, fleeing to Boston now would only drag innocent people into a mafia war. Damien Franco wouldn't let his engaged "property" walk away; he would slaughter my grandfather's legitimate enterprise just to make a point.

I had ruined them once for the Rowlands. I refused to be the architect of their destruction a second time.

I was entirely alone in a world ruled by violent men. If I wanted to survive, if I wanted to tear the Rowlands down to their foundations, I couldn't rely on a husband who flaunted his whore, or a family that robbed me. I had to become my own Don.

I looked back out at the impassive garden. The naive girl who craved her father's approval had died in the wreckage of my past life. The woman standing here now would burn this estate to the ground before letting them win.

Chapter 4 4

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