From the window of my private study, I watched as three black armored trucks, flanked by a dozen heavily armed *Soldiers*, rolled up the sweeping driveway of the Rowland Estate. They weren't just delivering a bride price; they were making a statement. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars in cold, hard cash, paraded through the streets of Chicago for all to see.

"The entire city is talking about the mobster's bride price, Miss Rowland," Mrs. Eleanor Reid said, her voice a calm anchor in the quiet, walnut-paneled room. The scent of old books, leather, and faint whiskey grounded me, a stark contrast to the flashy greed of the family I was trapped with.

I turned away from the window. "And my family's reaction?"

Mrs. Reid stepped forward, her posture impeccable. "My eyes inside the Rowland house reported back an hour ago. Your stepmother was furious with jealousy over the sum, but Clara pacified her." Mrs. Reid paused, her eyes darkening with a rare flash of disgust. "Clara told her, 'She's not a wife, Mother. She's *collateral*. A shield-a *scudo*-to absorb the Mendozas' fury after Damien publicly humiliated their precious Bianca. She'll be dead within a year.'"

The words hung in the air, toxic and revealing. *Collateral.* A *scudo*.

I sank into the heavy mahogany chair behind my desk. My family didn't just want to bleed me dry; they were actively counting down the days until my murder, gleefully anticipating my demise. But Clara's venomous logic also planted a cold seed of doubt in my chest. Damien's ostentatious display today-was it a declaration of my worth to establish my authority, or was he simply painting a brighter target on my back to draw the Mendozas' fire? Bianca Mendoza. The name tasted like ash. I was navigating a minefield, and my own fiancé might be the one laying the explosives.

"They are here," Mrs. Reid murmured, glancing toward the hallway.

Right on cue. The scent of blood in the water had drawn the vultures.

I left the sanctuary of my study and walked down the hall to my private parlor. The heavy bulletproof glass windows framed the manicured gardens, a serene backdrop to the three men pacing the Persian rug. Sean, Liam, and Connor. My brothers.

They stopped as I entered, their eyes gleaming with a ravenous, entitled hunger.

"You've made quite the spectacle, Isabella," Sean, the eldest, snapped, not bothering with a greeting. He stepped forward, trying to use his physical bulk to intimidate me, just as he always had. "That money is for the family. A payment for the risk we're taking by associating with these people. You will sign it over to the company immediately."

Liam scoffed, crossing his arms. "Don't think playing mafia dress-up changes anything. You owe us."

I didn't flinch. I didn't shrink back. Instead, I walked right past them, the silk of my dress whispering against the floor, and took my seat at the head of the room.

I looked at them, really looked at them. They were so blinded by greed they couldn't see the trap snapping shut around their ankles. They thought they could storm into my parlor and demand tribute from a Don's future wife.

"Eleanor," I said, my voice perfectly level, echoing in the sudden silence of the parlor. "Bring the ledgers."

Sean frowned, his arrogant mask slipping for a fraction of a second. "What ledgers? What are you talking about?"

Mrs. Reid stepped out from the shadows of the corridor, her arms burdened with several thick, leather-bound books. She placed them on the table between us with a heavy thud.

I leaned back in my chair, holding Sean's furious gaze. "My mother's trust fund ledgers," I clarified, my words sharp and precise. "The ones detailing every dollar you've embezzled for the last five years. We're going to have an accounting."

Liam's face drained of color. Connor stiffened, his eyes darting to the books.

Debts from two lifetimes. It was time to collect, one by one.

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