Chapter 1 1

Isabella POV

The penthouse smelled of top-shelf whiskey, expensive cologne, and the faint, bitter ash of Cuban cigars. It was a modern, rebellious fortress suspended above the glittering Chicago Gold Coast, its stark black and gold lines a violent clash against the ancient, blood-soaked traditions of the Moretti family.

I sat perfectly still on the edge of a dark leather sofa, the heavy, pearl-encrusted silk of my wedding dress pooling around me like a suffocating shroud. I didn't belong here. I was supposed to be in the Heir's Wing, waiting for my new husband, Julian Moretti.

But I knew exactly why I was here.

In my past life, I had sat in this exact spot, trembling and confused, until the realization of my half-sister Sofia's betrayal shattered me. I had wept. I had begged. And eventually, I had died for it, discarded by Julian and poisoned by Sofia's ambition to become the Mafia Queen.

Not this time. The blood in my veins felt like ice. I wasn't a sacrificial lamb anymore; I was a ghost who had crawled back from hell to collect her dues.

The heavy front door clicked open. Heavy footsteps echoed in the foyer. Dante "The Ghost" Moretti, the exiled cousin and the family's designated disappointment, stumbled into the living room. He was shrugging off his tailored suit jacket when his boot caught on the silver bridal comb I had deliberately dropped on the rug.

*"Cazzo,"* (Fuck,) he muttered, his voice rough with alcohol and exhaustion.

He kicked the comb aside and finally looked up. He froze. The drunken haze in his dark, hollow eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp, predatory shock. He stared at my veil, at the diamonds at my throat, and then at my face.

I didn't give him a chance to speak.

"So, this is the gutter the Moretti family has assigned me?" I asked, my voice slicing through the silence like a razor.

Dante blinked, his gaze darting to the abstract painting on his wall, then back to me. "Unless Julian suddenly developed a taste for modern art and cheap whores, you're in the wrong bed, *Sposa* (Bride)."

Before he could demand an explanation, the frantic clatter of heels echoed from the hallway. Gina, my stepmother's loyal maid, burst into the penthouse. Her chest heaved with exaggerated breaths, but I didn't miss the gleam of triumph in her eyes.

"Oh my God! Miss Isabella!" Gina shrieked, her hands flying to her cheeks. "Miss Sofia... she was sent to Mr. Julian's suite! What if... what if they're already..."

She let the sentence hang, a poisonous suggestion meant to force my surrender. Her feet remained firmly planted by the door. She was stalling, giving Julian and Sofia enough time to make their treason a *fait accompli*.

Dante tensed, the reality of the insult hitting him. A switched bride. A public humiliation that could ignite a Family War. He looked at me, expecting tears, hysteria, or perhaps a desperate plea.

I gave him nothing.

I stood up. The rustle of my heavy silk gown sounded like unsheathing swords in the quiet room. I ignored Gina entirely, walking past her pathetic performance with measured, deliberate steps. I stopped at Dante's mahogany desk. My fingers brushed past a crystal decanter and wrapped around the cold, heavy handle of a brass letter opener.

The blade caught the dim light, gleaming with a lethal promise.

Dante watched me, his jaw tightening. He recognized the look in my eyes. It was the pure, unadulterated intent to kill-something he had likely seen in the eyes of seasoned Soldiers, but never in a twenty-year-old bride.

"They want to make this a fact?" I said, my tone dead and hollow. "I'll make it a funeral."

I turned my back on them, gripping the brass weapon, and walked out the door toward the Heir's Wing. Behind me, I heard the sharp clink of Dante tossing his whiskey glass onto the table, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots falling into step behind me.