Chapter 3 3

Isabella POV

The silence in the study was absolute, thick enough to choke on. Julian's arm remained locked around Sofia's waist, a blatant declaration of war against his own blood. Don Antonio's knuckles turned white around the armrests of his leather chair, but before the Don could unleash his wrath, Sofia made her move.

She buried her face against Julian's chest, then peeked out at me from beneath her lashes. Her doe eyes swam with perfectly timed tears, playing the tragic heroine to perfection.

"Sister," she whispered, her voice trembling with a sickening mix of triumph and fake pity. "I... I am so sorry it had to be this way."

The word *sister* hissed through the air like venom. Julian shot me a dark, warning glare, silently commanding me to accept my humiliation and bow to his choice.

Instead, I smoothed the silk of my gown and closed the distance between us. My footsteps were measured, calm. When I reached them, I didn't hesitate. I raised my hand and struck Sofia across the face with every ounce of strength I possessed.

The sharp *crack* echoed off the mahogany walls like a gunshot.

Sofia shrieked, her knees buckling as she collapsed against Julian's chest. A bright red handprint bloomed instantly on her pale cheek.

"Don't you dare call me sister," I said, my voice dropping to a lethal, ice-cold whisper. "You are nothing."

Julian's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with a murderous fury. He shoved Sofia behind him, shielding her like a feral beast protecting its mate.

"Enough!" he snarled, his voice vibrating with rage. "You have no right. A Moretti wife should have dignity, not the manners of a street brawler."

*A street brawler.*

The sheer hypocrisy of his words tasted like ash on my tongue. In my past life, I had been the perfect, dignified wife. For decades, I had swallowed his insults, turned a blind eye to his infidelities, and ultimately died for my blind obedience. He wanted a silent martyr. He wanted the broken girl who would quietly accept his scraps while he paraded his *puttana* (whore) in front of the world.

The cold, suffocating hatred of a stolen lifetime surged through my veins, drowning out any lingering fear. I rubbed my stinging palm, my eyes locking onto his.

Then, I took another step forward.

Before he could even register the movement, I swung my arm and backhanded the Underboss of the Moretti family.

The sound was deafening. It was a blow meant to shatter his untouchable ego. Julian stumbled back half a step, his jaw slack with absolute shock. The future Don, publicly struck by his unwanted bride.

Elvina let out a sharp gasp, her hand flying to her throat in horror. Don Antonio remained frozen in his chair, his eyes darkening to pitch black. Yet, neither of them uttered a single word to stop me. They couldn't. Julian had broken the *regola* (rule) first; he had publicly spat on our families' *onore* (honor). Punishing me meant acknowledging his unforgivable failure.

Through the suffocating tension, my gaze flicked to the shadows by the towering bookshelves. Dante was still leaning there, but the bored, drunken indifference was entirely gone. A slow, dark smirk curved his lips, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous, predatory approval.

The ringing silence stretched across the room, heavy with the weight of a shattered alliance, waiting for the true master of the house to pass judgment.