Chapter 2 No.2

Seraphina POV

I woke up to the metallic taste of blood and a throbbing pain in my temple.

The blinding spotlight of the ballroom was gone, replaced by the sickly yellow glow of a single tungsten bulb. I was strapped to a heavy leather chair in a windowless concrete room. The air down here in the Stark Estate's basement was thick, reeking of expensive cigars, aged whiskey, and the faint, unmistakable copper scent of old blood.

Damien Stark lounged in the shadows across from me, watching me with the unblinking intensity of a predator.

"She's a fraud!" Isabella's shrill voice shattered the heavy silence. She was pacing near the heavy iron door, her wedding dress looking like a crumpled pastry. "Kill her, Damien! Shoot her right now!"

Marco stood beside her, pale and trembling, unable to even meet my eyes. But it was the man sitting at the head of the heavy wooden table who commanded the room's gravity. Silas Stark, the Don. He sat like an immovable mountain, his face carved from granite. Aunt Francesca and Lena Stark stood quietly in the periphery, observing the spectacle.

Damien ignored the bride. He leaned forward, the light catching the sharp, cruel angles of his jaw. "Who sent you?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in my chest.

"I am Arabella," I whispered, forcing my voice to tremble just enough to sound traumatized, yet defiant.

"Liar!" Isabella shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at me. "Check her!"

Damien didn't need to be told twice. He closed the distance between us in two long strides. His large hand gripped my upper arm, and with a violent jerk, he ripped the ruined silk sleeve completely off.

Isabella gasped, the words dying in her throat as the red, leaf-shaped birthmark was exposed under the harsh light.

I shifted my gaze from Damien to the Don. "Two years ago," I said, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. "The Gallo Charity Gala. Sofia Gallo was burning with jealousy over Marco's attention. She 'accidentally' spilled scalding coffee on my arm. Mrs. Gallo personally treated the burn in the powder room." I tilted my chin up. "Call them, Don Stark. Verify it. Unless you want tomorrow's Chicago Tribune to feature the Stark family's murdered bride."

Silas's jaw tightened. The threat landed exactly where I wanted it to. Involving a neutral family meant this couldn't be swept under the rug without risking a massive scandal.

Damien's thumb suddenly brushed against my skin. He wasn't looking at the birthmark. His pitch-black eyes were locked onto the jagged, faded pink scar right beside it. His touch was rough, yet strangely reverent, burning a trail of fire across my cold skin.

"And this?" Damien rasped, his voice dropping an octave. The murderous intent in his eyes had fractured, replaced by a dark, obsessive confusion.

I swallowed hard, playing my final, most lethal card. "The Stark family hunt, a year ago. Your sister, Eloise, was showing off her aim to Chiara Falcone. A ricochet caught my arm." I looked dead into Damien's eyes. "Chiara laughed and said, 'Stark bullets certainly know how to pick a beauty.' Ask Eloise. Or better yet, ask the Falcones in New York."

The room plunged into a suffocating silence.

I had just tied their hands with the one thing the Mafia feared more than the law: rival family witnesses. If I disappeared now, the Falcones would use it as leverage. Damien's hand slowly dropped from my arm. He knew he couldn't kill me.

Aunt Francesca stepped out of the shadows, her pragmatic eyes calculating the damage. "If we dispose of her, the Gallos and Falcones will eventually talk," she said coolly. "We need a narrative, Silas. She returns, traumatized, her memories fractured. We welcome her back. We control the story."

Isabella let out a strangled sob, but no one looked at her.

Silas Stark slowly stood up. The absolute authority of the Don radiated from him as he looked down at me. "Welcome home, Arabella," he declared, his voice devoid of any warmth. "The wedding is indefinitely postponed. You will reside here. Damien will oversee your... recovery."

I had won. I had wedged myself into the heart of the Stark family to pave the way for my vendetta. But as Damien pulled a switchblade from his pocket and sliced through my leather restraints, his dark eyes promised a different kind of hell.

"Get up," Damien ordered, his hand wrapping possessively around my uninjured arm, hauling me to my feet. "We're going upstairs to the library. The family council isn't over."