Chapter 6 6

Isabella POV

The heavy silence in the hall was broken only by Angelo's wet, ragged breathing as he spat blood onto the marble floor.

Nonna Caterina did not even glance at her ruined grandson. Her sharp eyes locked onto my grandmother, desperation bleeding through her iron facade. She believed the old Sicilian prophecy-that De Luca blood would cement the Moretti reign. She couldn't let me walk away.

"The alliance stands," Nonna Caterina declared, her voice trembling with forced authority. She gestured toward a towering, battle-scarred man standing near the wall. "Vittorio Moretti. A decorated Caporegime. He is loyal, strong, and a far more suitable husband for a De Luca princess."

I looked at Vittorio. Another brute. Another cage. They still thought I was a prize to be passed around.

"I decline," I said, my voice slicing through the room like a scalpel.

Before the outrage could erupt, I turned my gaze to the massive oil portrait hanging above the fireplace. The Ghost of Chicago.

"I will not marry Vittorio," I announced, projecting my voice so every Soldier and Capo could hear. "I choose the man who truly embodies the honor of this family. I will marry Damien Moretti. I will remain his, until death reunites us."

A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. Marrying a dead man. Becoming an untouchable, revered widow. It was unheard of, a scandalous sacrifice.

Nonna Sofia's grip on her cane tightened, her eyes flashing with immediate disapproval. I stepped close to her, leaning in so only she could hear.

"Nonna, un debito di sangue(a blood debt)," I whispered rapidly in our native Sicilian dialect. "His name makes me untouchable. And for this 'sacrifice,' the Morettis will owe us a debt they can never repay. We take the entire South Side. I am not a martyr. I am an investment."

Understanding dawned in my grandmother's eyes, sharp and predatory. She instantly masked it with profound sorrow, dabbing her dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. "My brave, tragic girl," she proclaimed loudly. "If this is the path your broken heart chooses, the De Luca family will honor it."

Nonna Caterina sagged with overwhelming relief and guilt. The impossible bargain was struck.

Thinking the storm had passed, Angelo weakly raised his head. "Then... I can marry Vivi?"

Nonna Caterina's face twisted with absolute disgust. "You are a disonore(dishonor) to this bloodline."

Donatello didn't hesitate. He signaled his Enforcers. "Take him to Damien's casket. Thirty lashes." As Angelo was dragged away screaming, Nonna Caterina turned her cold eyes to Genevieve. "The Russo girl is no longer under our protection. Do with her what you will."

I caught Bianca's eye. My loyal guard nodded, hauling the sobbing Genevieve up by her hair and dragging her out the side doors.

Needing to escape the suffocating stench of the hall, I excused myself. The crisp winter air of the courtyard was a relief, but it was short-lived.

Walking briskly down a secluded stone path was a man carrying a black medical bag. Dr. Valachi. The butcher of Falcone. The man who had sliced my face open.

My blood turned to ice, then boiled. What was a Falcone dog doing deep inside the Moretti estate?

I dismissed the maid escorting me, claiming I needed a moment to pray. As soon as she was gone, I slipped into the shadows, following the doctor's hurried footsteps.

He led me to the East Wing-Damien's former quarters. It was supposed to be a sealed mausoleum, strictly off-limits. I lost sight of Valachi as he turned a corner, but the heavy thud of approaching Soldiers' boots forced me to act.

I grabbed the nearest brass handle, shoved the heavy oak door open, and slipped inside, pressing my back against the wood as the patrol passed.

I let out a shaky breath and opened my eyes.

It was a private study. But it wasn't a tomb. The air was thick with the scent of old leather, a freshly poured glass of amber whiskey, and the distinct, lingering smoke of a Cuban cigar.

My heart stopped.

Behind the massive mahogany desk, half-swallowed by the shadows, sat a man. He leaned forward, the dim light catching the sharp, ruthless angles of his face and the silver griffin pin on his lapel.

Damien Moretti.

He wasn't a ghost. He was flesh, blood, and lethal power. His cold, gray eyes locked onto mine, pinning me in place like a butterfly on a board.

He took a slow drag from his cigar, the ember glowing like a demon's eye in the dark.

"Tell me, Miss De Luca," his deep, gravelly voice vibrated through the floorboards, "why do you want to marry a dead man?"