Chapter 1

Isabella POV

The memory of death was a suffocating weight. I gasped, my lungs burning as if the wet, heavy mattress from my past life was still pressed ruthlessly over my face. But instead of the damp, rotting stench of that remote warehouse, my senses were violently assaulted by the sharp scent of expensive whiskey, Cuban cigars, and raw, masculine musk.

I blinked against the dimness. Heavy crimson velvet curtains blocked the morning sun, sealing the room in shadows. Beneath me were the tangled black silk sheets of Damien Moretti's bed. My skin still burned from his ruthless, claiming touch in the dark-a touch meant for his new bride, Bianca Falcone.

Before I could fully process the impossible reality of my rebirth, the heavy oak door swung open.

"Wake up, you filthy rat," a harsh voice hissed.

An ice-cold, wet towel slapped across my face. I flinched, looking up into the sneering face of Caterina, the Falcone maid. Behind her stood Mrs. Russo, Bianca's loyal, iron-faced housekeeper.

"Look at her," Caterina spat in rapid Sicilian, her eyes raking over my bare shoulders. "*Puttana*(Whore). *Sangue sporco*(Dirty blood). How dare you soil the Don's bed?"

She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my flesh, and violently yanked me off the mattress. My bare knees hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud. In my past life, I had wept and begged, terrified of the misunderstanding. Now, the memory of my mother dying in poverty because of their flawless scheme froze my tears. I let them drag me, my eyes dead and calculating.

They hauled me down to the servants' washroom in the basement. The air was thick with the sting of bleach and mildew, the single bulb overhead casting a sickly, pale light. Caterina shoved me onto the cracked, yellowing tiles.

Her eyes darted to the dark bruises and bite marks blooming across my pale collarbones-Damien's territorial brands. Pure jealousy twisted her features. She hoisted a wooden bucket of scalding hot water and dumped it directly over my head.

I bit my lip until I tasted copper to swallow a scream. The heat blistered my skin, but Caterina didn't stop. She took a coarse bristle brush and cheap lye soap, scrubbing my flesh with brutal force, trying to erase the Don's touch. The physical agony and the suffocating steam mirrored the despair of my previous death. Yet, this cruel baptism washed away the naive, terrified girl I once was. Lying on the freezing floor, shivering and raw, only one word echoed in my mind: *Vendetta*(Revenge).

Dressed in a scratchy, oversized servant's dress, I was marched upstairs to Bianca Falcone's private sitting room. The air here was suffocatingly sweet, thick with burning sandalwood and her signature Chanel No. 5-a nauseating contrast to the blood and bleach of my morning.

Bianca lounged on a velvet sofa in a scarlet silk robe, her crimson-painted nails tapping against a gold-rimmed teacup. She looked every inch the untouchable Mafia Princess, a pristine angel who had just orchestrated the perfect devil's bargain.

"This is a disgrace," Mrs. Russo barked, playing her part perfectly. "She has ruined the Falcone honor. We should sell her to a brothel in Havana. Or better yet, make her disappear. *Omertà*(Code of silence) demands it."

I dropped to my knees on the plush Persian rug, forcing my shoulders to tremble. I knew this script. I had died for this script.

Bianca sighed, a delicate, theatrical sound. "No, Mrs. Russo. She is young and foolish. The wine my mother sent was too strong. Perhaps... she simply lost her way."

She leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming with malicious triumph, ready to offer me the gilded cage she had built. I kept my head bowed, letting my damp hair hide the icy, murderous calm in my eyes.