Chapter 5

Isabella POV

The secluded suite in the east wing of the Moretti estate smelled of old wood, lemon polish, and suffocating stillness. It was a gilded cage draped in heavy dust covers, but for tonight, it was a fortress.

I gently laid Angelo on the massive four-poster bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, his small hands still curled into tight fists from the day's terror.

The torn flesh on my palms throbbed with every heartbeat. In the dim light, I unwound the dirty rags I had wrapped around them in the quarry. The cuts were deep-some still oozing, the edges ragged from the sledgehammer's vibration. I crossed to the ensuite bathroom, turned on the faucet, and let the cold water run over my raw skin. The sting was blinding, but I didn't flinch. I found an old first-aid kit beneath the sink-antiseptic, gauze, surgical tape. With teeth and trembling fingers, I bandaged both hands as best I could, pulling the wrappings tight enough to stop the bleeding but loose enough to bend my fingers.

When I returned to the desk, the white gauze already showed faint pinpricks of red.

I took a piece of heavy, gold-embossed stationery. My fingers, stiff and swollen, struggled to grip the pen. The first few letters came out jagged, wavering from the pain. I paused, took a slow breath, and forced my hand to steady. This time, when I wrote, the strokes were sharp-not elegant, but brutally precise, each line a small act of will against the fire in my palms.

"Maria," I said softly.

She stepped out of the shadows, her eyes still wide from our confrontation at the gates. I handed her the paper. The movement made the gauze shift; a fresh spot of blood bloomed near my thumb. "I need you to procure these items through the family's underground channels. No paper trails. No questions."

Maria took the list, her brow furrowing as she read. Her breath hitched. "Miss Izzy... this... industrial-grade lye? Specific agricultural fertilizers? Gallons of medical ethanol and untraceable chemical reagents?" She looked up at me, her hands trembling. "This isn't medicine. This looks like... Dio mio (My God), what are you planning to build?"

She was looking at me as if I were a stranger. And I was. The naive girl she had served was dead, buried under the weight of a bloody future only I remembered.

"They're necessary," I said, my voice a flat, icy command that left no room for debate.

I turned my back on her, walking back to my son. The bandages left faint rust-colored smears on the doorframe as I passed. The invisible line had been drawn. Maria swallowed hard, clutching the paper to her chest, and bowed her head in silent, terrified obedience.

By noon the next day, we were in the back of an armored SUV, flanked by two Moretti sedans. The convoy was supposed to take us straight to a heavily guarded safe house by a lake in Wisconsin.

I flexed my fingers inside the gauze. They had stiffened overnight, but the bleeding had slowed. I could curl them into a fist-painful, but functional.

I stared out the tinted window at the gray blur of the highway. We were approaching the exit for Blackwater Creek.

In my past life, this desolate, forgotten rust-belt town was where Damien and Seraphina had stumbled upon their greatest weapon. Hidden in the decay was the "Ghost of Gary"-a former rival Consigliere everyone thought was dead. He held a black book, a ledger of sins that could blackmail a sitting U.S. Senator. That ledger had given Damien the political capital to crush the Falcone family and crown himself king of Chicago.

I wasn't going to let them have it this time.

I leaned forward -using the heel of my palm to press the button, because the gauze made my fingertips numb- and pressed the button for the driver's partition. "Take the next exit."

The driver, a hardened Moretti Capo, glanced in the rearview mirror. "Miss Isabella, the Don's orders were to head straight to the safe house."

"Take the exit," I repeated, my tone dropping.

Maria grabbed my arm, her face pale. Her fingers brushed against my bandaged hand; I sucked in a sharp breath before I could stop myself. "Isabella, please! Blackwater Creek is a graveyard. It's crawling with bottom-feeding Associates and junkies. It's no place for you, and certainly no place for Angelo!"

"I know exactly what it is," I replied, shaking off her hand. The movement sent a fresh throb up my wrist. I locked eyes with the Capo in the mirror. The air in the cabin grew heavy with the sudden, suffocating weight of my authority. "We stop here. Now."

The Capo's jaw tightened, but the absolute certainty in my voice broke his resistance. He flicked the turn signal.

The armored convoy veered off the pristine highway, descending the ramp toward a dying town. Boarded-up storefronts and crumbling brick factories loomed ahead like rotting teeth against the gray sky. Maria whimpered, pulling Angelo closer to her chest as we drove into the shadows.

I curled my bandaged hands into fists on my lap-the gauze pulling taut, a dull ache radiating up to my elbows. The pain was a reminder. I was not the woman who had left this estate. I was something harder.

I kept my eyes fixed on the rusted water tower in the distance. The board was set, and I was about to steal the enemy's queen.