His Obsession, My Revenge: A Mafia Second Life

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.

Isabella POV

I forced a violent shiver to wrack my body, letting out a pathetic, broken sob. "I... I don't remember anything, *Signora*(Madam)," I stammered, keeping my eyes glued to the intricate floral patterns of the Persian rug. "Only the wine you gave me. I swear it."

From the corner of the room, Caterina scoffed. "*Bugiarda*(Liar)," she hissed, stepping forward to deliver a sharp kick to my thigh. "*Puttana*(Whore). You planned this. You wanted to spread your legs for the Don."

Bianca raised a perfectly manicured hand, silencing the maid with a lazy flick of her wrist. "Enough, Caterina. The girl was intoxicated. We must show mercy, as God commands."

She sighed, adjusting the collar of her scarlet silk robe. "My husband... Damien is a demanding man. His appetites are dark, and his touch is far too rough for a woman of my delicate constitution." Bianca paused, her tone dripping with false piety. "Furthermore, my spiritual advisor has instructed me to undergo a strict period of fasting and prayer. I cannot fulfill my marital duties while purifying my soul."

I kept my head bowed, my wet hair clinging to my cheeks. *There it is,* I thought, the icy calm in my chest hardening into a diamond. *The surrogate plan.* She needed an incubator, a disposable womb to bear the Moretti heir so she could keep her pristine body untouched and her secrets buried. In my past life, I hadn't understood until it was too late.

"The Don's needs must be met," Mrs. Russo interjected, her voice like grinding stones. "And you, dirty little rat, owe this family your life for the disgrace you've caused."

Bianca smiled sweetly, leaning back against the velvet cushions. "I am giving you a chance to atone, Isabella. You will take my place in his bed."

I needed them to believe I was exactly what they saw: a naive, easily manipulated servant. I widened my eyes, looking up at Bianca with a carefully crafted mix of awe and foolish greed. "You mean... you want me to be the Don's *amante*(mistress)?"

The question had the exact effect I desired.

Mrs. Russo lunged forward, her thick fingers clamping around my jaw like a vice. Her nails dug into my cheeks, forcing my head up. "You are no mistress!" she spat, her breath smelling of bitter coffee. "You are nothing. You will have no name, no face, no voice. You will go to him only in the pitch black, and you will leave before the sun rises. You are a shadow. If he ever discovers who you are, I will personally skin you alive and feed you to the dogs. *Capisci*(Do you understand)?"

Over Mrs. Russo's shoulder, I saw Bianca's satisfied smirk. My "stupidity" had reassured her. A greedy, simple-minded girl was the easiest tool to control.

"Yes," I choked out, letting a fresh tear spill over Mrs. Russo's knuckles. "Yes, I understand. Thank you, *Signora*. I will do whatever you ask."

Bianca nodded, a triumphant glint in her dark eyes. The devil's bargain was sealed. They thought they had chained a lamb, completely unaware they had just invited a wolf into the Don's bed.

Before Bianca could issue her next command, three heavy, rhythmic knocks echoed through the thick oak door.

The suffocatingly sweet scent of Chanel No. 5 seemed to curdle in the air.

"*Signora*," a gruff, masculine voice called from the hallway-one of Damien's loyal *Soldiers*. "The Don has returned. He is on his way up to see you."

The triumphant smirk vanished from Bianca's face, replaced instantly by stark, unfiltered panic. The air in the room turned to ice.

Isabella POV

The heavy, rhythmic knocks echoed again. The triumphant smirk vanished from Bianca's face, replaced instantly by stark, unfiltered panic.

She shot a frantic, wide-eyed look at Mrs. Russo. The housekeeper didn't hesitate. Her meaty hands clamped onto my arms with bruising force, dragging me toward the massive, Rococo-painted silk screen in the corner of the room. She shoved me roughly into the cold, narrow shadows behind it.

"Sta zitta, o ti taglio la lingua"(Shut up, or I'll cut out your tongue), Mrs. Russo hissed in harsh, guttural Sicilian, her foul breath washing over my face.

I curled into a tight ball against the freezing wall, pressing my hands over my mouth just as the heavy oak door swung open.

Damien Moretti stepped into the cloying, Chanel-scented room. Even from my hidden vantage point, peering through a tiny slit in the silk hinges, his sheer presence sucked the oxygen from the air. He was a predator wrapped in a bespoke charcoal suit, radiating a dark, lethal authority that made the delicate French furniture seem absurdly fragile.

His dark eyes swept over Bianca. "You look exhausted," his deep, gravelly voice rumbled.

Bianca immediately lowered her gaze, her posture softening into that of a fragile, overwhelmed bride. "I... did not sleep well last night."

A dark, almost imperceptible smirk touched Damien's lips. It was the look of a satisfied predator. "Was I too rough? Are you sore?"

Behind the screen, my blood turned to ice. The memory of his heavy body, his ruthless hands pinning me down in the pitch black, flashed through my mind. He thought he was talking to his wife. He thought the whimpers he had wrung from me belonged to the pristine woman standing before him. The humiliation burned my throat like acid.

"A little," Bianca lied smoothly, her voice a breathless whisper. "I need my maid to apply some ointment. I fear I cannot accompany you to see Nonna Elena today. Please give the Elder my deepest apologies."

Damien accepted the lie easily, his ego stroked by her supposed fragility. "Rest, Bianca. I will see my grandmother alone."

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the temperature in the room plummeted. Bianca's delicate facade vanished, replaced by a sneer of pure, aristocratic disdain. She elegantly picked up her porcelain coffee cup, taking a slow sip before turning her icy blue eyes toward the screen.

"Come out," she commanded.

I crept out from the shadows, keeping my head bowed, playing the part of the terrified prey.

"Your mother," Bianca began, her voice a lethal purr that struck straight at my only weakness. "I hear her condition at St. Mary's Hospital is worsening. The doctors there are adequate, but the best surgeons... they only serve people like us."

It was a blatant threat wrapped in a promise. A leash snapping securely around my neck. I forced my eyes to widen in terror, letting a fresh tear slip down my cheek.

Mrs. Russo stepped forward, looming over me. "The Signora is merciful. She is giving you a chance to save your miserable mother. From tonight on, you will take her place and fulfill the wifely duties. You have no name. No identity. You are a shadow in the dark. Capisci"(Do you understand)?

I looked at the two women. They thought they held all the cards. They thought my mother's illness made me a weak, desperate pawn, easily controlled by fear and scraps of mercy. They had no idea I remembered my past life, and I knew exactly how this deadly game was played.

I dropped to my knees, bowing my head in perfect, pathetic submission. "Yes. Thank you, Signora. I will do whatever you ask."

I let a beat of silence pass, making my shoulders tremble just enough to sell the performance. Then, I slowly raised my tear-streaked face, looking up at Bianca with the most humble, desperate expression I could muster.

"Signora," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I have only one small request..."