She Died Once: Now The Mafia Kneels

Isabella POV

The memory of my death tasted like copper and expensive champagne.

Even now, I could feel the phantom chill of the stiletto blade sliding smoothly between my ribs, piercing my heart. But more vividly, I remembered the look in Dante Falcone's eyes-a sickening blend of shock and agony-as I drove my mother-of-pearl hairpin deep into his throat. We had bled out together on the Persian rug of that Art Deco suite at The Drake Hotel, two reigning monarchs of Chicago's underworld choking on our own ruined ambitions.

I blinked, and the scent of blood vanished, replaced by the heavy aroma of Cuban cigars and aged whiskey.

I wasn't dead. I was seventeen again, standing in the dimly lit hallway of the Moretti Estate. My hand hovered inches from the heavy mahogany door of my father's study. It was slightly ajar, and the voices bleeding through the crack froze the blood in my veins.

"I won't marry Isabella."

It was Dante. His voice was firm, laced with an arrogant certainty that hadn't been there yesterday.

"I am breaking the betrothal, Don Marco. I want Eva. I will only marry Eva."

The words hit me like a physical blow, but not out of heartbreak. Clarity. Dante Falcone had remembered. He had brought his memories of our bloody future back with him, and he thought he could simply rewrite the script by discarding me for my adoptive sister, the treacherous snake who had helped orchestrate my family's downfall.

He thought he was the only one who knew the future.

A cold, calculating calm washed over me. I am a Moretti. We don't cry over traitors; we bury them. If Dante wanted to play the visionary, I would let him. I would be the perfect, oblivious victim.

I pushed the door open, letting my face drain of color. I widened my eyes, summoning a look of pure, unadulterated devastation. "Dante?" I whispered, my voice trembling flawlessly.

The room fell into a deathly silence. Dante turned to me, his handsome face tightening. He looked at me not with the hatred of our final moments, but with a condescending pity. He really thought I was still the naive girl desperately in love with him.

"Izzy..." he started, taking a step forward.

"Do not speak her name!"

The roar shook the very foundations of the room. My father, Don Marco 'The Butcher' Moretti, surged to his feet. His broad chest heaved, his eyes blazing with a lethal, predatory fury. In one violent motion, he grabbed the heavy crystal whiskey decanter from his desk and hurled it at the stone fireplace.

Crash.

Amber liquid and jagged shards of glass exploded across the hearth. The air instantly turned volatile, thick with the promise of a Vendetta.

"You dare come into my home and insult the Moretti blood?" my father snarled, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly register. "Your father, Don Vincent, begged for this alliance on his knees to stop a war. And you, a boy playing at being a man, think you can tear up a blood oath?"

Dante lifted his chin, his jaw set. "I respect you, Don Marco. But there is no love between Isabella and me. We would only destroy each other. Eva is the one I-"

"Enough!"

My mother, Sofia, moved faster than I could track. She crossed the room and pulled me fiercely into her arms, pressing my face against her silk blouse to shield me from the humiliation. I let my shoulders shake, playing the part of the broken princess to perfection.

"Does your father know of this disrespect, Dante?" my mother demanded, her voice a whip cracking in the tense air. She glared at him with absolute disgust. "You break a sacred vow, and for what? You think our daughter is trash you can just discard? And you dare to drag Eva-a sweet, innocent girl who loves Isabella like a sister-into your dishonorable mess?"

Over my mother's shoulder, I peeked at Dante. He stood tall, absorbing the wrath of the Mafia Queen, looking entirely too pleased with himself for surviving the initial blast. He thought the worst was over. He thought he had won.

I buried my face deeper into my mother's embrace, hiding the dark, venomous smile that curved my lips.

Isabella POV

The silence in the study was heavier than the scent of spilled whiskey and shattered crystal.

My father's broad chest heaved with every breath. The Butcher of Chicago was not a man who made idle threats, and the lethal promise of a Vendetta hung thick in the air. Yet, Dante stood his ground. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, his posture radiating an unearned, arrogant certainty. He truly believed his knowledge of our past life made him untouchable.

"I am doing us a favor, Don Marco," Dante said, his voice steady but laced with a foolish condescension. "A marriage without love will only breed resentment. I am saving us both from a miserable future. Eva is the one I want."

The sheer audacity of his words made my blood run cold. He was using the tragedy of our past-a tragedy he helped orchestrate-as a convenient excuse to claim his treacherous prize. He thought I was still the naive girl who would weep and cling to his legs. He thought he was the only one playing the game.

It was time to break his illusion.

I slowly pulled away from my mother's protective embrace. I let my shoulders straighten, wiping the fake, trembling tears from my cheeks. The devastated princess vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating daughter of a Don.

Dante's eyes softened as I stepped toward him. He mistook my composure for resignation. "Izzy," he murmured, his tone dripping with a sickening, rehearsed pity. "Please understand, it's better this way. Don't hold on to something that-"

My palm connected with his cheek before he could finish the sentence.

The crack of the slap echoed through the mahogany room like a gunshot. I had put the entire weight of my body into it, channeling every ounce of the phantom pain from the stiletto he had driven into my heart in our past life.

Dante's head snapped to the side. A stark red handprint bloomed instantly across his pale skin. He froze, his eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated shock.

"The betrothal between the Moretti and Falcone families is dead," I declared, my voice ringing out like striking steel, devoid of any warmth. "I will make sure all of Chicago knows that you, Dante Falcone, are a traditore(traitor) who breaks blood oaths. We are done."

He stared at me, his jaw working silently. This wasn't in his script. The Isabella he remembered would never have struck him, let alone discard him with such icy disdain. Looking at his bewildered face, a dark thought surfaced in my mind. In our past life, his father, Don Vincent, had died under highly suspicious circumstances, paving the way for Dante to seize the Falcone throne. Seeing his ruthless selfishness now, I was almost certain that tragedy had been a calculated patricide.

"You..." Dante breathed, his shock rapidly morphing into a defensive, ugly sneer. He realized he had lost control of the narrative. "Fine. If that is how you want it. But I am not leaving without Eva. I am taking her with me tonight."

"You will not touch a single hair on her head," I hissed, stepping directly into his path. I channeled the fierce, territorial instinct of my bloodline. I wasn't protecting Eva; I was trapping her. But to Dante and my parents, I looked like a fiercely loyal sister defending her kin.

"She belongs with me!" Dante snapped, taking a threatening step forward.

"Get out of my house," my mother, Sofia, intervened, her voice a lethal whisper. She moved to stand beside me, her eyes blazing with maternal fury. "You will leave this estate immediately, Dante, or you will leave in a body bag. You do not get to insult my daughter and then demand to steal my ward."

Dante clenched his fists, glancing between my father's murderous glare and my mother's icy wrath. He was cornered.

"Wait, Mama," I interjected softly, letting a trace of feigned anxiety slip into my voice. "If we throw him out now, he will only spread lies. He will taint Eva's reputation in the streets, claiming she agreed to this madness. She is too timid to defend herself."

My father frowned, the protective patriarch instantly considering the honor of his household. "What are you suggesting, Isabella?"

"We bring Eva here," I said smoothly, looking my father dead in the eye. "Let her face him. Let her tell this traditore(traitor) to his face that she wants nothing to do with his dishonorable schemes. We end his delusions tonight, permanently."

My mother nodded slowly, a fierce, approving light in her eyes. "A brilliant idea. We will crush this insult right here." She turned her head toward the shadows near the door, where my loyal bodyguard stood silently. "Bianca, go fetch Miss Eva."

Isabella POV

Bianca nodded, turning toward the heavy mahogany door. The study was still vibrating with my father's lethal rage and Dante's arrogant defiance. I needed a weapon, a physical proof to shatter the illusion Eva had so carefully woven around my parents. I caught Bianca's eye just as her hand touched the brass doorknob. A subtle tilt of my head. She paused.

I stepped closer to her, keeping my back to the room. "Vai prima nella sua stanza," (Go to her room first,) I murmured in rapid, hushed Sicilian, a language Dante barely understood. "Prendi il portagioie d'argento intagliato sotto la sua toeletta. Non farti vedere da nessuno." (Take the carved silver jewelry box under her vanity. Don't let anyone see you.)

Bianca's dark eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but her training as a Moretti soldier kicked in. She gave a curt, imperceptible nod and slipped out of the room. I turned back to my mother, letting my features soften into a mask of sisterly concern. "I just reminded Bianca to be gentle with her, Mama. We don't want to frighten Eva."

Ten minutes later, the door creaked open. Eva Chen stood on the threshold, looking like a fragile lily battered by a violent storm. Her almond eyes were rimmed with red, her pale face a canvas of perfect, rehearsed sorrow.

Dante exhaled her name like a prayer. "Eva." They exchanged a look so thick with illicit longing it made my stomach churn.

Eva rushed past him, coming straight to me. She reached out with trembling hands to grasp mine. "Izzy," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I am so sorry you have to endure this."

I didn't pull away. Instead, I squeezed her hands, my gaze locking onto hers with a chilling intensity. "I believe you, Eva," I said, my voice ringing clear and cold across the silent study. "Now, prove it. Swear it before my father, the Don of the Moretti family. Swear on the soul of your dead father-the man who took a bullet for mine-that you and this traditore (traitor) are completely innocent."

The trap snapped shut. Eva's innocent mask froze. A tiny, frantic twitch betrayed her left eyelid. She was cornered, forced to gamble the very loyalty that kept her under my father's roof. The silence stretched, heavy and lethal. My parents watched, mistaking my calculated cruelty for the desperate grief of a betrayed bride.

But Eva was a master manipulator. Realizing she couldn't swear the oath, she gasped, pressing a delicate lace handkerchief to her mouth. A series of harsh, breathless coughs wracked her frail frame. She swayed, looking as though she might collapse.

"Eva!" My mother rushed forward, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders, instantly distracted from the oath. My father's stern face softened with misplaced guilt.

Eva looked up, tears spilling over her lashes. "Don Moretti... Sofia..." she choked out, her voice trembling with a sickeningly perfect blend of sorrow and resolve. "I will marry him."

The room went dead still. "What?" my father growled.

"I will do it," Eva wept, looking like a tragic martyr. "To save the alliance. To protect the honor of the Moretti family. I cannot let Don Marco face a war because of me. I will sacrifice myself."

Dante looked at her with awe. My parents stared at her, utterly moved by her profound, selfless devotion. They were ready to burn the world down to protect this treacherous snake. I watched the sickening display, my blood running ice-cold.

Then, the heavy mahogany door swung open. Bianca stepped into the study, her face an unreadable mask. In her hands, catching the dim light of the fire, rested a carved silver jewelry box.