When I was 18 years old, Luigi Conti, the craziest heir of the Conti family, pulled out a gun at an auction and executed the Don of the Serra family. That man happened to be my foster father, also the one who had me auctioned away as though I were a slave.

When he was being dragged toward the armored car by the military police, he kept laughing like mad despite having blood streaking down his face.

"Why must I atone for my sins? Since God refuses to save you, let me be your savior! From now on, no one in Sandalay has the guts to clip your wings anymore, my darling Isabella!"

Seven years later, Luigi gets released from prison. He looks at me as I wash dishes for a living in the slums before snuffing out the cigar trapped between his fingers.

That night, Luigi returns to his family and steals the position of the Don.

After we get married, I'm the only person who has the highest access over the vaults under the Conti family.

Luigi even forcibly expands the ring that signifies ultimate authority—which has been passed down from generation to generation for a century—and slides it onto my ring finger.

He buys half of Sandalay's estates just so he can fill the vineyards with the white grapes I've mentioned in passing.

He tells me that his turf is called Isabella.

But everything changes when I discover a photo album stashed in a hidden compartment in Luigi's study. All 2,000 photos feature a young woman in a white dress who is reading in the library.

That is the female assassin he's planning on training.

The woman looks very pure and innocent. She's most suited to conquer certain bigwigs' hearts. But now, it seems that Luigi's the one being conquered by her.

When Luigi finds out about my discovery, he throws the photo album into the fireplace and watches it burn in the fire with a stony expression.

"I'm just repackaging her so that she can aid me in money laundering. Just pretend you never saw the photo album."

I push the signed divorce agreement over to Luigi. "I said, sign the agreement."

Frustrated, Luigi pins the divorce agreement on the table with a knife, his expression insanely dark.

"Isabella Serra, have you forgotten about the Conti family's rules? There's no such thing as divorce. We can only be widowed."

A hunting knife slammed deep into the mahogany tabletop, its blade piercing straight through the thin agreement. The Conti family crest carved into the hilt looked vicious under the flickering light.

Luigi Conti slowly slipped on his leather gloves.

"Isabella Serra, looks like you need a refresher on the family rules." His voice was as gentle as usual. "You can only become a widower in the Conti family, never a divorcee."

After saying that, he didn't bother sparing me a glance and turned to leave, slamming the door behind him.

The butler, Marco Vitale, who had been waiting nervously at the side, stepped forward. He held a silver tray bearing an urgent letter.

"Donna Conti, this just arrived from the hunting grounds."

When I opened the envelope, several photos slipped out and fell to the floor. They showed the family's private shooting range in the background.

Irina Venti stood in the center, clad in an ivory white dress, looking out of place. She held Luigi's custom handgun, the one he never parted with.

Luigi stood right behind her, pressed against her back, his hands wrapped around hers intimately.

On the back of the photo was an arrogant message, "Your hands are for arranging flowers, mine are for holding guns. The Conti family doesn't need another pretty face."

I was disgusted, not because I was jealous, but because someone was going too far.

Late that night, the door to the manor was pushed open.

Luigi returned, reeking of gunpowder. Before he could take off his shoes, he heard a loud commotion from the collection room.

I stood amid the chaos, a golf club gripped tightly in my hands.

The antique firearms he treasured lay destroyed on the floor. The barrel was twisted, and the parts were scattered everywhere.

Luigi's expression turned dark instantly.

"What's gotten into you?" he demanded.

He strode toward me, his leather shoes clanging sharply against the scattered metal parts.

"She's just a tool!" he said, trying to explain himself. "Irina's a weapon I'm shaping. She exists to launder the family's dirty money. Isabella, when did you become this unreasonable? Fussing over a mere tool?"

A tool?

I scoffed icily and tossed the golf club aside. Then I pulled out an orthopedic injury report and slammed it hard against his chest.

"Sorry about that." I met his gaze. "Ten minutes ago, I sent someone to break your weapon's right hand."

Luigi's eyes widened in shock.

The next second, a large hand clamped around my neck, crushing it hard. My entire body was slammed back against the icy wall.

Luigi's eyes were bloodshot, his killing intent unmistakable. It was the same look he'd had when he executed those traitors back then.

"You destroyed my perfect creation!" he roared, his grip tightening.

My vision blurred as air was squeezed from my lungs, but I didn't struggle. Instead, I forced out a mocking smile.

"Seven years ago, you dug me out of hell," I said. "Are you going to bury me yourself now?"

Luigi's hand froze visibly as he gazed at the purplish red marks appearing swiftly on my neck. His expression shifted in an instant from rage to panic, and he yanked his hand away.

I slid down the wall, gulping in air in ragged breaths.

Luigi stood rooted to the spot, looking at a loss.

"She's just a pawn," he said harshly, attempting to conceal his earlier loss of control. "Don't push me, Isabella."

He knelt, trying to caress my cheek. "You know I can't live without you."

I turned my head away in disgust to avoid his touch, then pulled out a silk handkerchief from my sleeve and scrubbed my jaw hard.

"Don't touch me." I tossed the used handkerchief at his face. "You're revolting."

I used the family's hidden connections to uncover Irina's true background.

How could a young woman from the slums end up in the Don's bed in just three months? Even an assassin had to receive training before becoming one.

Yet, the reports came back empty. All intelligence on Irina had been wiped clean.

No one but Luigi could have done that.

I slammed the tablet onto the coffee table.

Without warning, Luigi emerged from the shadows. Clearly, he had been watching my every move.

"Don't go overboard, Isabella," he warned, pouring himself a glass of wine. "I'm doing this to protect you. I don't want you to be dragged deeper into the mafia wars."

Protect me?

The man who once carved his way through half of Sandalay for me was now spinning lies instead.

…

The study was thick with smoke.

I watched as Luigi picked up the new divorce agreement and burned holes in it with his cigar.

"I said, I won't agree to a divorce." He stared at the flames with a manic intensity. "Since you're upset, let's torture each other. Even after you die, you'll still be part of the Conti family."

I snatched the expensive whiskey off the table and smashed it. Glass shards exploded in every direction.

I gripped the neck of the bottle, pressing its sharp edge straight against Luigi's main artery.

"Let me go, or you die." I stared at his eyes, putting more pressure on my grip. "Make your choice."

Luigi didn't flinch. Instead, he lifted his hand and drove the glass straight into his shoulder.

The sound of the shard cutting into flesh was unmistakable. Blood gushed out, spraying across my face.

In a daze, I felt myself transported back to that stormy night seven years ago. The underground auction was filled with smoke and horrendous wails.

The 18-year-old Luigi was drunk on bloodlust. However, just before the explosion, he lunged forward without hesitation, using his back to shield me from the collapsing beam.

I remembered how he bled as he held my trembling body in his arms.

"Don't be scared, Isabella," he whispered. "Close your eyes. I'll bring you home."

Back then, he was my salvation. But now, all that remained was a madman.

I released my grip on the glass as though jolted by an electric shock. As I watched Luigi grinning at me despite bleeding profusely, all I felt was sheer absurdity and disgust.

"You're nuts."

I took two steps back and turned to flee the room.

…

The following morning, the sunlight shone warmly as I sat in the manor garden, stirring my tea idly.

Right then, Irina showed up and sauntered around in front of me deliberately, like a victor savoring her triumph.

"Luigi spent the whole night with me," she said with a bright laugh. Her fingers trailed across her collarbone, where a love bite was visible. "He said he wanted to make it up to me because he felt guilty."

Irina placed her hand gently on her flat tummy, then gave me a provocative look. "Donna Conti, perhaps the true heir awaited by the Conti family is already on his way."

Without wasting time, I picked up the silver fork from the table and acted swiftly.

A piercing scream shattered the calm of the manor.

The fork pierced the back of Irina's hand with deadly precision. Blood spilled across the tablecloth.

Upon hearing the commotion, the bodyguards rushed over and dragged away the sobbing Irina.

Towering above her, I wiped my fingers with a handkerchief. "Bleeding is normal in this family. If you're scared, crawl back to the slums where you belong."

That night, the manor was weighed down by a suffocating tension.

Luigi mobilized half of the family forces, ordering dozens of armed men in black to surround the main building.

For the first time, these guns were aimed at the Donna's bedroom.

Luigi sat at the end of the long table in the living room, his face dark and unreadable.

"Apologize." His knuckles rapped against the table. "Apologize to Irina. I need to appease my men. She got hurt for the family, and I don't want to shake their loyalty."

He was willing to undermine the foundation of the family and turn the guns on his wife, all for a pathetic stand-in?

I pulled out a bullet from my pocket.

Luigi had gifted it to me seven years ago when he first taught me how to fire a gun. Our initials were engraved on the casing. It signified the days we faced dangerous moments together.

I tossed the bullet onto the table in front of him with a clang.

"You want an explanation?" I gave him a mocking look. "Here you go."

This single bullet marked the point of no return.

After staring at it for a long time, Luigi picked it up and clenched it in his palm. "Okay."

He suddenly got up and threw the bullet into the fireplace.

"I'll send her away." His voice began to tremble. "I'll send Irina away to recuperate. She will never appear in front of you again."

I said nothing, my head splitting with pain.

That night, it became unbearable. I knew the old injury from the explosion seven years ago was flaring up again.

Years ago, my foster father had broken three of my ribs just to tame me because I hadn't learned how to wag my tail like a dog before the auction.

After that, even though Luigi hired the best doctors to treat my condition, the fractures still ached sometimes. It was a constant reminder of the time I was treated like an animal.

I chose to drive to a private clinic alone.

Thunder rolled as rain lashed the windshield. Lightning tore across the night sky.

It was just like the very night that changed my fate seven years ago.

When I arrived at the VIP floor of the clinic, the door was ajar. I was about to push it open when I saw a suffocating scene playing out through the gap of the door.

Irina was holding a sharp surgical knife to her own throat.

"Luigi, swear on your life!" she screamed hysterically, blood trickling down her neck. "Swear that you'll kill Isabella! Or, I'll die right in front of you!"

Luigi was standing right across from her. He never flinched amid gunfire but now wore a face full of panic.

"Irina, don't act rashly!"

He rushed toward her recklessly, snatching the sharp knife from her with his own hands. The blade cut through his palm, causing blood to drip everywhere. However, he couldn't care less about that.

He pulled Irina into his arms and hugged her tightly, as though he never wanted to let her go. "You're safe now…"

This scene felt painfully familiar, like a replay of the past. Only this time, the woman in his arms was someone else.

The door remained slightly open. In his arms, Irina raised her head slowly. Through the mirror on the opposite wall, she cast me a triumphant smile.