I dragged the dusty, matte black tactical case from under the bed.

Inside lay the master encryption keys to the family’s entire dark web network, along with backups of every shred of evidence I had collected over the years—proof of Lorenzo colluding with the police and selling out his allies.

If I was going to reclaim my throne, I needed these chips. These files were enough to get him killed ten thousand times over.

The door opened. Lorenzo walked in. He saw the mess and the open suitcase, and his brow furrowed slightly.

"Why are you digging out all this old junk?"

He naturally assumed I was doing some meaningless cleaning, or perhaps organizing things to please him.

"Well, whatever. Those old ledgers should have been thrown out years ago. They clutter the place up."

He walked up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder in a gesture that felt like charity.

"I know I've been busy with the turf war lately. I've neglected you, and I know you've been stewing on it."

He paused, waiting for gratitude.

"I had my assistant book tickets. I'm taking you to the Maldives. A proper vacation. Just you and me."

"Consider it a reward," he said smugly, "for being such a good keeper of the house while I was out conquering the city."

I froze. I almost laughed out loud.

A reward?

I didn't need his charity.

On the contrary, I was about to give him a "surprise" he would never survive.

A few days later, Lorenzo came home beaming, waving a clutch of first-class tickets in the air.

"We’re going to the Maldives. I’ve booked the top-tier ocean villas. My assistant handled everything—flights, hotels, the works."

Sofia took the tickets to distribute them, then let out a theatrical gasp.

"Oh no, Lorenzo! Why are there only four boarding passes?"

She looked at me with wide, innocent doe eyes—a perfect mask for the venom underneath. Her fingers clutched the four tickets tightly.

"I told the assistant to book five... it must have been a system error. It missed one. Oh, Isabella, I am so terribly sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I thought it was automatic, but now First Class is completely sold out."

Lorenzo waved his hand dismissively, pulling out his phone. "It's not a big deal. Why are you blaming yourself? I’ll just have the assistant book a commercial economy seat for Isabella right now."

"No way, Dad!"

My son, Leo, practically jumped off the couch, grabbing Lorenzo’s arm with a look of pure petulance.

"Can we just not take Mom? It's so boring when she's around."

"Exactly!" My daughter, Mia, chimed in, shooting me a look of disdain. "Mom never lets us eat anything good, she never lets us have fun. If she comes to the beach, she's just going to nag us about sunscreen and ban us from swimming in the ocean."

"Taking her will literally ruin our vacation! It’s a buzzkill, and honestly, she’s embarrassing."

Lorenzo hesitated. He looked at me, and I could see the calculation in his eyes. He was starting to agree that bringing me—the woman he saw as nothing more than a pasta-maker—would be a burden.

Sofia’s eyes darted between us, and she seized the moment. Her voice was soft, like honey laced with arsenic.

"You know... we have those Cane Corso guard dogs in the basement. The ones we just brought in from the wild. I don't trust the regular soldiers to feed them. They've just tasted raw meat; their temperaments are volatile. They only listen to family.

Why don't... why don't we let Isabella stay here to guard the stronghold? She can watch the house and take care of the beasts. Isabella is so detail-oriented; she’s the only one who can do it right."

Lorenzo’s eyes lit up. It was the perfect excuse to dump his baggage. He turned to me, his tone shifting to that of a commander addressing a subordinate.

"Sofia is right. Isabella, you sit this one out. I'll take you next time."

I looked at the three of them—the ungrateful wolves I had raised and protected, and the cuckoo who had stolen my nest. They stood there, smug and triumphant.

They thought that by leaving me behind, they were stepping on me.

They had no idea that without me holding up the sky, their little world of glory and status would crumble into dust.

"Fine."

The corner of my mouth hooked up into a cold, razor-thin smile. I looked at them the way a mortician looks at a cadaver.

"You all go. Have the time of your lives."

The day before their departure, Lorenzo kicked several massive Louis Vuitton trunks toward me.

"Isabella, pack for Sofia and the kids."

He sat on the Italian leather sofa, casually cleaning his gold-plated Colt 1911, acting as if I were a nanny hired by him.

"Do you not have hands?" I asked, my voice flat.

Lorenzo froze. He clearly hadn’t expected the doormat to speak.

"What is your problem? You always do the packing."

Seeing that I didn't even bother to lift my eyes from my book, he slammed the gun onto the table in a fit of rage. "Fine! I'll do it! God, I've spoiled you."

Muttering curses, he began organizing Sofia’s lingerie and dresses.

As he rummaged through a drawer looking for fake passports, a small silver ring rolled out and clattered onto the floor.

It was my wedding ring. The one he had stolen off a dead rival during a street brawl fifteen years ago because he couldn't afford to buy me one.

The silver was tarnished, the surface marred by scratches from years of hard living.

Lorenzo picked it up, but Sofia was faster. She snatched it from his hand.

"Wow, this style is so... vintage! So Old School!"

She slid it onto her ring finger and held it up to the light, admiring it. "Lorenzo, look. My fingers are so slender. Doesn't it look so much better on me than on Isabella?"

Lorenzo looked at her delicate hand, his eyes softening into a puddle of adoration. Then, remembering I was in the room, he shot me a guilty glance.

But seeing my expressionless face, he decided it didn't matter.

"If you like it, keep it. Wear it for fun."

He turned to me and shrugged. " Once I secure the cocaine route in Colombia, I'll buy you a new one—a real blood diamond smuggled from South Africa."

"No need," I said, letting out a short, cold laugh. "If she likes picking up other people's trash, let her wear it."

It was fitting, really. A cheap ring for a cheap woman.

I turned to leave the room, but a sudden, blinding pain shot through my left ribcage.

It was an old war wound from our days in the Brooklyn tenements. We had been ambushed by the Irish mob. I had taken a bullet meant for Lorenzo.

Every time it rained, the pain drilled into my bones.

My face went pale, cold sweat beading on my forehead. My knees buckled, and I instinctively reached out to grab Lorenzo's arm for support.

"Lorenzo... my wound..."

Lorenzo’s face twisted with genuine concern. He moved to catch me—he knew that bullet had nearly killed me.

But before his hand could touch my sleeve, Sofia let out a delicate cry and collapsed right into his chest.

"Oh! Lorenzo! My head... my heart hurts so much..."

Lorenzo panic shifted instantly. He wrapped his arms around her, his face contorted with worry.

"Sofia! What is it? Is it your blood sugar?"

He pivoted sharply to scoop her up, completely forgetting I was standing right next to him, barely holding on.

The force of his movement slammed into me. I was already weak from the pain; the shove sent me crashing to the floor.

Crack.

My injured rib smashed against the corner of the heavy mahogany table.

Agony exploded through my body. I curled into a ball on the floor, gasping for air, tasting iron in the back of my throat.

Lorenzo froze for a split second, looking down at me. He made a move as if to help, but Sofia’s breathing grew frantically shallow in his arms.

He gritted his teeth and turned away.

"Isabella, it's just your old chronic pain. Go back to your room and lie down. I have to get Sofia to the hospital. I'll come back for you later."

With that, he stormed out, shouting orders to his men.

"Prepare the car! Get the bulletproof Cadillac! Get Sofia to the doctor, now!"

A swarm of Soldatos in black suits surrounded them as they rushed out. The children followed, running past me, screaming "Auntie Sofia!" in panic.

The massive estate fell silent.

I was left alone, lying on the cold marble floor.

With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone and dialed emergency services myself.

At the hospital, the doctor stared at my CT scans, his expression grim.

"Madam, the impact caused the shrapnel near your spine to shift. It’s compressing the nerve. This is critical. We need to operate immediately."

He looked around. "Where is your family? We need a signature."

The nurse took my phone and dialed Lorenzo.

First time: Declined.

Second time: No answer.

Third time: He finally picked up, his voice booming with irritation.

"What is it now? Sofia has low blood sugar; I'm sitting with her while she gets an IV drip! Can you stop harassing me?"

Click. The line went dead.

The nurse held the phone, looking at me with pity. "Madam... I..."

I reached out calmly and took the surgical consent form. In the signature box, I pressed down hard, signing the name I hadn't used in fifteen years: Isabella Corleone.

"I'll sign it. My life is my own responsibility."

The surgery lasted four hours.

When I was wheeled back to the recovery room, the anesthesia still making the world spin, Lorenzo finally appeared.

He looked at the tubes hooked up to my body, a flicker of shock crossing his face. But it was quickly replaced by his usual condescending arrogance.

"Why the drama? The doctor said you had surgery?"

He shook his head, sighing. "I told you to keep up with your combat training. One little fall and look at you. Sofia is still under observation next door, but I made time to come see you."

I closed my eyes. I didn't even want to look at him.

"Lorenzo. I want a divorce."

The air in the room solidified.

Lorenzo’s eyes widened in disbelief, and then he scoffed.

"Isabella, are you insane? You're asking for a divorce over this?"

"I pushed you a little, so what? Sofia fainted! I was trying to save a life! Can you stop being so selfish for once?"

He waved his hand aggressively. "Okay, fine. The anesthesia has clearly fried your brain. You stay here and cool off. Don't test my patience."

He turned to leave. "When you're better, come back to the estate. But don't expect me to pamper you."

I watched his back as he walked out. I almost laughed.

Come back to the estate?

Lorenzo, you won't have an estate to go back to.

The next day, the door to my hospital room swung open.

It wasn't Lorenzo. It was my two "wonderful" children, Leo and Mia.

They brought no flowers. No fruit. Just a cold stack of legal documents.

"Mom, we heard you're divorcing Dad?"

Leo threw the papers onto my bed, his tone laced with suspicion and greed.

"Auntie Sofia said Dad risked his life to build this empire. If you want to leave, you leave with nothing."

Mia crossed her arms, looking at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "Exactly. Don't think you're getting a cent of our inheritance. This is a 'Voluntary Renunciation of Family Inheritance.' Sign it."

"If you sign it, we'll still acknowledge you as our mom. We'll even send you a monthly allowance so you can rot in the countryside."

I looked at them. They had my blood, but they acted like scavenging hyenas.

I smiled. A genuine smile.

These were the children I had sacrificed everything for.

"Fine. I'll sign."

I picked up a pen. But I didn't sign their waiver.

Instead, I flipped the document over and drafted two new agreements in bold, sweeping strokes—Termination of Parental Rights.

Next to them, I placed the Divorce Agreement I had already prepared. I had already signed it. Under the asset division section, I had clearly written: Walk away with nothing.

I didn't want a single penny of Lorenzo's dirty money.

Without me, that money wouldn't exist anyway.

"Take these and get out."

I threw the papers in their faces.

The kids froze, then grabbed the signed documents. Thinking I had actually capitulated out of fear, they cheered and ran out of the room like they had won the lottery.

That afternoon, I discharged myself.

Downstairs, outside the hospital entrance, a convoy of matte black, bulletproof Maybach Guards idled in perfect formation. On the hood of the lead car fluttered the flag that symbolized the highest authority in Sicily.

Dozen of heavily armed mercenaries, wearing dark sunglasses and earpieces, stood with their hands behind their backs.

As I stepped out, the lead figure—the family’s Consigliere, an old man who had served my father—stepped forward. He bowed deeply, reverently kissing the back of my hand.

"Il Papa," he whispered, using the supreme title. "The private jet to Palermo is ready."

Back in the hospital room, on the pristine white pillow, I had left a final note for Lorenzo.

On top of the note sat a black coin—the underworld symbol for a death warrant.

The note read:

"Lorenzo, the protection I gave you ends today."

It was time to return to the shadows. It was time to reclaim my throne.