Isla's POV

I stepped out into the courtyard, the air sharp and cold against my skin. The ceremonial mantle was a dead weight over my arm. Heavy silk, embroidered with the Moretti family crest—the one Silas had promised I would one day wear as his Underboss's wife. Now it was just fabric.

Serena followed closely behind Silas, her hands clutching the lapels of his suit jacket. The same jacket I had tailored. Her fingers were where mine should have been.

She looked up at me, her eyes wide and brimming with a sickeningly artless sorrow.

Her voice, a carefully constructed tremor laced with fragility, explained that Silas was just being protective of her. She begged me not to be angry about him helping her first, her tone a masterclass in feigned innocence. Every word a knife wrapped in a lullaby.

My gaze fell to the white‑knuckled grip she had on his jacket.

I reached out, wedged the nail of my thumb into the pale crest of her knuckle until she inhaled sharply, and then peeled her fingers from his lapel, one by one.

"You are filthy,” I said, my voice a monotone. "And so is whatever twisted thing you share with my fiancé.”

Silas immediately stepped between us, his body a bulwark shielding Serena.

He warned me in a harsh, reprimanding tone not to cause a scene in front of the men. "You're an Underboss's woman. Act like it.”

Then, his expression shifted into something unbearably condescending as he promised that once today's Gala was over, he would finally get around to claiming me. "You've earned it, haven't you? Eleven years of patience.” A pat on the head for the loyal bitch.

He reached out to ruffle my hair.

I flinched back, a sharp, reflexive jerk that left his hand suspended in the empty air.

His hand hovered there for a moment. Something flickered in his eyes—confusion, then a flash of irritation. I had never pulled away before.

"Step aside,” I ordered, the words clipped and devoid of heat.

Silas let out an agitated breath.

His gaze dropped, and with a flick of his polished shoe, he kicked my ceremonial mantle—which had slipped from my arm onto the rough cobblestones—out of his way. The embroidered crest scraped against stone.

He snapped that my constant nagging was getting annoying.

Sensing her opening, Serena edged closer to him again.

She pleaded with me to let Silas escort her to the Gala altar instead of me, her voice pitched just loud enough for the onlookers to hear. With practiced skill, she weaponized the memory of her dead parents, reminding everyone that they had died as Family Soldiers. Fallen men. Sacred martyrs in the Syndicate's bloody history. And she, the orphaned lamb who deserved every comfort.

She whimpered that she felt so alone and scared today.

That was all it took. Silas grasped Serena's hand and wrapped a possessive arm around her waist.

He escorted her toward the sleek VIP transport vehicles. Before stepping inside, he looked over his shoulder and ordered me to be a good girl and wait for him to send a car.

"A good girl,” I repeated under my breath. The words tasted like copper.

I stepped aside, my face a mask of placid indifference.

I watched them leave the courtyard together.

Dozens of Syndicate members had gathered around to watch the drama unfold. The whispers rose like smoke from a smoldering fire. Pity. Amusement. Speculation on how much longer the Moretti girl would tolerate this before she broke.

Under my mother's heartbroken gaze from across the yard, I walked the rest of the way to the Gala grounds on foot.

When I arrived, I stepped up to the massive stone altar alone.

I completed my final ritual of the Old Ways in absolute solitude. The ancient words tasted like ash on my tongue. Every syllable a mockery of the future I had once prayed for.

The whispers of the crowd washed over me, but I felt nothing.

When Silas and Serena finally returned to the estate hours later, the atmosphere shifted into a roar of celebration.

Silas ordered his men to set up a lavish banquet. From my window, I watched as all the private chefs, high‑ranking Capos, and estate staff flooded into Serena's suite next door. They carried silver trays of roasted meats and bottles of expensive champagne to celebrate her initiation. Her elevation. The moment she officially outranked me.

A low‑level Soldier came to my door an hour later.

He said Silas offered to send over some leftover food if I was hungry, shifting his weight from foot to foot under my deadpan stare. Leftovers. Eleven years of loyalty, reduced to cold cuts and half‑empty bottles.

I gave no reply, only shutting the door with a solid, definitive thud that cut off his sentence.

Needing air to escape the cloying scent of their feast, I stepped out through the back doors. As the dead of night settled over the estate, the contrast became a physical pressure. My courtyard had only one small, empty table. I sat alone in the shadows with two glasses of cheap liquor.

The thumping sound of loud music and uproarious cheering echoed from the entire faction celebrating next door with Serena.

I raised a glass and took a slow sip of the burning alcohol. My fingers brushed the burner phone in my pocket. The one with only one number saved.

Without warning, the wooden door to my suite banged open.

Isla's POV

Silas barged into my room, the door striking the wall with a crack that split the silence. I didn't even flinch. I remained seated on the edge of my mattress, a silver needle and thread resting steadily in my hands. I was just finishing the final alterations on the vintage Mafia wedding gown I had meticulously tailored for eleven years. Every stitch a prayer. Every prayer now a lie.

The stench of cheap bourbon and the cloying sweetness of Serena's signature vanilla perfume rolled off him, fouling the air in my bedroom. Vanilla. She had started wearing it five years ago. I had worn it first.

He leaned against the doorframe, looking down at the white silk pooled in my hands.

A smug, arrogant smirk twisted his lips, making it clear he assumed I was eager to finally become his wife now that the Gala was over. Because of course I was. I had only ever been eager. Waiting. Available.

He glanced at a gold Rolex. "I need to see Serena settled next door first. She gets frightened in the dark after all the excitement. You understand. You've always understood.”

I remained silent.

My eyes stayed fixed on the precise point where the needle pierced the fabric.

Silas pushed off the doorframe, his boots scuffing the floorboards as he closed the distance between us.

His face darkened with a sudden, volatile fury at my lack of response.

"Are we really starting this jealous drama all over again?” he accused, his voice dripping with condescension. "After everything I've done for you? The protection? The status?”

I pulled the needle through the silk one last time, the motion economical and sure.

I picked up my tailoring shears, the steel cool against my skin, and severed the final red thread on the gown. Snip. The sound was small. Final. Like a heartbeat stopping.

I stood up and neatly folded the dress into a leather trunk at the foot of my bed. The brass latches clicked shut, sealing the scent of eleven years of camphor and anticipation into the darkness.

Only then did I look up at Silas.

"I'm breaking the arrangement,” I told him, my voice a flat, even line. No tears. No hysterics. Just the cold, clean finality of a bullet leaving its casing.

I locked my gaze on the pulse throbbing in his temple, never once blinking. I invoked the ancient Syndicate laws of severance, speaking the blood‑sworn words of release right to his face. "Blood unbound. I am no longer yours to claim or to refuse.”

Silas was stunned for a second.

Then, his jaw clenched, a knot of muscle bunching beneath his skin.

"You're bluffing,” he berated me, his booming voice echoing off the high ceiling. "You've been making these empty threats for eleven years!”

He took a step that was meant to intimidate. "Grow up and start acting like a proper Underboss's wife. You think anyone else would take you after this long? You're marked. You're mine.”

Instead of answering, I walked over to the door and pulled it wide open.

I signaled for him to get out. One gesture. My hand steady as a blade.

Silas glared at me, his pride a raw, visible wound.

He stormed out into the hallway.

Stopping just before disappearing from sight, he commanded, "Be at the estate gates tomorrow morning to greet my mother, Carmela. If you embarrass me in front of her, you will regret it.”

The door closed behind him. I did not tremble. I did not cry. I picked up my phone and typed a single message.

"It's done.”

The reply came before I could set the phone down.

"Finally. I'm already en route.”