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.”