Reborn From Ashes: The Mafia Bride's Revenge

Isabella POV

The cold of the abandoned North Wing room seeped into my bones, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my womb. I lay on the bare iron bed, shivering, the metallic scent of my own blood thick in the freezing Chicago air. I had lost the baby. My only leverage in this cursed Moretti alliance was gone.

The heavy door creaked open. Caitlin stepped in, her emerald dress a stark contrast to the peeling wallpaper and the dust.

"Get out," I rasped, clutching my stomach. "When Marco finds out you're here, he'll kill you. This was his heir."

Caitlin threw her head back and laughed, a sharp, grating sound that echoed in the empty room. "His heir? Oh, Bella, you stupid, naive little canary. Marco never touched you."

I froze, the chill in the room suddenly feeling absolute. "What?"

"He despises your filthy Irish blood," she sneered, stepping closer to the bed. "The drugged wine, the dark room, the 'accident' on the stairs tonight? All Marco's design. He needed a legitimate reason to discard you for a better alliance."

My breath hitched. If Marco hadn't touched me that night in the dark... who had? A phantom memory of calloused hands, a suffocatingly dominant presence, and the faint scent of expensive cologne and cigars flashed through my mind.

Before I could process the horrifying truth, Caitlin leaned over me. "But I am carrying his true heir," she whispered maliciously. "And Marco agreed that to purify the bloodline, we needed a little sacrifice. A Sicilian tradition."

With a flick of her wrist, a silver stiletto dagger flashed in the dim light. Before I could react, she drove the blade straight through the back of my left hand, pinning it deep into the mattress.

A raw, guttural scream tore from my throat.

Caitlin merely smiled, walking over to the bloody basin beside the bed. She dipped her fingers into the dark red water—the remnants of my unborn child—and flicked it onto the floor with utter disgust. "Dirty blood."

A heavy knock echoed from the hallway. A Moretti soldier’s voice filtered through the thick wood. "Miss Caitlin. The Carson cleansing is complete. The strongholds are burned, the core members executed. Mr. Marco requests your presence at the celebration dinner."

The words hit me harder than the blade in my hand. *Cleansing. Executed. Celebration.*

My family. My father's legacy. Gone.

Caitlin leaned in close, her breath hot against my tear-stained cheek. "You see, Bella? You killed them. Your uselessness dragged the whole Carson family to hell."

She turned on her heel, her shoes clicking against the floorboards. The door slammed shut, and the heavy deadbolt slid into place.

I was left alone in the dark. The tears stopped. The agonizing grief that had been suffocating me suddenly crystallized into something else. Something cold, sharp, and absolute.

Within minutes, the smell of smoke overpowered the scent of blood. Orange light flickered beneath the door crack. They weren't just leaving me to bleed out; they were burning the North Wing to the ground to erase their sins.

The heat grew unbearable, the thick smoke burning my lungs. I looked at my pinned hand. If I was going to die, I would not die a victim.

Gritting my teeth, I wrapped my right hand around the hilt of the dagger. With a feral cry, I ripped the blade out of my flesh and the mattress. Blood poured from the gaping wound, but I didn't feel the pain. I gripped the bloody dagger, my green eyes reflecting the encroaching flames.

"Caitlin Carson, Marco Moretti," I rasped, my voice a broken, demonic whisper over the roar of the fire. "I swear on my blood and my soul, this is my *Vendetta*. I will hunt you down, through heaven and hell, I will have my revenge."

The smoke thickened, turning the world gray. My vision blurred, my body finally giving out to the blood loss and the suffocating heat. I slumped back against the ruined bed.

Just as the darkness threatened to pull me under, a deafening crash shattered the roar of the fire. The heavy oak door was kicked entirely off its hinges, splintering into the burning hallway.

Through the wall of flames, a massive silhouette emerged. He moved with the lethal, predatory grace of a black panther. As he stepped into the dying light of the room, I saw his face. Cold, flawless, and utterly devoid of mercy. His narrow eyes, dark as a Sicilian night, locked onto my bleeding, broken form.

Damien Moretti.