Betrayed By Him: Marrying The Mafia Ghost

Isabella POV

The darkness was a heavy blanket, suffocating and thick with the metallic stench of my own blood. The fire on my cheek had dulled to a throbbing, relentless agony. I lay on the freezing concrete of the cellar, waiting for my heart to give out.

Then, the heavy iron door opened again. It didn't groan this time; it swung silently, as if the hinges had been oiled by a ghost.

I couldn't move, but through the slit of my unswollen eye, I saw a man step into the dim light. He wasn't Marco, and he wasn't Dr. Russo. He moved with a lethal, soundless grace, blending into the shadows so perfectly he seemed born from them.

He knelt beside me. His eyes, cold and analytical, swept over my ruined face and my trembling, starved frame. He didn't ask questions. He didn't offer comfort. He simply slid his arms under me and lifted me from the pool of my own blood with effortless strength.

As my head lolled against his chest, the faint street light from outside caught the silver pin on his dark lapel. A griffin. The crest of the Moretti family.

Damien Moretti. The Ghost of Chicago.

Before the blackness finally pulled me under, I realized I hadn't been saved by an angel. I had been claimed by a monster far more dangerous than the ones who tried to kill me.

*

Three weeks later.

The winter morning was as bitter and gray as the stone facade of the Falcone estate. From the tinted window of the unassuming black sedan parked across the street, I watched my own memorial service unfold.

My cheek was bandaged, the wound stitched and healing into a jagged, permanent reminder of my naivety. But beneath the bandages, my mind had never been clearer. Damien Moretti had given me sanctuary, top-tier medical care, and most importantly, the truth about the Falcone's financial desperation. Now, it was time to use it.

Through the wrought-iron gates, I saw them.

Angelica Gallo stood near the entrance, draped in a perfectly tailored black velvet gown. Around her neck rested the "Tears of Sicily"-the seven-strand pearl necklace my mother had given me on my wedding day. Angelica was playing the role of the grieving confidante, soaking up the sympathetic murmurs of Chicago's elite.

A few feet away, Marco dabbed at his dry eyes with a silk handkerchief, his face a mask of practiced sorrow. And holding court in the center of the room was Donna Vittoria, accepting condolences with the regal dignity of a true Mafia Queen, her eyes gleaming with the anticipation of the De Luca trust funds that would soon save her crumbling empire.

"Are you ready, Miss De Luca?" Luca Bianchi's voice was a low rasp from the driver's seat. The Shadow had been my constant guard since he pulled me from the cellar.

"I've been ready since I bled on their floor," I replied, my voice steady.

I stepped out of the car. The biting wind whipped at my dark coat, but I felt no cold. I walked through the gates, past the oblivious Soldiers, and up the marble steps.

Inside the main hall, the string quartet faded into silence as Marco stepped up to the podium.

"Isabella was... the light of my life," Marco choked out, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. "Her tragic kidnapping has left a void in the Falcone family that can never be filled. We will not rest until the rival cowards who took her from us are brought to justice."

I pushed the heavy oak doors open. They hit the walls with a resounding crack.

Every head in the room snapped toward the entrance. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy enough to crush bone.

I walked down the center aisle. Hundreds of eyes locked onto me, then widened in horror as they took in the angry, red scar slashing across my pale cheek.

Angelica's face drained of all color. She took a stumbling step back, her hand flying to her throat. Marco froze at the podium, his mouth hanging open as if he were staring at a corpse clawing its way out of a grave.

I ignored the gasps and the frantic whispers. I kept my eyes fixed on the matriarch.

I stopped directly in front of Donna Vittoria. The older woman's hands gripped her cane so tightly her knuckles were white. The arrogant gleam in her eyes had shattered into pure, unadulterated terror.

I let a slow, humorless smile touch my lips. I turned my head slightly, locking eyes with the trembling mistress.

"Dressing up in mourning for me is a very creative touch, Angelica," I said, my voice carrying effortlessly through the dead-silent hall. "But those pearls looked much better on me."

I turned back to my grandmother, my tone dripping with venomous sweetness.

"Nonna, thank you for throwing such a lovely party in my honor. But I'm afraid your plans to inherit my estate will have to be postponed." I leaned in closer, ensuring every word was a nail in their coffin. "As you can see, I'm not quite dead yet."