Reborn: The Mafia Bride's Fiery Revenge

Isabella POV

The silence in the Opulent Parlor was absolute, heavy with the scent of expensive cigar smoke and simmering outrage. I kept my posture perfectly straight, meeting Hertha Hobbs’s calculating stare. The disgust in the Matriarch’s eyes had vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory gleam. She had realized I wasn't just a pretty face from the slums; I was a threat. A threat to her precious, legitimate granddaughter, Bianca, who sat frozen in her velvet chair.

Suddenly, Hertha’s rigid expression softened into a mask of terrifying, false benevolence.

"You have a sharp tongue, Isabella," Hertha murmured, her voice smooth like poisoned honey. "But perhaps that fire can be put to good use. I have been thinking about your future, Annabel."

My mother blinked, startled by the sudden shift. "My... my future, Mother?"

"Isabella is of age," Hertha continued, waving her ruby-encrusted cane dismissively. "I am willing to utilize my connections to secure her a proper match. Elzada Velasquez, the wife of the Velasquez Capo, is looking for a bride for her biological son. It is a monumental step up for an Associate's daughter."

Annabel gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. A Capo’s family. To my mother, who had spent her life scraping by on my father’s meager accounting wages, it sounded like salvation. It sounded like a golden ticket out of Brooklyn.

But I felt the phantom heat of a roaring inferno lick at my skin. *Elzada Velasquez.* The name alone tasted like ash. I knew the truth of that "generous" offer. It wasn't a marriage; it was a death sentence. They needed a disposable girl with no backing to cover up the son's filthy, drug-addled secrets. It was the exact same trap that had led to my imprisonment and my mother's death in my past life.

Before I could speak, Bette Hobbs leaned forward, her Botox-stiffened face twisting into a conspiratorial smile. She saw my mother’s hesitation and moved in for the kill.

"It’s a perfect arrangement, Annabel," Bette coaxed. "Of course, the timing is a bit tricky with the Romero family’s Selection Gala coming up. But we can easily handle that. Isabella can simply feign a severe illness on the night of the Gala. She stays home, misses the Don's summons, and we quietly finalize the Velasquez betrothal."

"No."

My voice cut through the parlor like a gunshot.

Bette’s fake smile shattered. "What did you say, you ungrateful little—"

"I said no," I repeated, stepping slightly in front of my mother. "The summons to the Selection Gala is a direct *Don's Command*. To feign illness to evade the Dark Don is an act of deception. It is a violation of *The Supremacy of Loyalty*." I locked eyes with Bette, letting the ice in my veins bleed into my words. "If the Romero Enforcers discover the lie—and they always do—they won't just kill me. They will drag my father into a basement, torture him for treason, and execute him as a Rat. Are you suggesting my father die so you can secure a convenient marriage?"

Bette’s face flushed a violent, ugly purple. "You arrogant little bitch!" she spat, abandoning all pretense of elegance. "You think you’re too good for a Capo’s son? You’re just hoping to flaunt that Siren face at the Gala and spread your legs for a high-ranking Romero! You're nothing but a social climber!"

"I am a daughter trying to keep her father's head attached to his neck," I replied coldly.

*Crack!*

Hertha’s cane struck the marble floor with deafening force. The Matriarch rose from her chair, her frail frame vibrating with pure, unadulterated wrath. The mask was entirely gone.

"How dare you lecture us on mafia law in my house!" Hertha snarled, her vulture-like gaze pinning my trembling mother. "Your husband, Arturo, is a disposable pawn, Annabel! He is dirt beneath our shoes. I offer you a seat at a Capo's table, and your bastard spawn spits in my face?"

"Mother, please, she doesn't understand—" Annabel sobbed, clutching Abby tightly.

"Take your brats and get out of my sight!" Hertha roared, pointing a trembling, manicured finger toward the heavy oak doors. "Go back to your pathetic husband in the slums. You have until the end of the week to give me the *correct* answer regarding the Velasquez boy. If you refuse, I will personally see to it that Arturo loses his position, his protection, and his life."

The ultimatum hung in the suffocating air, a guillotine poised over our family's neck.

My mother was weeping openly now, paralyzed by the sheer terror of the Matriarch's wrath. I didn't say another word. I simply grabbed my mother’s arm, took Abby’s small, freezing hand, and pulled them toward the exit.

The heavy iron gates of the Hobbs estate slammed shut behind us, locking us out in the biting blizzard. The wind howled, tearing at our thin coats, but the cold was nothing compared to the storm brewing inside me. I held my sister close as we walked toward the subway, my mind already calculating the war ahead.