The Bastard Bride's Vow of Mafia Vengeance

Isabell POV

"Damn it," Father whispered again, the words heavy with the realization that he had backed himself into a corner.

The silence that followed was shattered by a shriek that could have cracked the crystal in the cabinet.

"No!" Emmalee lunged forward, her face twisted into a mask of ugly, raw fury. "Daddy, you can't! Those are *mine*! The sapphires, the bonds—Grandmother promised them to me!"

She grabbed Jerrold’s arm, shaking him, her nails digging into his suit jacket. "She’s a bastard! She’s nothing! You can't give her my *Dote*!"

My stepmother was right behind her, her chest heaving. "Jerrold, have you lost your mind? Giving the family heirlooms to this... this creature? It’s an abomination."

I didn't move. I didn't argue. I simply stood there, clutching the cheap plastic pearls to my chest as if they were a lifeline, looking at my father with wide, terrified eyes.

"I... I don't want to take anything from Emmalee," I stammered, my voice barely audible over their screeching. "I only want to ensure the Don doesn't... doesn't take offense. *For the family*."

That phrase was the trigger. *For the family.* In our world, it was the ultimate silencer.

Jerrold ripped his arm away from Emmalee. "Enough!" he roared, his face flushing purple. "Do you want us all dead? Do you want Griffith’s men storming this house because we sent him a bride looking like a beggar?"

He turned to his wife, his eyes cold. "Get the box. The real one."

"Jerrold—"

"Now!"

My stepmother glared at me with enough venom to kill a man, but she turned on her heel and marched out of the room. Emmalee collapsed onto the sofa, sobbing into her hands, her "triumphant" engagement to Coleton Joseph forgotten in the face of losing her material worth.

Minutes later, Stepmother returned. She slammed a heavy, polished mahogany box onto the table. With trembling fingers, she unlocked it, revealing the velvet-lined interior.

But even then, she tried to cheat me.

She reached in and pulled out a modest diamond tennis bracelet and a pair of pearl studs—nice, but hardly the ransom of a queen.

"Here," she spat. "Take them and get out of my sight."

I stepped forward, my movements hesitant, like a frightened animal. I looked into the box, then at the items she offered.

"Mother," I said softly, using the title she hated most. "They are beautiful. Truly." I paused, letting a frown crease my forehead. "But... I read in the society papers that Don Griffith’s mistress, Faye Evans, has a taste for European cuts. They say she wears emeralds and sapphires that rival royalty."

I looked up at my father, biting my lip. "If the mistress outshines the wife on the wedding day... if Faye Evans sees me in these simple pearls and laughs... won't the Don think we are mocking his choice? Won't he think we value his whore more than his bride?"

The air left the room. Jerrold looked at the modest jewelry, then at me. The fear was back in his eyes. He knew Damian Griffith’s reputation. The man was a predator who looked for weakness.

"Give her the sapphires," Jerrold commanded, his voice hollow.

"Jerrold, no! That was your mother's—"

"Give them to her!"

With a strangled cry of rage, my stepmother reached into the bottom compartment of the box. She pulled out the heavy necklace—deep, midnight-blue sapphires set in white gold, surrounded by diamonds. It was the heart of the Talley fortune, the piece Emmalee had bragged about wearing since she was six years old.

She shoved it into my hands. The metal was cold, heavy with history and power.

"Take it," she hissed. "And may it choke you."

I bowed my head, hiding the smirk that threatened to break through my mask of terror. "Thank you, Father. I will wear it with honor. For the family."

I gathered the box, clutching it to my chest, and turned to leave. The sound of Emmalee’s weeping followed me out into the hallway, a sweet symphony of victory.

I made my way to the front door, needing fresh air before I suffocated on their hypocrisy. I stepped out onto the stone porch, the cool New York night air biting at my skin.

"Stop."

Emmalee stood in the doorway behind me. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red, but she had composed herself enough to look down her nose at me.

"Don't think you've won, Isabell," she said, her voice trembling with malice. "You have the jewels. You have the money. But you're walking into a grave."

She stepped closer, a cruel smile touching her lips. "Coleton loves me. He is a good man. We will have a life of peace. But you? You are going to a monster. Damian Griffith will break you. He will use you and discard you, and all those sapphires won't stop him from hurting you."

I let my shoulders slump. I let my eyes fill with tears again. "I know," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I am so afraid, Emmalee."

She preened, feeding off my fear like a leech. "Good. You should be. I’ll look for your obituary in the papers."

She turned and walked back inside, slamming the heavy oak door between us.

I stood alone in the dark, the heavy box of jewels pressed against my ribs. Slowly, I straightened my spine. The tears evaporated instantly, leaving my eyes dry and cold.

*Poor, stupid Emmalee.*

She thought she was the winner because she had "love." She didn't know she was marrying the son of a Rat, a man whose lineage was stained with the worst sin in our world. She didn't know that once her father stopped paying Coleton’s bills, her "good man" would crumble under the weight of his own cowardice. She was walking into a life of poverty and shame.

I looked down at the box in my hands.

I was walking into the lion's den, yes. But I wasn't walking in as a snack. I was walking in with armor.

I turned and headed toward the servants' quarters, my mind already racing, planning my next move. The war had just begun.