The Dead Bride's Vicious Mafia Comeback

Seraphina POV

The adrenaline from the Grand Foyer faded into the suffocating chill of the Mistress's Suite. Arabella's room. The heavy silk drapes and unopened French perfumes felt less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded mausoleum.

Sofia, the loyal Valeriano maid who had practically raised us, fell to her knees the moment the heavy oak door clicked shut. She wrapped her trembling arms around my legs, tears streaming down her weathered face.

"They are monsters, Signorina," she sobbed, her voice barely a whisper. "Please. If you take this step, there is no turning back. They will devour you."

I reached down, gently prying her hands away, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. My reflection in the vanity mirror was a ghost—my sister's face, but with eyes forged in ice. "I know, Sofia," I murmured softly. "But the arrow has already left the bow. From this moment on, I am Arabella Valeriano. My Vendetta ends only when they drown in their own blood."

Before Sofia could reply, the suite doors burst open with a violent crash.

Isabella Moretti lunged into the room like a rabid lioness. Her designer gown was torn, her hair a tangled mess, and in her right hand, a silver stiletto blade gleamed under the chandelier. She aimed straight for my cheek, desperate to carve away the face that had ruined her.

She expected a fragile, broken wife. She didn't expect the brutal, underground training I had endured in Las Vegas.

My body reacted before my mind did. I sidestepped the lethal thrust, seized her wrist, and twisted it sharply. With a clean, ruthless sweep of my leg, I slammed her onto the Persian rug. The stiletto clattered uselessly against the baseboards.

The two Stark Soldiers who had rushed in behind her froze in the doorway, their eyes wide as they processed the effortless, lethal takedown I had just executed.

"Who are you?!" Isabella shrieked, thrashing wildly as the guards finally snapped out of their shock and hauled her up by her arms.

I smoothed the front of my dress, looking down at her with absolute disdain. "A discarded spare."

Her face contorted into something demonic. "Arabella is dead!" she roared, the veins in her neck bulging. "She is rotting at the bottom of freezing Lake Michigan! I watched her sink!"

The confession hit me like a bullet to the chest, but I swallowed the agonizing grief, forcing a condescending smile to my lips. I turned to the stunned guards. "It seems Miss Moretti's humiliation has driven her to hysteria. Take her away before she hurts herself."

As they dragged her screaming down the corridor, I locked the door. I had my confession. Now, I needed the weapon to execute her.

Hours later, under the cover of darkness, I retrieved a coded note from a hollowed-out book in the library—a dead drop from my top Soldier, Enzo 'The Ghost'. I unfolded the parchment.

Clinic records confirmed. Anti-miscarriage medication purchased under an alias.

I stared at the words until they blurred. Isabella was pregnant. She and Marco had desecrated my sister's mourning period to breed a bastard. In a devout, traditional Mafia family, a premarital pregnancy was a death sentence to a woman's reputation. I carefully burned the note, watching the ashes crumble.

The next morning, the Formal Dining Hall was a battlefield disguised as a breakfast service. The clinking of silver against porcelain echoed like gunshots.

Aunt Francesca took a deliberate sip of her espresso, her sharp eyes gleaming with malice as she looked at me. "A guardian angel," she announced loudly, ensuring her voice carried across the long mahogany table. "A pure-blooded wife brings honor and the Commission's protection to the Starks. Not like some who only drag scandal and liability through our halls."

Lena Stark's jaw tightened, her knuckles turning white around her teacup, while Marco stared at his plate, sweating profusely. Francesca was using me as a blade to carve away the main branch's authority.

The heavy dining doors swung open. Isabella was escorted in by two guards for her final dismissal before being shipped back to the Moretti estate.

Don Silas didn't even look up from his newspaper. "Bow to the Matriarch, Isabella. Then leave."

Isabella stood rigid. She sneered at Don Silas, then marched directly toward Marco. Without a word of warning, she spat at his feet.

"I am Isabella Moretti," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "I will never be anyone's replacement. I am leaving today because I am discarding you."

She turned her furious gaze to me, her eyes promising murder. "I will be back. And when I am, I will step over this imposter's corpse to take my rightful place as the lady of this house."

The guards grabbed her arms roughly, but the damage was done. The air in the dining hall grew thick and heavy, the silence stretching taut over the remnants of breakfast.