The Neglected Wife's Ultimate Mafia Vendetta

Isabella POV

I didn't sleep. The adrenaline from the dining room performance and the sheer terror of what I had just done kept my blood rushing like ice water through my veins.

At 5:00 AM, the Moretti Estate was a tomb. The pre-dawn darkness swallowed the grand hallways as I slipped out of the master suite. Every step on the Persian rug felt like walking on the edge of a knife. If Vincenzo woke up, if one of the night guards saw me, the death sentence I had overheard would be executed before sunrise.

The heavy oak door of Vincenzo's study yielded with a soft, agonizingly loud click. The air inside was thick with the ghost of his presence—aged whiskey, expensive leather, and that suffocating bergamot cologne. My heart hammered against my ribs as I approached the massive mahogany desk.

I found the "completed" tray. My breath hitched.

There it was. Vincenzo's sharp, aggressive signature slashed across the bottom of the forged Moretti Shipping letterhead, looking like a blood pact in the dim light. He had signed away Giuliana's luxurious apartment to a blind trust without a second glance. I carefully slid the paper out, folded it into a tight square, and shoved it deep into the inner pocket of my silk robe.

I had my weapon. For the first time since I was sold to this monster, the crushing power dynamic between us had shifted. He was still the Dark Don, but I was holding a match to his empire.

By 7:00 AM, the nervous energy had left my throat parched. I walked down to the cavernous kitchen for a glass of water, only to freeze in the doorway.

Vincenzo was already there. He was leaning against the cold granite island, dressed in a crisp black shirt, holding a small cup of dark espresso. His eyes, blacker than the liquid he was drinking, locked onto me. There was no anger in his gaze, only the chilling, absolute authority of a man managing his inventory.

"Giuliana and Penelope are moving into the estate today," he stated, his voice devoid of any human inflection.

The words hit me, but the shock was muted by the paper burning against my thigh. "You're bringing your mistress into our home?"

"They will take the master suite," Vincenzo continued, completely ignoring my question. He set the espresso cup down with a sharp clink. "You will pack your things. By noon, you are to be relocated to the East Wing."

The East Wing. The cramped, dusty corridors that used to house the servants and were now used for unwanted guests.

"You can't just erase me, Vincenzo," I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of indignation and disbelief.

He closed the distance between us in two strides, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over me. He didn't touch me, but his proximity was a weapon in itself. "This is my house, Isabella," he said softly, the cruelty in his tone absolute. "You are a guest. When they arrive, you will remain invisible. Do not test my patience today."

He walked past me, leaving me alone in the freezing kitchen.

At noon, I stood in my new prison. The East Wing guest room was little more than a glorified closet, smelling of stale air and forgotten things. Through the narrow, grime-streaked window, I had a perfect view of the long gravel driveway.

Three black, bulletproof SUVs rolled to a stop. Vincenzo stepped out of the lead car, opening the door himself. Giuliana emerged, wearing a pristine Chanel suit, looking every inch the victorious *Mafia Queen*. Vincenzo lifted Penelope out next, kissing the little girl's forehead with a tenderness that made my stomach twist.

Giuliana wrapped her arms around Vincenzo's neck, kissing him deeply in the broad daylight. When she pulled away, she pointed up at the master bedroom balcony—my balcony—with a triumphant laugh.

A moment later, a moving truck backed up to the garage. Two of Vincenzo's *Soldiers* began hauling my belongings out. They weren't packing them; they were discarding them. One of the men roughly tossed a cardboard box onto the gravel. It split open.

A worn, dog-eared copy of *Wuthering Heights*—the only gift my mother, Hazle, had managed to save for me—spilled out into the dirt. The soldier didn't even look down as he kicked it aside with his heavy combat boot to make room for Giuliana's Louis Vuitton trunks.

They were erasing my identity, treating my life like trash to be swept away. I watched the book lie in the dirt, my hand slipping into my pocket to grip the folded piece of paper. The humiliation burned, but beneath the ashes, my *Vendetta* was fully forged.