Marrying My Cheating Fiance's Ruthless Uncle

Isabella POV

The biting cold was a familiar ghost. It tasted like rust, rotting fish, and the damp decay of that abandoned Brooklyn warehouse. In my past life, that was where my fiancé, Grayson Falcone, had locked me away. He had left me to die of a fever on a concrete floor while he paraded his mistress, Clara Stone, around the city. My last breath in that life hadn't been a plea for mercy, but a blood vow. *Vendetta*.

I blinked, and the smell of the docks vanished, replaced by the sharp scent of chlorine and expensive champagne.

The cold wasn't a memory anymore. It was the freezing water of the Plaza Hotel's courtyard fountain.

Seconds ago, Clara had lunged at me, aiming to push me in and make me the laughingstock of New York's elite. But I had known it was coming. I had grabbed her silk sleeve, dragging her over the marble edge with me.

The splash echoed over the jazz music. Gasps erupted from the gala attendees.

Grayson hit the water almost immediately. I thrashed in the freezing pool, playing the part of the helpless fiancée, but his eyes never even flickered in my direction. He swam right past me, his hands frantically searching for Clara. He pulled the dripping showgirl into his arms, pressing her against his chest in front of every Don, Capo, and reporter in the city.

He had made his choice. He had publicly shattered the Falcone honor and handed me the very weapon I needed to destroy our engagement.

My plan was a success, but my lungs were burning. The heavy, waterlogged beads of my gown acted like lead weights, dragging me beneath the surface. My vision blurred as the icy water filled my nose.

Through the distortion of the water, a voice cut through the chaos above. It was low, devoid of panic, and carried the absolute authority of a Don.

"Aldo. Fish her out."

A massive hand plunged into the water, gripping my arm with bruising force. Aldo, a Falcone Soldier, hauled me upward. I broke the surface, coughing violently as I was dragged onto the hard marble edge of the fountain.

I shivered uncontrollably. My ruined dress clung to my skin, turning completely translucent under the courtyard lights. I could feel the leering, predatory stares of rival family members stepping closer, their eyes raking over my exposed body. Social death was breathing down my neck.

Then, the crowd abruptly parted. The whispers died instantly.

Damon Falcone stepped out of the shadows.

*The Wraith*. The Don of the Falcone family, Grayson’s uncle, and the most feared man in New York. He stood over me, a towering figure in a bespoke suit, his storm-blue eyes holding no pity, only a terrifying, cold calculation.

He crouched beside me. The scent of expensive Cuban cigars and dark power washed over me. He leaned in close, his lips barely an inch from my ear.

"I never make a losing deal," he whispered, the words