Chapter 11
Isabella POV
The freezing marble seeped through the thin fabric of my black dress as I knelt before the altar. Eleanor stood over me, the silence in the small chapel heavy with the suffocating scent of frankincense and melting wax.
She slowly lowered her silver wolf-headed cane, placing the cold metal tip firmly under my chin. With a slight upward pressure, she forced me to raise my head and meet her piercing, eagle-like gaze.
"Was it your design from the start, Isabella?" she asked, her voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated against the stone walls. "To push your cousin into the abyss?"
I didn't blink. I didn't tremble. "Yes, Nonna. She dug the grave; I merely pushed her in."
I expected a strike. I expected the wrath of a Matriarch who had just lost a piece of her bloodline. Instead, a dark, complex gleam of approval flickered in her weathered eyes. She withdrew the cane, resting both hands on its silver hilt.
"A true Carson heir must know how to endure pain," Eleanor said, her tone shifting from a judge to a sovereign. "But more importantly, she must know how to make our enemies bleed ten times over. You have your father's ruthlessness, Bella. But remember this—your Vendetta must always serve the family, not just your own wrath."
She reached into the deep folds of her dark skirt and pulled out a heavy, antique silver ring. It bore the ancient Carson crest—a snarling wolf. She held it out to me, the silver catching the candlelight.
"From this day forward, you are not just my granddaughter," Eleanor declared, her voice absolute. "You are the blade in the shadows. Rise, Isabella."
I took the ring, the cold metal a heavy, bloody promise against my palm, and stood.
*
Damien POV
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, watching the violent blizzard bury Chicago in white. The glass was freezing, but the blood in my veins ran hot with calculated malice. Behind me, the shadows of the room concealed my Enforcer, Silvio, and a young Soldier, Luca.
"Marco's alliance with the Carson girl was a play for the docks," Silvio reported, his voice devoid of any inflection. "A direct challenge to your authority over the shipping lines, Boss."
"That Isabella Carson is a ruthless one, though," Luca chimed in, unable to hide the raw awe in his voice. "Flipped the trap right onto her own blood. The streets are already whispering about the Irish ice queen."
I didn't turn around. Luca's words only confirmed what I already knew—she was a queen forged in fire. I waved a hand, silencing the boy. "Continue, Silvio."
"There is something else, sir. Regarding the night of the fire." Silvio stepped forward, the temperature in the room seemingly dropping. "I investigated the anomaly you reported."
Silvio handed me a folded piece of paper. "Your whiskey was spiked at the celebration dinner. Viviana Falcone. She used an ancient Sicilian mixture—a potent aphrodisiac laced with heavy hallucinogens. She has been seen meeting privately with your stepmother, Caterina, multiple times this month."
The paper crumpled in my fist. My mind violently snapped back to that night. The missing hours. The uncontrollable, burning fever in my blood that had turned me into a mindless beast. The phantom memory of soft, pale skin, the scent of white roses mixed with copper, and a pair of terrified, defiant emerald eyes in the dark.
*Marco never touched you.* Caitlin’s mocking words to Isabella echoed in my head.
My chest tightened with a sudden, suffocating force. The baby she lost in that burning room. The child that had sparked her bloody Vendetta.
It wasn't Marco's. It was mine.
I had planted my heir in her womb while blinded by Caterina's poison, and my own family had slaughtered it. The realization didn't bring sorrow; it brought a violent, possessive rage that threatened to tear my sanity apart. She was mine. Her pain was mine. Her vengeance was mine.
I didn't wait for Silvio to finish. I grabbed my coat and walked out into the freezing night.
I moved like a ghost through the blizzard, bypassing the heavy security of the Carson-controlled hotel with the ease of a predator hunting in familiar territory. The faint, lingering scent of her guided me through the silent, dimly lit corridors until I stood outside the heavy oak doors of their private chapel.
I pushed the door open just a fraction.
Through the crack, illuminated by the flickering light of dozens of white candles, I saw her. Isabella was kneeling alone before the marble Virgin Mary. Her slender figure looked like a delicate flower about to be snapped by the winter wind, yet her spine was rigidly straight, radiating an unbreakable, lethal grace.
The contradiction of her fragility and her absolute ruthlessness sank like a rusted hook deep into my chest.
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