She Died Once: Now The Mafia Kneels

Isabella POV

The memory of my death tasted like copper and expensive champagne.

Even now, I could feel the phantom chill of the stiletto blade sliding smoothly between my ribs, piercing my heart. But more vividly, I remembered the look in Dante Falcone's eyes—a sickening blend of shock and agony—as I drove my mother-of-pearl hairpin deep into his throat. We had bled out together on the Persian rug of that Art Deco suite at The Drake Hotel, two reigning monarchs of Chicago's underworld choking on our own ruined ambitions.

I blinked, and the scent of blood vanished, replaced by the heavy aroma of Cuban cigars and aged whiskey.

I wasn't dead. I was seventeen again, standing in the dimly lit hallway of the Moretti Estate. My hand hovered inches from the heavy mahogany door of my father's study. It was slightly ajar, and the voices bleeding through the crack froze the blood in my veins.

"I won't marry Isabella."

It was Dante. His voice was firm, laced with an arrogant certainty that hadn't been there yesterday.

"I am breaking the betrothal, Don Marco. I want Eva. I will only marry Eva."

The words hit me like a physical blow, but not out of heartbreak. Clarity. Dante Falcone had remembered. He had brought his memories of our bloody future back with him, and he thought he could simply rewrite the script by discarding me for my adoptive sister, the treacherous snake who had helped orchestrate my family's downfall.

He thought he was the only one who knew the future.

A cold, calculating calm washed over me. I am a Moretti. We don't cry over traitors; we bury them. If Dante wanted to play the visionary, I would let him. I would be the perfect, oblivious victim.

I pushed the door open, letting my face drain of color. I widened my eyes, summoning a look of pure, unadulterated devastation. "Dante?" I whispered, my voice trembling flawlessly.

The room fell into a deathly silence. Dante turned to me, his handsome face tightening. He looked at me not with the hatred of our final moments, but with a condescending pity. He really thought I was still the naive girl desperately in love with him.

"Izzy..." he started, taking a step forward.

"Do not speak her name!"

The roar shook the very foundations of the room. My father, Don Marco 'The Butcher' Moretti, surged to his feet. His broad chest heaved, his eyes blazing with a lethal, predatory fury. In one violent motion, he grabbed the heavy crystal whiskey decanter from his desk and hurled it at the stone fireplace.

Crash.

Amber liquid and jagged shards of glass exploded across the hearth. The air instantly turned volatile, thick with the promise of a Vendetta.

"You dare come into my home and insult the Moretti blood?" my father snarled, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly register. "Your father, Don Vincent, begged for this alliance on his knees to stop a war. And you, a boy