The Dead Bride's Vicious Mafia Comeback

Seraphina POV

The water of Lake Michigan was a graveyard.

Even now, a year later, the biting chill of that stormy night lived in my marrow. I could still see the taillights of Isabella Moretti's signature red Alfa Romeo bleeding into the dark as she fled the private pier. I had arrived exactly two minutes too late. Two minutes to watch the freezing black water swallow my twin sister, Arabella.

Marco Stark, the man who had sworn to protect her, had traded her life for a political alliance with the Moretti family. They called it a tragic accident. They burned her body before I could even demand an autopsy. But I knew the truth. And in our world, blood could only be washed away by blood. Vendetta.

The clinking of crystal glasses pulled me back to the present.

The lavish ballroom of the Stark-owned hotel reeked of bootleg champagne, expensive Cuban cigars, and the arrogant stench of power. It was March, the height of the Prohibition era, and the wedding of Marco Stark and Isabella Moretti was the crown jewel of Chicago's underworld.

I stood in the shadows near the service doors, adjusting the veil of my white mourning gown. I was the ghost they hadn't invited.

"To the happy couple," the emcee announced, his voice echoing over the microphone. "If the bride and groom would please step forward to cut the cake."

The crowd erupted into applause. I caught the eye of a waiter across the room—Enzo 'The Ghost', my most loyal ally. He gave a barely perceptible nod.

Click.

The ballroom plunged into absolute darkness.

Screams erupted. The sound of chairs scraping and the metallic clatter of Tommy guns being cocked echoed through the cavernous room. Before the panic could fully take hold, a single, blinding spotlight snapped on, piercing the blackness and landing dead center on the dance floor.

On me.

I stood perfectly still, a vision in white silk, looking exactly like the woman they had buried a year ago.

Marco dropped his champagne flute. The crystal shattered against the marble floor, the sound sharp as a gunshot. All the blood drained from his face. Beside him, Isabella looked as though she had seen the devil himself, her manicured hands trembling violently.

At the head table, Silas Stark, the Don of the family, sat frozen. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.

I locked eyes with Marco, my voice slicing through the dead silence of the room, cold and steady. "Bound by omertà, sealed in blood. Until the earth claims us, and even after the maggots feast, I am yours."

They were the private vows Marco had whispered to Arabella on their wedding night. Words no one else could possibly know.

"Arabella?" Marco choked out, stumbling backward. "No... no, you're dead."

"A Stark never truly lets go of what belongs to him, Marco," I said, my voice echoing eerily. "Did you think a little water could wash away our vows?"

The ballroom erupted into