The Don's Pawn, A Queen's Revenge

Isabella POV

The armored Cadillac came to a halt, the heavy tires crunching against the gravel like bones snapping under pressure. Through the tinted glass, the Moretti estate loomed against the gray Chicago sky—a gothic fortress of dark stone and iron, devoid of warmth. It didn't look like a home; it looked like a prison built for giants.

I didn't wait for the driver. I pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the biting wind, smoothing the skirt of my dress. My grandfather, Don Gilberto Falcone, had taught me that a Falcone never cowers, especially not when walking into the lion's den.

The massive oak doors swung open, revealing a foyer that smelled of lemon polish and cold ambition. Standing in the center, flanked by two nervous maids, was a woman who could only be Erica Moretti. She wore her age like armor, her face pulled tight in a permanent expression of disdain.

"So," she said, her eyes raking over me as if I were a stray dog that had wandered onto her pristine marble floors. "The girl from New York."

"Isabella Falcone," I corrected smoothly, stepping inside.

Erica didn't blink. She snapped her fingers. "Clean her. I won't have the filth of that city—or her family—contaminating my son's home."

One of the maids stepped forward, wielding a spray bottle of industrial disinfectant like a weapon. Before I could process the absurdity, a mist of chemical stench hit me. It stung my eyes and clung to my skin.

Rage, hot and sharp, flared in my chest, but I forced my face to remain a mask of ice. When the maid reached for my hair, intending to douse my curls, I moved.

My hand shot out, clamping around the maid's wrist with a grip honed by years of self-defense training. The bottle rattled in her shaking hand. The foyer went silent.

I turned my gaze slowly to Erica. "In New York, we only do this to rats before we dispose of them." I released the maid, who stumbled back, terrified. "But I suppose there are some things, like stupidity, that no amount of chemicals can wash away, Signora Moretti."

Erica's face turned a mottled shade of purple, her lips parting in shock. I didn't give her the chance to recover. I brushed past her, my heels clicking rhythmically against the stone, claiming the space as my own.

I found the parlor adjacent to the foyer. It was a museum of a room, filled with gilded furniture that looked too expensive to touch. Sitting on a velvet settee was a girl about my age, with dark hair and eyes that held a glimmer of malice.

Cristina Moretti. Vincenzo's "cousin."

She gasped theatrically, covering her mouth with a manicured hand. "Oh my god. Is it true? You took the train?" She let out a tinkling, cruel laugh. "I thought the Falcones were struggling, but I didn't realize you couldn't afford a plane ticket. Or do they not have airports in New