Betrayed By Him: Marrying The Mafia Ghost

Isabella POV Three weeks had passed since I walked into my own funeral and shattered the Falcone family's pathetic illusion. In that time, Damien Moretti had proven to be exactly what he promised: a ruthless, impenetrable shield. Today, I was attending the memorial of Enzo Moretti, a prominent Capo, not as a broken victim, but as the heir to the De Luca fortune and the personal guest of the Ghost of Chicago. The black sedan Damien provided pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate on the Gold Coast. Before my heels even touched the pavement, a woman draped in ostentatious black lace hurried toward me. Donna Eleonora Moretti. Years ago, when my engagement to her son Angelo was broken off in favor of the Falcones, she had looked at me with thinly veiled disdain. Now, she gripped my hands, her heavy diamond rings biting into my skin. "Isabella, cara mia(my dear)," she cooed, her face contorted into a mask of practiced sorrow. "To see you shining like a diamond after such a terrible ordeal... it is a miracle. You belong with us, where you will be truly cherished." I stared into her eyes. There was no sympathy there, only a ravenous hunger for the De Luca wealth and the power my new proximity to Damien represented. The Falcones had taught me a brutal lesson: every smile in our world concealed a blade aimed at your heart. "Thank you, Donna Eleonora," I replied, my voice perfectly polite, perfectly hollow. I gently but firmly extracted my hands from hers. She and her son were instantly added to my list of liabilities. Inside the cavernous main hall, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive cologne. After paying my respects to the grieving family, I felt a presence beside me. "Izzy." Angelo Moretti’s voice was pitched low, dripping with a manufactured intimacy. He leaned in, smelling of scotch and desperation. "Seeing you here... it brings back so many memories of when we were young. I never stopped thinking about what we could have been." I offered a noncommittal hum, my gaze sweeping the room. That was when I spotted her. Standing near a marble pillar was a young woman in a dress far too tight and bright for a memorial. Genevieve 'Vivi' Russo. She was glaring at us, her painted lips pressed into a furious, bloodless line. Beside me, Angelo shifted. In the briefest pause of his monologue, he shot a glance over my shoulder. It lasted barely two seconds—a look that started as a frantic plea for patience and instantly hardened into an irritated warning. I almost laughed. It was the exact same look Marco used to give Angelica when I wasn't looking. Angelo thought he was playing a brilliant game, but to me, he was just another fool dancing on a trapdoor. Twenty minutes later, seeking a reprieve from the suffocating crowd, I found myself in a dimly lit, mahogany-paneled library. Angelo had followed me like a stray dog. Genevieve hovered near the doorway, sulking, while Angelo’s cousin, Sofia Moretti, sat quietly in a leather armchair, observing the room with sharp, intelligent eyes. A family Associate approached us. "Can I get you anything to drink, Miss De Luca?" Before I could answer, Angelo puffed out his chest. "An Old Fashioned. Single ice sphere, with a toasted orange peel. She loves that flavor." He beamed at me, desperate to prove his devotion in front of his cousin. I didn't look at him. Instead, I turned my gaze to the doorway, letting my eyes rest coldly on his mistress. "I believe Miss Russo might need a drink as well," I told the Associate smoothly. Angelo panicked. Without thinking, the words tumbled out of his mouth. "Get her a Bee's Knees. Just use the moonshine from the backyard stash, heavy on the honey. She can't handle the good stuff." The silence that crashed down on the library was deafening. Sofia’s eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. A man did not know the highly specific, unrefined liquor preferences of a random guest unless he was intimately acquainted with her late-night habits. The blood drained from Angelo’s face, then rushed back in a violent, guilty flush. "I... I think I heard Isabella mention it once," he stammered, the lie so pathetic it hung in the air like a bad smell. Under Sofia’s piercing, analytical stare, Angelo practically vibrated with nervous energy. Muttering a fractured excuse about needing to check on his mother, he turned and practically fled the room. I took a slow breath, letting the silence stretch. I didn't need to say a word; Angelo had just handed me the rope to hang him with. I turned my attention to Sofia, calculating exactly how to use her impeccable reputation to finish what her idiot cousin had just started.