His Vow, Her Vendetta

Alessia POV

I stood in the center of the bedroom, the phantom echoes of my past life fading into the cold reality of the present. The tears were gone. In their place, a glacial resolve settled over my bones. I couldn't save Dante by cowering in this penthouse. I had to sever the limbs of Isabella's conspiracy, starting with the rot in my own bloodline.

I pressed the intercom button on the wall. "Lucia. Silvana. In here. Now."

Within seconds, my personal maid and my lead female bodyguard entered the room. I didn't give them a chance to ask about the commotion in the hallway.

"Lucia, fetch the black tailored suit. The one with the sharpest cut," I ordered, my voice devoid of any tremor. "Silvana, ready the motorcade. We are leaving."

As Lucia hurried to the walk-in closet, I caught my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. My face was slightly softened by the pregnancy, but my eyes were entirely different. They were the eyes of a woman who had died and crawled her way back from hell.

Lucia helped me into the dark, structured blazer. It felt like armor. I looked at the two women who served me, my posture rigid and unyielding.

"We're going home," I told them, my tone leaving no room for hesitation. "It's time to teach my father's other family some manners."

The drive from Manhattan to Long Island was a blur of gray skies and calculating silence. The armored Cadillac motorcade, a blatant display of Moretti power, rolled through the wrought-iron gates of the Rinaldi estate. The gaudy, gold-leafed architecture of my father's house had always reeked of new money and desperate vanity. Today, it would serve as a courtroom.

I bypassed the frantic greetings of the estate staff and ordered everyone—family and servants alike—into the Grand Foyer.

I took the high-backed velvet armchair at the head of the room, a seat usually reserved for my father, Ernesto. He was conveniently absent, likely hiding in his study or out managing his petty rackets. My mother, Elenora Visconti, sat rigidly beside me. Her aristocratic features were tight with confusion, but she maintained the flawless poise of a woman born into mafia royalty.

The foyer was suffocatingly quiet. Dozens of eyes darted nervously toward me and the heavily armed Moretti guards flanking the doors.

I let the silence stretch, letting their anxiety fester, before I finally spoke.

"My half-sister, Bianca Rinaldi, has committed an act of war against the Moretti family," I announced. My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the heavy air like a straight razor.

A collective gasp rippled through the servants. My mother stiffened, her head snapping toward me.

I met her gaze briefly before sweeping my eyes over the crowd. "She attempted to murder my unborn child—the heir to the Moretti family. She did this to usurp my position as Mafia Queen."

The accusation detonated in the room. This was no longer a petty domestic squabble; it was a death sentence. The color drained entirely from my mother’s face, leaving behind a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. The Visconti blood in her veins boiled at the sheer disrespect.

She reached out, her trembling fingers gripping my hand with surprising strength. "This family will not tolerate such a betrayal," Elenora said, her voice vibrating with a lethal edge. "We will have justice."

Before the weight of her words could fully settle, a frantic figure shoved through the line of terrified maids. Carina. My father’s mistress and Bianca’s mother.

She threw herself onto the marble floor, her face streaked with panicked tears. "No! It’s a lie! Bianca is innocent! There must be a misunderstanding, Alessia, please!"

I looked down at her, feeling nothing but absolute disdain. "Oh? And where is she now, if she's so innocent?"

Carina swallowed hard, her eyes darting wildly as she grasped at the first desperate lie she could think of. "She's been in her room all day! She never left!"

A dark, mocking smirk touched my lips. I leaned forward slightly, letting my words drop like stones. "That's impossible. She is currently a guest in my husband's basement cells, awaiting his judgment."

The wailing stopped instantly. Carina froze, the blood rushing from her face as the horrific reality of the basement cells dawned on her. She opened her mouth to speak, to beg, but the sound died in her throat.

Beside me, my mother stood up. The years of enduring this woman's presence under her roof culminated in a single, icy glare.

"Carina," Elenora commanded, her voice echoing with the absolute authority of the true Matriarch. "On your knees. You do not speak unless spoken to in this house."