Rebirth of the Mafia Mistress

Isabella POV I woke up with a scream tearing through my throat, my lungs gasping for air as if I were drowning in the grey sludge of the Chicago River. My hands flew to my stomach, clawing at the silk nightgown. I expected to feel the hollow ache, the scar tissue, the emptiness where my son had been ripped away by a butcher in a back alley. But there was no pain. My skin was smooth, taut, and unbroken. "Isabella? Miss Isabella?" The door to my room burst open, and a maid—Elyse—rushed in, her face pale with worry. Sunlight, bright and mocking, streamed through the window. It wasn't the grey, filtered light of my prison apartment. It was the golden, hopeful light of morning. "I'm fine," I choked out, though my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Just a nightmare, Elyse. ". But it wasn't. As Elyse retreated, casting a worried glance over her shoulder, the memories of the last ten years—no, the *next* ten years—assaulted me. The smell of antiseptic. The dust on the velvet chairs. The silence. And at the very end, as the darkness had swallowed me in 1935, there had been a presence. A man. He had been a shadow in the corner of my deathbed, smelling of rain and gunpowder. He hadn't spoken, but as my heart stopped, I had felt his hand on mine—rough, calloused, and trembling. He had wept. While Jaret Frazier was likely toasting to his freedom, this stranger had cried for the wasted life of Isabella Wilder. *Who are you?* I had tried to ask, but death had taken my voice. I threw off the covers and stumbled to the vanity mirror. The face staring back at me was nineteen. My cheeks were flushed with life, not gaunt with starvation. My eyes were bright, not dull with a decade of unshed tears. I was alive. I was whole. And Jaret Frazier was still just my fiancé, not yet my jailer. A cold, hard resolve settled in my chest, freezing the lingering terror. I would not be the bird in his gilded cage. I would not be the *amante*(mistress) hidden away while he played house with a Mafia Princess. I walked to my jewelry box, my fingers brushing over the velvet lining until they found the cold metal of the lock. Inside lay the Wilder family heirlooms, the fortune Jaret was so desperate to control. I lifted a heavy necklace—a teardrop sapphire surrounded by a halo of diamonds. *The Heart of the Lake*. It was beautiful. It was expensive. It was *esca*(bait). "You want a fortune, Jaret?" I whispered to the empty room. "I'll give you a war." * An hour later, I descended the grand staircase of the Frazier residence, a mask of sweet innocence plastered onto my face. I found my aunt, Cathy Frazier, and her daughter, Bethany, in the main sitting room. The room smelled of stale potpourri and ambition. Cathy was lounging on a chaise, flipping through a fashion magazine, while Bethany was aggressively buffing her nails. They were the gatekeepers of my social life, the women who would eventually help Jaret erase me from the world. "Good morning, Aunt Cathy. Bethany," I said, my voice light and airy. Cathy looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You're up late, Isabella. A lady shouldn't sleep past nine." "I was preparing these," I said, holding out two velvet boxes. "I felt so terrible about my headache yesterday, missing dinner. I wanted to apologize." Greed is a universal language, and the Fraziers spoke it fluently. Bethany snatched the smaller box, popping it open to reveal a delicate pearl bracelet. Her eyes went wide. "Oh! It's genuine!" Bethany squealed, slipping it onto her wrist. She turned it in the light, admiring the shimmer. "This will look perfect at Alexandria's party tomorrow! It matches my new dress exactly!" The room went dead silent. Bethany froze, her hand hovering in the air. She looked at her mother, realizing her mistake. My smile didn't waver, though inside, I was sharpening my knives. "Alexandria? You mean Alexandria Kane? Is she having a party?" Cathy cleared her throat, closing her magazine with a sharp snap. She stood up, smoothing her skirt, her face composing itself into a mask of fake sympathy. "Oh, darling," Cathy said, her voice dripping with poisonous honey. "We didn't want to upset you. The invitation... it was very specific. The Kanes are so exclusive, you know. They only invited the *Famiglia* members. Bethany was just saying she felt awful that you couldn't go." It was a lie. A clumsy, pathetic lie. The Kanes were hosting a gala for Alexandria's sixteenth birthday, a debutante ball for the criminal underworld. Jaret needed to be there to court her. And I needed to be absent so he could look like a bachelor. "I understand," I said softly, lowering my eyes to hide the gleam of triumph. "I wouldn't want to intrude where I'm not wanted." *But I will be there,* I vowed silently. I had forced their hand. They could no longer pretend the event didn't exist. The battlefield had been revealed, and thanks to Bethany's vanity, I knew exactly when the first shot would be fired. "Well," Cathy said, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. "Since you're up, make yourself useful and tell the cook we'll need a light lunch. We have fittings this afternoon." "Of course, Aunt Cathy." I turned to leave, clutching the remaining jewelry box—the diamond earrings for Cathy—tightly in my hand. I didn't give them to her. Why waste good diamonds on a corpse? As I walked into the hallway, the ghost of my future self whispered in my ear: *Burn them all, Isabella. Burn them before they bury you.*