Reborn To Ruin The Mafia Don

Isabella POV

The Lincoln swayed gently as it navigated the winding, uneven asphalt of the canyon road. That subtle, rhythmic rocking motion, combined with the suffocating darkness beyond the tinted windows, violently yanked me backward in time.

Suddenly, I wasn't sitting on plush leather; I was plunging into the freezing, ink-black depths of Lake Michigan. The memory hit me with the force of a physical blow. I could feel the biting cold invading my lungs, the desperate, agonizing thrashing of my limbs as the water swallowed me whole. But worst of all were the hands. Strong, familiar hands gripping my hair, ruthlessly forcing my head under the murky surface. Through the distorted, bubbling water of my past life, I had seen Rosalie standing on the pier, her lips curled into a victor's cruel smile, while Francesca—the woman who had brushed my hair and sung me to sleep—held me down until my vision went black.

The phantom water receded, leaving only the icy fire of *Vendetta* burning in my veins. I blinked, my focus snapping back to the dimly lit cabin.

Francesca was still talking, her voice a sickening hum of false reassurance. "...we'll be out of the canyon soon, Isa. Just relax. The darkness is our friend tonight."

I didn't hesitate. I lunged.

My left hand clamped brutally over Bianca's mouth, pinning the poor girl back against the seat before she could even register the movement. With my right hand, I drove the jagged glass shard across Francesca's throat in one vicious, unbroken arc.

The thick wool of her collar offered no resistance. Hot, dark blood sprayed across the pristine leather interior, splashing against the window with a sickening splatter. Francesca’s eyes bulged in sheer terror, her hands flying to her ruined throat as a wet, gurgling sound escaped her lips. She thrashed, her polished facade crumbling into the primal panic of a dying rat. I watched her bleed out with absolute detachment until her body finally went limp, slumping heavily against the door.

Bianca was trembling violently beneath my grip, her muffled screams vibrating against my palm. Her wide eyes darted from the gruesome corpse to me, filled with absolute horror.

"Listen to me," I hissed, my voice devoid of any emotion, cutting through the hum of the engine. "She was a rat. She was driving us straight into an ambush orchestrated by Julian Bellini and my sister. If I didn't kill her, we would both be dead, or worse."

I slowly released my hand from Bianca's mouth. She gasped for air, tears spilling down her pale cheeks, but she nodded, her sheer survival instinct overriding her panic.

"Help me," I commanded.

Working quickly in the cramped, blood-soaked space, we stripped Francesca of her outer jacket. I took off my heavy wool coat and draped it over her cooling shoulders. My fingers were slick with her blood as I pulled my signature ruby hairpin from my own hair and shoved it deep into Francesca's messy bun. In the dark, with her face obscured by her tangled hair, she was a perfect decoy.

"When the car stops, you run," I told Bianca, grabbing her by the shoulders to force her to look at me. "You find a cab, or you walk until you find a phone, and you go straight to The Seraphim."

Bianca choked on a sob, her eyes widening further. "The Seraphim? But... that's Don Damien Moretti's club. It's suicide to go there uninvited."

"It's the only place Julian's men won't dare to look," I said firmly, wiping a smear of blood from my thumb. "Tell the guards at the door you belong to Isabella Falcone. Survive, Bianca. I will find you."

Up ahead, the driver—likely another one of Julian's paid associates—began to slow the vehicle down. The tires crunched against the gravel shoulder of the secluded highway. Through the cracked window, the roaring sound of a rushing river filled the silence, masking the scent of copper inside the cabin. The stage was set.