Reborn To Ruin The Mafia Don

Isabella POV

I stood perfectly still in the freezing shadows, watching the Underboss of the New York outfit murmur desperate, rehearsed sweet nothings into the ear of a dead woman.

Julian Bellini held Francesca’s stiffening corpse against his bleeding arm, the deep cut he had intentionally allowed his own men to inflict ruining the sleeve of his royal blue Versace suit. It was a flawless performance of a tragic hero, entirely wasted on a corpse.

A second pair of headlights suddenly cut through the darkness, tires crunching over the gravel as another car pulled up behind the abandoned Lincoln. The passenger door swung open, and Rosalie stepped out into the biting wind. Her face was carefully arranged into a mask of frantic, sisterly concern, ready to witness the grand finale of her orchestrated rescue.

It was time for my cue.

Taking a deep breath of the icy air, I stepped out from behind the thick oak tree. I leaned heavily on my injured ankle, letting a genuine wince of pain twist my features as I limped into the harsh glare of the headlights.

"Rosalie? Julian?" I called out, my voice trembling with the perfect pitch of a terrified victim.

Julian’s head snapped up. He stared at me standing by the tree line, his brow furrowing in profound confusion. Slowly, mechanically, he looked down at the woman in his arms. The moonlight caught the graying hair slipping from my ruby hairpin, illuminating the pale, lifeless, and distinctly aged face of my maid.

With a visceral, choked sound of absolute revulsion, Julian shoved Francesca away. Her body hit the gravel with a dull, heavy thud, rolling limply against the tire of the Lincoln. He scrambled backward, wiping his bloodstained hands on his trousers as if he had just embraced the plague.

"Isa?" Rosalie stammered, her carefully constructed facade slipping as her eyes darted frantically between me and the dead body on the ground. "What... what happened here?"

"It was terrifying," I whimpered, wrapping my arms around myself as I hobbled closer. "Francesca was so worried about the route you suggested, Rosalie. She said it was too dangerous. She insisted on wearing my coat and hairpin to scout ahead, just in case."

Diana, Rosalie’s personal maid, rushed forward and knelt beside Francesca’s crumpled form. Her hands shook as she examined the body. "She's dead, Miss Rosalie," Diana gasped, looking up with wide, horrified eyes. "She’s been stabbed in the chest."

I buried my face in my hands, letting my shoulders shake as if I were sobbing. Beneath the cover of my palms, a cold, triumphant smile stretched across my lips.

*Stabbed in the chest.* Julian’s hired thugs had done exactly what they were paid to do—make it look like a lethal ambush. In the dark and the chaos, they hadn't noticed that the woman they were stabbing was already dead. They hadn't seen the deep, jagged slice across her throat that I had carved with a shard of glass hours ago. Julian Bellini had just provided the perfect, airtight alibi for my first *Vendetta*.

Lowering my hands, I turned my gaze to Julian. He was still on his knees, his face pale and slick with cold sweat, clutching his bleeding arm.

I limped toward him, my eyes wide with manufactured awe. "Julian... your arm," I breathed softly, ensuring my voice carried over the roar of the river. "You fought those ruthless men off. You risked your own life."

"I thought it was you in the car," he gritted out, his voice tight with a mixture of physical pain and dawning humiliation.

"But I am perfectly safe," I replied, tilting my head with a look of pure, innocent admiration. "Yet you still bled for Francesca. I never knew the Underboss of the Bellini family was so... merciful. To take a blade for a lowly servant."

Julian’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter.

"When word of this reaches Chicago," I continued, twisting the invisible knife deeper into his fragile ego, "the entire underworld will weep at your noble sacrifice. A true hero to the working class."

The humiliation radiating from him was palpable. The grand, romantic savior had been reduced to a bleeding fool who cuddled a dead maid. His eyes, dark and venomous, locked onto mine. The murderous rage simmering in his gaze was no longer an act.

Beside him, the silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I shifted my gaze to Rosalie. Her hands were balled into tight fists at her sides, her chest heaving as she stared at the ruined wreckage of her perfect plan. The shock in her eyes was rapidly melting away, replaced by a volatile, desperate fury that was just begging to be unleashed.