Rising From Ashes: The Mafia King's Bride

Isabella POV

The smell of charred flesh and rotting wood still lingered in the back of my throat. In my nightmares, I was always burning.

I could still hear Carmella’s sweet, venomous voice echoing in that abandoned Brooklyn warehouse, confessing how she had meticulously stolen my life, my mother's jewels, and my father's love. I could still see the cold indifference in my half-brother Angelo’s eyes right before he struck the match. They had called me insane for threatening to break *Omertà* (the code of silence) to the Moretti family. They burned me alive to protect their stolen thrones.

But the flames hadn't consumed me. They had forged me.

I blinked, the phantom heat of the inferno fading into the cool, overcast New York afternoon. I was seventeen again, sitting in the plush leather backseat of a Moretti family Cadillac. Three years of forced exile in Switzerland—a punishment disguised as "recuperation" by my father, Luca, after I took a bullet for the Moretti Matriarch—were finally over.

The car rolled to a halt before the heavy wrought-iron gates of the Russo Estate. Rocco, a low-level Soldier loyal to my stepmother, Beatrice, stepped up to the window.

"Main drive's under maintenance," Rocco grunted, a disrespectful smirk playing on his lips as he looked at the car. "Driver, take the service entrance around back."

In my past life, I would have screamed. I would have thrown a tantrum, demanding the respect owed to a Capo's trueborn daughter, only to be labeled hysterical.

Now, I didn't even roll down the window. I simply sat in the shadows and glanced at the man sitting beside me.

Silvio, Eleonore Moretti’s personal Enforcer, didn't say a word to me. He simply opened his door and stepped out into the crisp air. He walked up to Rocco with the terrifying, silent grace of a predator. Before the Russo Soldier could even blink, Silvio drew his M1911 pistol and pressed the cold steel barrel directly against the center of Rocco’s forehead.

"The main gate," Silvio said, his voice devoid of any human warmth. "Now."

Rocco paled, his arrogant smirk crumbling into sheer terror. Under the absolute, crushing authority of the Moretti family, the heavy iron gates groaned open.

I didn't look at Rocco as the Cadillac glided up the main driveway. I was a queen returning to her stolen kingdom, and I would not enter through the servant's door.

The entire family was waiting in the grand foyer, alerted by the commotion at the gates. My father, Luca; my stepmother, Beatrice, wearing her usual mask of maternal concern; my half-brother, Angelo; his wife, Vera; and Carmella, the bastard child parading as the family's golden girl.

"Isabella, *mia cara*" (my dear), Beatrice cooed, stepping forward with open arms, though her eyes were sharp with calculation. "We weren't expecting you to make such a... dramatic entrance. I've had the east wing guest room prepared for you."

The guest room. The ultimate insult, tucked away in the darkest corner of the estate.

I didn't argue. Instead, I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, playing the fragile, traumatized girl they all expected me to be.

"The guest room?" I whispered, my voice trembling just enough. "But Beatrice, the doctors in Switzerland were very clear. My nerves are still so fragile from the shooting. I need to be surrounded by beautiful, comforting memories to heal." I let my gaze drift up the grand staircase, toward the west wing. "I can only stay in my mother's suite. It's my only sanctuary."

Beatrice's fake smile tightened into a grimace. "Izzy, sweetie, that suite is... currently occupied."

"Oh?" I widened my eyes in innocent surprise, turning to my sister-in-law. "Vera, did you and Angelo move in there? I suppose I could squeeze into the guest room, but..." I let out a soft, distressed sigh, looking down at my hands. "I just don't know what Signora Eleonore will think when she comes to visit me next week. You know how much the Moretti family values tradition and proper respect for a Capo's bloodline."

The name *Moretti* dropped like a live grenade in the foyer. The threat was veiled, wrapped in a sweet, girlish concern, but it was absolute. Beatrice’s face drained of color. To offend the Dark Don's mother was a death sentence for a family like ours.

I turned my innocent gaze to Carmella, who was suddenly looking very small in her expensive silk dress—a dress bought with my mother's money.

"It isn't you, is it, Carm?" I asked softly.

Carmella’s face flushed a dark, humiliated red. Under the crushing weight of the Moretti name and the eyes of the entire foyer, she had nowhere to hide.

"It's me," she choked out, her fists clenching at her sides.