Rising From Ashes: The Mafia King's Bride

Isabella POV

The scent of Damien Moretti’s expensive cologne and the terrifying weight of his gaze still clung to my skin as I returned to the Russo Estate. I had survived the Prince of New York, but the war inside my own home was just beginning.

After paying my respects to Nonna Elena, I was immediately summoned to Beatrice’s drawing room. The space was a suffocating display of gilded mirrors and velvet, a desperate attempt by a woman from New Jersey to mimic old Italian money.

Beatrice sat on a chaise lounge, sipping tea. "Isabella," she began, her voice dripping with fake maternal concern. "I hear you visited the Plaza today. While it's good to show gratitude, running to the Morettis so frequently makes our family look desperate. It lacks dignity." She set her cup down, her eyes narrowing. "You are naive to the ways of our world. Next time, I will accompany you. I will guide you on how to properly address Signora Eleonore."

She wanted to hijack my only lifeline. I kept my posture perfectly straight, my expression serene.

"That won't be necessary, Beatrice," I replied smoothly. "Signora Eleonore and Aurora Conti both insisted I visit them often. They prefer our private conversations." I let my gaze drift around her gaudy room before meeting her eyes. "Besides, living in my mother's suite again... it makes taking that bullet for the Matriarch, and the three years of exile in Europe, finally feel meaningful."

The fake smile shattered on Beatrice’s face. The reminder of her role in my suffering, paired with my untouchable connection to the Morettis, left her speechless. I offered a polite nod and walked out, leaving her to choke on her own venom.

That evening, the dining room felt like a viper's nest. My father, Luca, was absent on "business," leaving Beatrice free to unleash her fury.

"She is ungrateful," Beatrice hissed to Angelo and Carmella, slicing her steak with unnecessary force. "I try to guide her, and she throws the past in my face."

Angelo scoffed, his narrow forehead wrinkling in disdain. "She got lucky catching a bullet, and now she thinks she's a Capo. She's nothing."

Carmella placed a comforting hand on Beatrice’s arm, her beautiful face twisted in a mask of malicious innocence. "Don't be upset, Auntie. Izzy just doesn't understand the rules yet. Perhaps we need to be stricter with her. We can't have her bringing *disonore* (dishonor) to the Russo name in public."

"You're right, Carmella," Beatrice agreed, her eyes gleaming with a dark promise. "She needs to learn who runs this house."

Their opportunity came the very next morning.

I was in the Matriarch's Suite when a heavy knock echoed through the halls. A Moretti family Soldier, his face a mask of lethal indifference, bypassed the estate's guards and delivered a mountain of garment bags and a heavy, sealed envelope directly to my room.

Word spread instantly. Within minutes, Beatrice marched into my suite, flanked by Carmella, several female relatives, and her loyal maid, Gina.

"What a generous tribute," Beatrice declared, her eyes locked hungrily on the Parisian couture labels peeking from the bags. "Gina, inventory these items and take them to the family vault. It is house rules that all major gifts be managed by the Matriarch."

Gina stepped forward, reaching for the closest bag.

"Touch that, and you'll lose your hand," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it was cold enough to freeze the room.

Gina froze. Beatrice’s face flushed with rage. "How dare you speak to my staff that way! I am the lady of this house, Isabella. You will obey the rules!"

I stepped between them and the gifts, my chin raised. "These are private gifts from the mother of the Dark Don. To confiscate them is a public insult to Eleonore Moretti." I locked eyes with Beatrice, letting the full weight of my words sink in. "If the New York underworld hears that the Russo family is so greedy and short-sighted that they steal a daughter's reward from the Morettis... it won't just be gossip, Beatrice. It will be a *disonore* that invites a war."

The word *war* hung in the air like a guillotine. In our world, disrespecting a Don's bloodline was a death sentence. Beatrice paled, her authority crumbling under the absolute, terrifying rules of the Mafia. She looked at the silent, judging faces of the other women, realizing she had been publicly humiliated and outmaneuvered.

"Fine," she spat, her voice trembling with suppressed fury. "Keep your trinkets." She turned on her heel and stormed out, the rest of her entourage scurrying after her like frightened mice.

I had won the battle, but I knew the war was far from over.

Down the hall, in the safety of her drawing room, Beatrice paced like a caged animal. Carmella sat on the sofa, weeping softly into a lace handkerchief.

"Did you see that silver gown?" Carmella sobbed. "The one covered in crystals? It's a masterpiece. I was supposed to be the star of the St. Rose Charity Gala next week, and now she's going to ruin it!"

Beatrice stopped pacing. The humiliation in her eyes hardened into pure, venomous spite. She walked over and tilted Carmella’s chin up.

"Dry your tears, *mia dolcezza* (my sweetness)," Beatrice whispered, a cruel smile twisting her lips. "You will wear that 'Starlight' gown to the gala. You will be the one everyone looks at."

"But Izzy won't give it to me," Carmella sniffled.

"Oh, she will," Beatrice promised, her voice dropping to a deadly murmur. "I will make sure she hands it over willingly."