I TOOK FOUR BULLETS FOR A MAFIA BOSS’S MOTHER — THEN HE OFFERED ME PROTECTION IN A WAY THAT FELT LIKE A TRAP

The ballroom of the Grand Plaza Hotel looked like a cathedral built for kings and murderers.

Massive crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting glittering gold light across marble floors, velvet-draped dining tables, and two hundred men dressed in dark, expensive tuxedos. Beneath the sweet smell of roasted meats, expensive cigars, and vintage wine lay the suffocating, electric tension of fifty loaded weapons concealed beneath silk jackets.

I stood at the top of the grand marble staircase, my hand resting on Marco’s arm.

I wore a floor-length emerald green satin dress that hugged every curve of my body, its high collar completely concealing the heavy bandages over my shoulder. Around my neck hung the platinum necklace Nonna had given me, the silver key resting heavy against my collarbone. My dark hair was swept up into an intricate style, exposing my long neck and the small crescent birthmark.

Beside me, Marco looked like an emperor of darkness. His dark tuxedo was tailored to perfection, his broad frame radiating an aura of violence so potent that capos from rival families instinctively stepped back as we began our descent.

Dominic Rossi walked three steps behind us, his gray eyes scanning the room like a hawk searching for prey.

"Remember," Marco murmured out of the side of his mouth, his arm solid as iron beneath my palm. "Do not speak unless I address you. Do not look away from anyone who stares. You are a Moretti. You do not bow to anyone in this room."

"I'm terrified, Marco," I whispered under my breath, my fingers digging into his sleeve.

"Good," Marco replied softly, a faint, lethal smile touching his lips. "Use it. Terror keeps you sharp."

At the far end of the room, seated at a long, raised table beneath the crests of the Five Families, sat Don Carmine Falcone.

He was seventy years old, with skin like yellow parchment, a hooked nose, and pale blue eyes that looked completely dead. Beside him sat his eldest son, Mateo Falcone—a broad, arrogant man in his thirties with a thick neck and a violent reputation.

As Marco and I approached the table, the quiet chatter in the ballroom faded into absolute silence. Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto us.

"Marco," Carmine Falcone rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across concrete. He did not stand. "You honor us with your presence. And you brought your... new bride."

"Carmine," Marco acknowledged with a cold, brief nod. He did not bow. "My wife wanted to personally see the man who sends amateur hitmen to attack elderly women in lunch spots."

A collective gasp rippled through the surrounding mob bosses. Dominic quietly shifted his footing behind us, his hand moving under his jacket.

Mateo Falcone slammed his palm onto the table, his face flushing dark red. "Watch your mouth, Moretti! You're speaking to the head of the Commission!"

Marco didn't even glance at Mateo. His eyes remained fixed on the elder Don. "I speak to the man who paid four men to break the truce. Four men who are currently resting at the bottom of the Chicago River."

Carmine Falcone leaned forward, his dead blue eyes drifting away from Marco and settling directly onto my face.

He stared at my crescent birthmark. His thin, pale lips slowly curled into a horrific, yellow-toothed smile.

"She has Isabella's mark," Carmine whispered, his raspy voice echoing through the silent ballroom. "The lost little princess of the docks. We searched twenty-two years for you, little girl."

My blood ran ice cold, but I remembered Marco’s words. I didn't look away. I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and stared directly into the eyes of the man who had ordered my parents' murder.

"You found me, Don Falcone," I said, my voice ringing surprisingly clear through the cavernous room. "And as you can see, I take bullets much better than your men shoot them."

A sudden, sharp chuckle burst from the far corner of the room where the head of the Lucchese family sat. Even Marco’s jaw relaxed by a fraction of a millimeter, a flash of fierce pride lighting up his gray eyes.

Carmine’s smile vanished instantly. His pale eyes narrowed into slits of pure venom.

"You speak bold words for a girl whose entire bloodline was wiped out in a single night," Carmine hissed, leaning back in his chair. "You think wearing a ring makes you safe, child? You think this brute can protect you from what is coming?"

"She doesn't need to think, Carmine," Marco interjected, his voice dropping into a register so dark and low it felt like a physical weight pressing down on the room. "She knows. Because if anyone from your house so much as looks in her direction again, I won't just kill the men you send. I will slaughter every person who bears the name Falcone until there is nothing left of your family except stories to frighten children."

The silence in the room was deafening. No one moved. No one dared to breathe.

Carmine Falcone stared at Marco for three agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, he picked up his glass of wine.

"A toast," Carmine rasped softly, raising his glass toward us. "To the Don... and his brave, doomed queen."

As Marco led me away from the table, my hand was trembling violently against his arm. I knew the war had officially begun.

And as we passed a darkened alcove near the exit, I caught sight of something that made my heart stop.

Standing in the shadows, watching us with a cold, calculating gaze, was a young woman wearing a sharp white suit. Her face was striking, her dark eyes filled with absolute, unadulterated hatred as she stared at my hand wrapped around Marco’s arm.

I leaned closer to Marco. "Who is that woman in white?"