Chapter 3

The next morning, Luca informed me we'd be attending Sunday Mass with the Morettis.

"Family tradition," he said, adjusting his cufflinks in the mirror. "My father expects us both."

I nodded and reached for my white dress. The costume of a compliant bride.

St. Ambrose was packed. The Morettis filled the front pews, dropping fat envelopes into the collection plate while the whole neighborhood watched. I knelt beside Luca, hands folded, head bowed.

The incense made my eyes water. Or maybe it was the hypocrisy.

"You look beautiful today," Luca murmured, his lips brushing my ear. "Like a saint."

Like a lamb, I thought. Dressed for slaughter.

I smiled and squeezed his hand.

Across the aisle, Enzo Moretti caught my eye. Luca's father was sixty-three, with silver hair and the cold gaze of a man who had buried more enemies than friends. He studied me for a long moment—assessing, calculating—before turning back to the altar.

Did he know? Did he suspect what his son was planning?

After Mass, the families gathered on the church steps. Luca's hand rested on my lower back as we made the rounds—the Morettis' future daughter-in-law, presented like a prize mare.

Then Enzo appeared at my side.

"Isabella. Walk with me."

It wasn't a request.

We strolled along the rose garden where old women lit candles for the dead. Two soldiers followed at a respectful distance.

"My son is fortunate," Enzo said quietly. "A Costa bride. Your father's ports. A strong alliance."

"I'm the fortunate one, Don Moretti."

He stopped by a statue of the Virgin Mary. "After you're married, I'll need you to guide him. Keep him steady." His eyes met mine. "A good wife can civilize even the wildest man."

A good wife. As if I were a leash. A muzzle.

"I would be honored to support my husband," I said. "In whatever way the family needs."

Enzo nodded slowly. "You have your father's eyes. Vittorio was always the smart one." He began walking back toward the church. "I hope you're smart enough to survive what's coming."

The words hung in the air long after he was gone.

The next morning, I slipped away to meet Sebastián.

The laundromat on Mulberry Street had been Costa territory for forty years. Through the back door, past the industrial dryers, was a room where no one asked questions.

My brother was waiting. He looked like our father—dark hair, sharp jaw, the same stillness that could erupt into violence without warning. At thirty-two, he was already more feared than Papa had ever been.

He didn't rise when I entered. Just watched me with those calculating eyes.

"Play it," I said.

I handed him the drive. He plugged it into a laptop, and Luca's voice filled the room.

Sebastián's jaw tightened. He listened to the whole thing—the shipment routes, the wedding timeline, the plans for our family's ports.

When it ended, silence.

"If we move now," he said finally, "we break the peace. War in the streets. Feds crawling up our ass for years."

"If we do nothing, we lose everything. He's not just cheating on me, Bastián. He's selling us to the Lazzaris."

"So we handle it quietly. Car accident. Mugging gone wrong."

"No." I leaned forward. "I want to do it at the wedding. In front of everyone—the Five Families, the politicians, the press. All of them watching when his lies come crashing down."

My brother's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because if I expose him privately, the Morettis bury it. They handle him quietly, and I become the loyal wife who saved the Don's life—trapped in that marriage forever as my reward." I held his gaze. "I want out. Completely. The only way that happens is if the whole world sees what he is."

Sebastián studied me for a long moment. Then something shifted in his expression—respect, maybe. Or recognition.

"Alright. We do it your way." He leaned back. "But you'll need more than what's on that drive. Insurance. Something even the Morettis can't make disappear."

"I know someone who might help. Simona Carrone."

His eyebrows rose. "The widow? She doesn't see anyone."

"She'll see me." I stood. "Mama was her goddaughter."

Two days later, I sat across from Simona Carrone in Suite 1407 of the Carlyle Hotel.

Simona answered the door herself—seventy-one years old, draped in black silk, still beautiful in the way of women who had survived everything.

Her husband Salvatore had been boss of bosses until his assassination fifteen years ago.

Everyone expected her to disappear into grief. Instead, she'd become something else entirely: a broker of secrets, the woman you called when you needed things done without fingerprints.

"Isabella Costa." She gestured me inside. "You have your mother's face. That trapped-bird look. Elena had it too, toward the end."

I stiffened. "I'm not my mother."

"No." Simona's eyes glittered as she poured tea. "Elena waited for your father to save her. You came to save yourself." She set down the pot. "What do you need?"

"Evidence. Enough to bury Luca Moretti so deep he never climbs out."

"You have evidence already. I can see it in your posture—you're carrying something sharp."

"I need more. Insurance."

She reached into her purse and withdrew a business card. Cream-colored, expensive. A single name in black ink: Sara Torres.

"Ex-FBI," Simona said. "Discreet. She specializes in finding things men try to hide." She slid the card across the table. "She's helped women like you before. Women who married into... complicated families."

I took it. "What do I owe you?"

"Consider it a gift. I was fond of your mother." She lifted her teacup, and her smile turned sharp. "Make him suffer, cara. It's the only language men like that understand."

That night, I sat in the dark of Luca's penthouse, the business card turning over in my fingers.

About my mother's earrings, hidden in their velvet box.

About the way Luca slept beside me every night, certain I would never be more than what he'd made me.

I pulled out my phone and began typing. His schedule. His meetings. His patterns.

Every trail a hunter needs to track her prey.