Chapter 1

We were three days into the silent treatment when Vincenzo decided to take his precious childhood friend Liliana on a little getaway.

He expected me to lose my mind with jealousy. But when he strolled back a month later, he found a woman he didn't recognize.

He brought Liliana to the annual gala—I didn't blink.

He dropped a small fortune on diamonds for her—I said nothing.

And at the family dinner, when he made a spectacle of ordering me to hand over my Donna ring to Liliana, I slipped it off my finger without a moment's hesitation and slid it onto hers.

Vincenzo swirled his wine, a smug smile playing on his lips.

"Look at you, Isabella. You've finally learned to keep that gutter instinct in check. You almost look like a real Donna now."

"Consider this a reward. In three days, you'll have a wedding you won't forget."

I stared down at my bare finger and said nothing.

He thought I was just some orphan he'd plucked from the slums—a stray dog that would never leave his side.

What he didn't know was that I was the long-lost heiress of the Castello family. The top family. The one even the other Five Families answered to.

In three days, my father and brothers would roll into New York with a full security detail to take me home.

Chapter 1

The Moretti estate was glittering with champagne and designer gowns that night.

Liliana paraded around, flashing the Moretti family ring at every woman within earshot. They gasped and cooed—and then shot me looks of pure pity from across the room.

Vincenzo sat at the head of the table, his eyes flicking toward me now and then, checking for a reaction.

When Liliana had soaked up enough attention, she glided over with a flute of champagne. Her gaze landed on my neck—on the pink diamond necklace Vincenzo had dropped twelve million on at auction three years ago, for my birthday.

She let out a little laugh, leaning in close enough that I could smell her perfume.

"Isabella, now that you're not wearing the family ring, don't you think it's a bit... tacky to keep wearing jewelry meant for the lady of the house?"

She reached out, her nails grazing my throat. I flinched back.

And just like that—whoosh—her champagne went all over my silk gown. The crystal flute hit the marble floor with a sharp crack.

Liliana clutched her hand like she'd been shot, her eyes flooding with tears on cue.

"Isabella, I just wanted to see your necklace! If you didn't want to show me, fine—but you didn't have to push me!"

The music died. Every head in the room turned our way.

Vincenzo was already striding over, shoving Liliana behind him like she was made of glass. He frowned at the microscopic scratch on her hand and went rigid.

"Isabella, I thought you were finally getting over that jealous, trashy attitude! What the hell is wrong with you now?"

Every word dripped with blame. With favoritism. With the kind of casual cruelty I'd grown so used to over the years.

I looked at his face—the face I'd loved for seven years—and felt something crack deep in my chest.

I took a breath. Swallowed the burning in my throat.

I didn't explain. Didn't defend myself.

I reached behind my neck, unclasped the necklace, and held it out to Liliana.

"You want it? Take it. And sorry—I guess I lost my footing."

Vincenzo's jaw went slack. He stared at me like I'd grown a second head.

Liliana froze mid-sob.

I pulled a handkerchief from my clutch, dabbed the champagne off my hands, and knelt down. Piece by piece, I gathered every shard of glass from the floor and dropped them into the trash.

When I stood up, I met Vincenzo's eyes.

"I'm going upstairs to change."

I turned and walked toward the staircase, my back straight as a blade. I could feel his gaze burning into me the whole way.

Once I was in my room, I closed the door and leaned against it. Let my eyes fall shut.

Seven years of holding on. Gone.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A coded message from my father:

"Isabella. The Castello convoy enters New York in three days. The Morettis will pay ten times over for what they've done to you."

I felt the sting of tears at the corners of my eyes.

The door flew open.

"What is this supposed to be?"

Vincenzo was already crossing the room, snatching my phone out of my hand. The screen had just gone dark. He tossed it onto the carpet without a second thought.

His hand shot out, gripping my chin, forcing my eyes to his.

"Why didn't you fight back?" His voice was sharp, probing. He was testing me.

I knew the game. He'd orchestrated all of it—Liliana, the ring, the necklace—to see if he could still get a rise out of me.

He and Liliana had been attached at the hip since childhood. At first, it made me uncomfortable, but I brushed it off. Then I found their secret chat channel. When I confronted him, he exploded—said I was just a jealous, possessive shrew who didn't know her place.

He blamed it on my "gutter upbringing." To "fix" me, he promoted Liliana to a permanent fixture in our lives. The more I reacted, the more he paraded her around. Even his friends ganged up on me—"Vincenzo and Liliana grew up together. If they wanted to be together, they would be by now. What makes you, a nobody from the slums, think you're fit to be his Donna?"

I started to believe them. Started to think maybe I was the problem.

Until the third day of our fight. I was burning up with fever, barely able to stand. He looked right through me, packed a bag, and took a "heartbroken" Liliana on a tropical vacation.

Social media was flooded with pictures of her draped all over him on some private island. Her caption read: "Some things never change—still as close as we were as kids. No outsider gets in the way."

That's when I realized: I was the outsider. And it was time to show myself out.

So when he demanded an answer, my voice was flat. Dead.

"Didn't you say I was too much? That I needed to be more understanding? I gave her the ring and the necklace. Isn't that exactly what you wanted?"

Chapter 2

My answer hit him like a balm.

He stepped closer, his lips brushing my ear.

"Isabella, you're finally learning what it means to be a Donna. Liliana is family to me—like a sister. I look out for her. You need to be the bigger person. A woman who can't understand that doesn't belong at my side. Play your cards right, and your place here is safe."

A promise. Delivered like a king tossing crumbs to a beggar.

He expected me to be grateful.

A frantic knock shattered the moment.

"Vincenzo!" Liliana's syrupy voice filtered through the door. "My heart's acting up again. Can you please come sit with me?"

The warmth in his arms evaporated. He turned toward the door without a second thought.

But he paused at the threshold, glancing back.

"Charity gala tomorrow night. I'm taking Liliana. She doesn't have a dress. Have that 'Starlight' gown of yours taken to her room in the morning, and get a tailor to adjust it."

I felt the air leave my lungs.

The Starlight gown. The one he'd commissioned from a French designer five years ago, when we'd first gotten serious. Nine hundred and ninety-nine diamonds sewn into the train. I'd treated it like a holy relic—I'd even fired a maid who tried it on without permission.

Vincenzo had backed me up that day. He'd said, "A Donna's things are sacred."

Now he was handing it over to her.

My nails bit into my palms so hard I almost drew blood.

I met his self-satisfied gaze and nodded slowly.

"Okay. I'll have it sent over in the morning."

He held my eyes for a long moment, then walked out. I heard him cooing to Liliana in the hall, the soft click of a door closing down the corridor.

I went to my desk, pulled out a calendar and a red marker, and drew a heavy X over today's date.

Two days to go.

The next morning, I had the gown delivered to Liliana's room, just as he'd asked.

She left the door wide open. As I walked past, I saw her twirling in front of the mirror, the gown hanging off her like a tent.

She grabbed a pair of scissors and hacked off the most intricate section of the diamond-encrusted train.

"So dated," she drawled to the seamstress. "It'll look much better shorter."

The tailor glanced nervously at me in the doorway, then looked down at her feet.

I walked on without stopping.

Downstairs, the butler stopped me, reminding me that Vincenzo's stomach was acting up again after a rough night of drinking. I'd been making his herbal soup for seven years. It was second nature now.

I figured this might be the last time I'd ever do it. So I went to the kitchen, made the soup, and carried it toward his study.

The door was cracked open. I could hear him talking to Dominic, his Consigliere and oldest friend.

I was about to knock when Dominic's voice drifted out.

"Vincenzo, don't you think you're pushing too hard? The ring, the necklace, now the Starlight gown? Isabella's been with you for seven years. You're going to break her."

I froze.

Vincenzo's voice cut through, cold as steel.

"Break her? Where's she gonna go? She's a nobody. An orphan. Without the Morettis, she's got nothing."

"I've let her get away with too much. She's gotten too full of herself. She needs to be put back in her place. I'm just reminding her who's in charge. When she finally gets the message, she'll have a comfortable room here and a roof over her head. That's more than someone like her deserves."

Dominic sighed. "And if she actually gives up on you?"

Vincenzo laughed. "Give up? She's like a damn vine—she's been clinging to me her whole life. She can't survive without me. Without me, she's nothing."

Chapter 3

The tray tipped in my hands. Hot broth splashed onto my skin—a red welt immediately blooming on my hand.

I didn't feel a thing.

I turned around, found a corner, and poured the entire thermos down the sink.

Just then, Liliana appeared in that butchered gown. She saw me dumping the soup and smirked.

"Isabella, Vincenzo said the master bedroom has better lighting—it'll be better for my health. He wants me to move in tonight. So... you might want to clear your stuff out of there."

The master suite. I'd lived there for five years. Every corner held a memory of him.

I looked at her smug face and nodded.

"Sure. I'll go pack."

I walked into the room. I didn't touch the jewelry. Didn't touch the designer bags. I grabbed a black duffel bag, stuffed it with a few changes of clothes, my passport, and my ID.

My phone buzzed. A text from my father:

"The process of erasing 'Isabella' from all public records is complete. The girl you were is gone."

I zipped the bag, slung it over my shoulder, and walked out of the master suite.

I moved into the smallest, dustiest storage room in the north wing. It smelled like mold and forgotten things.

I set the bag on the narrow cot and didn't touch anything else.

Twelve hours to go.

By evening, a blizzard had rolled over New York.

Vincenzo came back from a high-level meeting, shaking the snow off his coat. He scanned the main hall—and his face darkened.

The butler stuttered, "Don, Miss Isabella moved to the storage room in the north wing."

Vincenzo's jaw tightened. He stormed through the corridors and kicked the door open.

I was sitting on the cot, watching the snow fall.

He took in the cramped space, the bare walls—then his eyes landed on my duffel bag.

"Isabella, what the hell is this stunt?" His voice was a whip. "Liliana mentioned she liked the master bedroom. She didn't say you had to move into a damn closet. Are you trying to guilt me?"

I stood up, meeting his eyes.

"All the other guest rooms have Liliana's things in them. This was the only empty space. It doesn't matter to me where I sleep."

My lack of reaction infuriated him.

He grabbed my wrist—hard. My sleeve rode up, exposing the jagged, foot-long scar on my arm.

Three years ago, I'd taken a knife for him. Almost bled out on an operating table.

He stared at the scar. And there was no tenderness in his eyes. Only disgust.

"What, you keep flashing that thing around like you expect a medal? You think taking one hit for me means you get to run this house? Liliana saw it today and couldn't even eat her lunch. A woman who makes guests uncomfortable isn't fit to be a Donna."

"Starting tomorrow, you wear long sleeves. If you can't manage that, you can move to the gatehouse. Stay out of her sight."

He was baiting me. Trying to crack me. Trying to see me break down and beg.

I looked at his twisted, furious face. And I felt nothing.

I pulled my arm free, grabbed my bag, and walked past him toward the door.

"Fine. I'll go to the gatehouse."

He snapped.

My submission—my calm—was like gasoline on a fire. He lunged after me, ripped the bag from my hands, and threw open the front doors.

The blizzard roared into the foyer.

He hurled my bag into the snow and pointed at the gates.

"Isabella, if you want to play games so bad, then get the hell out of my house! And don't come back!"

"Let's see how long a homeless orphan like you lasts out there without me! Without me, you're nothing—less than a stray dog!"

I stood in the doorway in my thin sweater, the frozen wind cutting through me like shards of glass.

I looked at my bag lying in the snow.

And without a moment's hesitation, I stepped out into the storm.

I didn't look back.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind me.

I walked to my bag, picked it up, brushed off the snow.

My phone lit up. My father's voice crackled through the line.

"Isabella. The Castello convoy has entered New York City limits. I'll be at the gates in thirty minutes. I'm taking you home."

The snow fell harder. The wind howled, driving ice into my face. My legs went numb, my joints aching with every step.

But I didn't stop. And I didn't look back at the black iron gates of the Moretti estate.