Chapter 3 - The Trapper's Dinner
The study door opened, and Dr. Vance—a quiet, elderly physician who had served the Moretti family for thirty years—stepped inside with his medical kit.
While Dr. Vance carefully cleaned and bandaged the cuts on my hands and treated the raw red welt on my arm left by Vivian’s riding crop, Vincent stood by the tall glass windows, staring out into the falling snow, his phone pressed to his ear.
"Get Leo," Vincent commanded into the phone, his voice flat and terrifyingly precise. "I want forty men surrounding the DeMarco estate in Long Island by midnight. Cut their landlines, disable their private security servers, and monitor every vehicle leaving their perimeter. If Joseph DeMarco tries to step onto a helicopter, shoot the rotors."
He paused, listening to the response on the other end.
"No," Vincent added, his grey eyes reflecting the cold fire in the hearth. "Do not arrest him yet. I want him to come here. Tell him his daughter’s engagement party has suffered a small administrative delay and that I require his presence for an urgent family council meeting at midnight."
He ended the call and turned back to face the room.
"Dr. Vance," Vincent said as the doctor finished putting a white bandage around my wrist. "Take Isabella to the east wing master guest suite. Have the staff bring her fresh clothes—something fitting for a daughter of the Moretti line. Ensure she is guarded by my personal detail."
"Yes, Don Vincent," Dr. Vance said respectfully, packing his supplies.
I stood up from the sofa, feeling overwhelmed, exhausted, and deeply unsettled by the massive shift in my reality two hours ago. I had entered this house as an underpaid, insulted maid tasked with scrubbing floors; now I was being addressed as a hidden heir to a multi-billion-dollar crime syndicate.
"Vincent," I said, stepping toward him as the doctor waited near the door. "What are you going to do to Vivian?"
Vincent walked over to me, looking down at my face with an expression that was both protective and terrifyingly resolved.
"Vivian believed she was going to spend tonight celebrating her claim over this house," Vincent said softly, reaching out to gently adjust the collar of my fresh sweater over my shoulders. "She spent three years treating the staff of this house like animals, believing her father's lies had made her untouchable. Tonight, she is going to answer for every single strike of that whip... and every year your mother suffered in the dark."
An hour later, I was seated in a lavish, marble-tiled bathroom in the east wing, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
The cheap burgundy uniform was gone, thrown into the fireplace by Vincent’s orders. In its place, I wore a stunning navy blue velvet evening gown that fit my curves perfectly—a dress brought directly from the high-end boutique in the estate's private wardrobe vault. My dark hair had been washed and styled into soft, elegant waves by a quiet female stylist, and the silver locket rested prominently against my chest, sparkling against the dark velvet fabric.
For thirty years, I had been told by society—and by women like Vivian—that my size, my modest background, and my working-class hands made me invisible, less worthy, easy to push around. But as I looked at myself in the mirror, wearing the jewel of my mother’s true bloodline, I didn't see an invisible maid anymore.
I saw Teresa Romano’s daughter.
A knock sounded at the suite door. Marco stepped inside, holding a silver tray with a cup of warm chamomile tea.
"Miss Isabella," Marco said respectfully, setting the tea on the side table. "Joseph DeMarco’s limousine has just entered the main gate. The Don has requested your presence in the formal dining room in ten minutes."
"Is Vivian down there?" I asked.
"The Don had her brought down from her room five minutes ago," Marco said, a small, grim smile touching his lips. "She is currently seated at the table... alongside her father."
My pulse quickened, a wave of nervous adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Does Joseph know I'm alive?"
"He knows someone found the locket," Marco replied, his voice darkening. "And he thinks he can bribe or threaten his way out of it before Vincent takes action. He doesn't realize that Vincent has already spent the last two hours auditing twenty-eight years of DeMarco family bank accounts."
I stood up, adjusting the velvet sleeves of my gown. "Let's go down, Marco."
The grand dining room of Belladonna House was a massive, imposing space dominated by a twenty-foot dark oak table beneath three sparkling crystal chandeliers.
When I stepped through the double doors, accompanied by Marco and two armed guards, the room fell silent.
Sitting at the far end of the table was Joseph DeMarco—a sixty-year-old man with thin silver hair, tailored Italian suit, and sharp, calculating eyes that had spent decades navigating the bloody politics of the underworld. Next to him sat Vivian, her face pale, her eyes red from crying, her silver-blue gown crumpled and ruined.
At the head of the table sat Vincent Moretti, looking like a king sitting upon a throne of judgment.
Joseph DeMarco was mid-sentence, pounding his fist on the table. "Vincent, this is an insult! You lock my daughter in a room during her own party, you mobilize troops around my Long Island estate, and you call me out here in the middle of a blizzard like a common criminal?! Over what? A rumor started by a thief?"
"She isn't a thief, Joseph," Vincent said coldly, taking a slow sip from his crystal glass of red wine.
"Then who is she?!" Joseph demanded, turning his head angrily toward the doorway.
His voice caught in his throat.
I stepped out of the shadows of the entrance archway, walking steadily into the warm light of the chandeliers. The navy velvet gown flowed gracefully around my legs, and the silver locket around my neck caught the light, gleaming brightly against my skin.
Joseph DeMarco’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated horror. His hands gripping the arms of his chair began to shake so violently that his heavy gold ring clattered against the wood.
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"Teresa..." he choked out, his voice barely a whisper, as if he had just seen a ghost walk out of a grave.
"No, Joseph," I said, my voice echoing clearly off the high mahogany walls, steady and unyielding. "My name is Isabella. I am Teresa's daughter."
