Isabella’s POV
New York City. Manhattan.
The city's neon lights still flickered, a tireless monster devouring everyone's desires.

Our car stopped under the Brooklyn Bridge.
"Isabella, the road ahead is blocked," Sofia said, her expression grim as she looked out the window. "It's Vitale's men. They've set up a checkpoint on the only road to the Commission headquarters."
Through the window, I saw men in black trench coats standing in the rain, holding submachine guns, checking every car.
"They don't want me to testify," I said coldly.
If I was a no-show, they could pin everything on me, paint Lorenzo as a fool, and save the Vitale family's honor.
A neat little plan.

"Should we ram through?" Mama R's fingers tapped the steering wheel, her eyes sharp as a hawk's.
"No."
I put my hand on hers.
"That would just prove their point. We're witnesses, not thugs."

I took out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't used in years.
It was the last card Nonna had left me—an old, retired Godmother who was once a legend.
"Grandma Rosa, it's Elena's granddaughter."
There was a long silence on the other end, then a frail but powerful voice replied, "I knew you would call. Child, what do you need?"
"I need a path. A path to justice."
Half an hour later, a convoy of black cars with diplomatic plates arrived, escorted by an NYPD motorcycle unit.
Grandma Rosa might be retired, but her influence still ran deep in both worlds.
The Vitale hitmen saw the procession and just stared at each other, not daring to make a move.
We passed through the blockade without any trouble.
As the city lights flew by, I squeezed Leo's hand.
"Ready?"
Leo's face was pale, but he looked at me and nodded firmly. "For the truth."
Meanwhile, at the Commission headquarters.
It was a secret fortress hidden beneath Manhattan. In the cavernous hearing room, the Dons of the Five Families sat like stone gargoyles on a crumbling cathedral, their faces impassive, their eyes missing nothing.
Lorenzo knelt in the center, his hands tied behind his back.
He looked even worse than he had in the snow. His suit was torn and ragged. He had clearly been interrogated.
But his back was still straight. His eyes were empty as he stared ahead.
"Lorenzo Romano," the lead Inquisitor's voice was dry as dust. His gavel struck the wood. The sharp crack echoed in the dead air. "The Vitale family accuses you of murdering their heir, Cassandra, to protect your ex-wife. Do you confess?"
Lorenzo's dry lips moved. He was about to speak.
"He does not."
The great doors swung open.
I walked in, wearing a long black dress and high heels.
Behind me were Sofia, Petra, and the heavily guarded Leo.
The murmurs died. Every eye in the room swiveled to me. The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Lorenzo's head snapped around. His eyes widened in sheer terror. Not for himself, but for me. He shook his head, a frantic, silent plea: Go. Get out of here. Run.
I ignored him.
I walked to the witness stand and looked directly at the old Dons on the dais.
"My name is Isabella Rossi. And I'm here to reclaim my innocence."