Chapter 3

5 AM. The Corleone Mansion was shrouded in deathly silence.

I stood before the massive wardrobe in my private dressing room, two wedding gowns hanging before me like ghosts—one was the ivory silk dress my mother had personally chosen for me before her death, its lace trim gleaming with sacred light in the morning sun; the other was my grandmother Lucia's black vintage gown, heavy velvet fabric embroidered with silver roses, exuding mystery and foreboding.

My fingers traced the fabric of the black dress.

White represents purity and innocence, but today was not a pure wedding. Today was war.

"Miss! What are you doing?"

Stylist Francesca's shriek pierced the morning silence. The sixty-year-old woman clutched a pearl headpiece, her eyes filled with terror.

"I'm choosing today's battle armor." I calmly lifted the black gown from its hanger.

"A black wedding dress is unlucky! It will bring misfortune!" Francesca's voice trembled. "Your mother in heaven would weep!"

I turned to face her, letting her see the determination in my eyes. "Francesca, some traditions need to be broken. Today's wedding... will be very special."

"But would Don Corleone approve? He's expecting to see you in white!"

"He'll understand." My voice was low and firm. "Because when push comes to shove, Corleone daughters don't back down."

Francesca collapsed into a chair, the crucifix slipping from her trembling hands. "Holy Mother of God, protect us all..."

An hour later, I crept toward my father's study. The ancestral portraits in the corridor gazed down at me through the dim light, as if questioning my decision.

I clutched two roses in my hand—one blood red, one snow white—along with a note that could seal the family's fate.

The study door was slightly ajar. Through the gap, I could see my father resting his head on his desk. Days of constant pressure had worn down even this man of steel. I quietly pushed open the door, each step careful and deliberate.

I placed the note gently beside my father's hand, the red and white roses lying quietly next to the paper.

"Papa, please pay attention to the flowers I'm giving you today. Trust your daughter's judgment. —Isabella."

My hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

What if he doesn't believe me? What if he thinks I've lost my mind? What if Alessandro is using me? Fear washed over me like a tide. No, I had to take this gamble.

Just then, footsteps echoed in the hallway.

"Miss, you're up early."

Giuseppe's voice made my heart nearly stop. I turned to see this man who had served our family for thirty years standing in the doorway, his eyes unreadable.

"Couldn't sleep. Today's the big day." I struggled to remain calm, but noticed Giuseppe's gaze lingering on me too long.

"Is there anything you need me to prepare?" Giuseppe took a step forward. I noticed his hand near the inside of his jacket—where weapons were usually kept.

"No need, Giuseppe. You..." My voice carried a probing tone. "Take care of Papa."

Giuseppe's eyes flickered. "Of course, Miss. I will."

When I returned to my bedroom, dawn was breaking. I closed the door and leaned against it, exhaling deeply, but immediately turned to my next task—arming myself.

I sat at my vanity and retrieved a delicate .22 caliber pistol from the deepest drawer. This was my mother's final gift—small, concealed, deadly.

I secured the holster to my thigh, the gun pressed against my skin. I practiced drawing in the mirror—once, twice, three times—until the motion flowed like silk.

Through the window, I witnessed a scene that chilled me to the bone.

In the garden, Luca was gesticulating to five men in black. Their posture and eyes had the look of trained killers. These were definitely not wedding security.

They looked more like executioners. My heart sank.

What if Alessandro doesn't show? What if he changes his mind? I had only this small gun and what might be nothing more than a pipe dream.

I spoke to my reflection in the mirror: "Isabella Corleone, you're either a genius or completely insane. Today you'll know the answer."

My phone buzzed. Alessandro's text appeared: "Everything's in position. Trust me."

I replied: "Trust is a luxury. I only trust results."

At 7 AM, I entered my father's breakfast room. Vito Corleone was already awake, holding the two roses and the note, looking at me with complex emotions.

"My daughter, what do these flowers mean?" His voice was unusually calm.

I sat across from him, spine straight. As a child, my father had taught me to use the language of flowers to communicate danger signals. I never thought I'd actually need it today.

"Papa, it's exactly what you think it means." I met his eyes. "Today, please trust these flowers."

My father set down the roses and studied me for a long time. I saw pain flash through his eyes, along with pride, and something else I'd never seen before.

"Isabella, you are a Corleone's daughter." He finally spoke. "Whatever decision you make, I trust your judgment."

In the distance, church bells began to toll, solemn and reverent. We both turned toward the window, where Palermo's sky was painted with golden morning light.

My father stood and took my arm. "Come, daughter. Let us witness this 'special' wedding."

I felt the tremor in my father's arm—a father's fear when facing unknown danger, but also unconditional trust.

Walking toward the car, my hand brushed against the gun on my thigh, the black wedding dress swaying in the wind.