Betrayed Bride, Mafia Princess Rises
At my ten-week ultrasound, I was supposed to be celebrating the future of the Falcone family. I was Isabella Falcone, wife to the most powerful Don in the south.
But when the nurse called my name, the man who stood up beside his pregnant mistress was my husband.
In the sterile silence of that waiting room, he chose her. He later confessed he was being blackmailed by her family—a weakness that was a death sentence in our world. That night, he moved his mistress into our home, into my bedroom, and locked me away like a prisoner in the staff quarters. He wasn't imprisoning his wife; he was guarding an asset. He needed the legitimate heir I carried to save his crumbling empire.
His betrayal was absolute when his own mother and my adoptive parents arrived while he was away. They forced me to sign divorce papers, then told me they were taking me to a clinic. His mother pulled out a gun and pointed not at my head, but at my stomach.
"We're terminating this complication," she said coldly.
As they dragged me from the house, my world went dark. But through the haze, I saw a fleet of black cars blocking the gate. An army of men poured out, led by a face I had only ever seen in a photograph. Days earlier, locked in my room, I made a single phone call to the only man more powerful than my husband: my biological father, the head of the Chicago Outfit. And he had come to collect his daughter.
Chapters
Share
Chapter 4
Isabella POV:
Hope was a dangerous, fragile thing. For three days after the call, I nurtured it in the dark. A man with a calm, authoritative voice had answered. He didn't ask questions. He just said, "We know. Stay put. We're coming."
I waited. I ate the food they left. I feigned compliance. I was counting the minutes until my salvation arrived.
It came on a Thursday, while Vincent was in California for a meeting.
But it wasn't my saviors who came to my door.
It was my jailers.
The lock turned, and the door swung open to reveal Vincent's mother, a woman whose disapproval of me had been a constant, cold pressure for a decade. Behind her stood two of the most loyal Falcone soldiers. And behind them, a sight that froze the air in my lungs: my adoptive parents, the Carusos.
"Isabella," my adoptive mother said, her voice dripping with false concern. "We heard you haven't been well."
"Get out," I said, my voice shaking.
Vincent's mother, the Dowager Queen, stepped forward. Her eyes were chips of flint. "We've come to solve a problem." She held up a stack of papers. "Divorce papers. You will sign them."
My adoptive father snatched them and thrust them at me. "Sign them, Isabella. It's for the best."
"No."
His hand flew out, and the slap cracked across my face, sending me stumbling back. It was a harder, more vicious blow than any Vincent had ever dealt me. It was the blow that severed the final, frayed thread of affection I had for the people who raised me. They weren't here to help me. They were here to curry favor with the Falcones, to prove their loyalty by sanctioning the violence against their own "daughter."
"There are rumors, Isabella," Vincent's mother said, her voice a low, venomous purr. "That the child you carry is not Vincent's. That you were unfaithful with a bodyguard."
So, Rosa's poison had done its work.
"That's a lie," I choked out.
"It doesn't matter," she said coldly. "You have become a liability. We are cleansing the family of your stain."
One of the soldiers grabbed my arms, pinning me against the wall. My adoptive father forced a pen into my hand, pressing the papers against the wall. "Sign it!"
Tears streamed down my face, blurring the ink as I scrawled a broken signature, severing my life from Vincent's. But they weren't finished.
"Now for the real problem," Vincent's mother said. She pulled a small, snub-nosed revolver from her purse. She didn't point it at my head. She pointed it at my stomach.
"We are taking you to a clinic," she said. "To terminate this... complication. You will not resist."
A primal scream tore from my throat. "No! Not my baby! Please!"
I fought. I kicked and bit and clawed, fueled by a mother's desperate terror. But I was no match for them. The soldiers dragged me from the room, my feet scraping against the floor. I was bleeding now, a sharp cramp twisting deep in my belly as the stress and the struggle took their toll.
They dragged me through the silent mansion, past the servants who averted their eyes, and out into the bright sunlight. As they forced me toward a black car, a wave of dizziness washed over me. My vision blurred.
But through the haze, I saw it.
A fleet of black sedans-at least a dozen-screeched to a halt at the end of the long driveway, blocking the gates. Men in immaculate dark suits poured out, moving with the terrifying, silent precision of a wolf pack. They weren't just men; they were an army.
My last conscious thought before the darkness swallowed me whole was the sight of the man who stepped out of the lead car. He was older, his hair silvered at the temples, but he moved with the coiled power of a panther. His face was the same one from the photograph I had cherished and hidden for two years.
The chaos erupted as his men stormed the grounds. My name, a roar on his lips that cut through the unfolding chaos.
"Isabella!"
My father had come for me.