Divorcing the Don: And Then I Took Everything

Damien POV

The silence in the formal dining room was absolute, heavy with the weight of my words. Nonna Elena stared at me, her wrinkled face pale with a mixture of shock and rising indignation. She still clutched Leo to her chest as if I were the monster, not the father trying to forge a man out of a spoiled boy.

"Damien," she breathed, her voice trembling. "He is just a child."

"He is a Moretti," I corrected coldly, my voice leaving no room for debate. I closed the distance between us in three long strides. Nonna shrank back, but I reached down and gripped Leo’s upper arm, hauling him out of her frail embrace. The boy thrashed, letting out a startled cry, and Nonna shrieked.

"He will learn to respect the Queen of this family," I stated, my gaze pinning my grandmother to her chair, crushing whatever remnants of authority she thought she still held. "This is my command."

I didn't wait for her response. I turned on my heel, dragging my son out of the wreckage of the dinner.

I hauled Leo down the corridor. He stumbled, his small feet struggling to keep up with my furious pace. I wasn't doing this to beg for my wife's forgiveness. I was the Don. I dictated the rules, and the rule was absolute: no one disrespected my title, and by extension, the woman who wore it.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors to Isabella’s private suite without knocking. The air inside shifted, the faint scent of vanilla and old books clashing with the sharp, medicinal sting of burn ointment. It was her sanctuary, a place I had rarely entered, yet every inch of it belonged to me.

Isabella was seated on the edge of a velvet sofa, her face pale and drawn. Dr. Bianchi knelt before her, carefully applying a salve to the angry, blistering red skin on her wrist.

When Isabella’s eyes met mine, there was no fear, no gratitude for my defense. There was only a glacial, hollow disgust. It was a look that made my jaw clench.

I shoved Leo forward. The boy trembled, looking up at me with wide, tear-filled eyes.

"Kneel," I commanded. The word cracked like a whip in the quiet room.

Leo hesitated, his lower lip quivering. I narrowed my eyes, letting the lethal promise of my patience running out bleed into my stare. Slowly, he sank to his knees on the plush rug.

"Apologize to your mother," I ordered, emphasizing the word. I needed her to understand her place in this hierarchy, even if I had brought Cora into this house.

"I... I'm sorry," Leo mumbled, staring at the floor.

I shifted my attention to my wife. Her spine was rigid, her chin tilted in that aristocratic Rossi way. "Nonna was out of line," I told her, my tone clipped and hard. "It will not happen again."

I waited for her nod, for the submission I was owed. Instead, Isabella slowly lowered her eyelashes, dismissing my son, my apology, and my authority in one fluid motion.

She looked back at the physician. "Please continue, Dr. Bianchi."

The dismissal hit me like a physical blow. A dark, unfamiliar rage flared in my chest. She was ignoring me.

I gestured sharply to one of my soldiers stationed in the hall. "*Portalo nella sua stanza*" (Take him to his room).

Once the door clicked shut behind them, the silence in the suite turned suffocating. I didn't move toward the exit. Leaving now would be a retreat, an admission that she had the power to banish me from a room in my own estate. I was a Don; I yielded to no one.

Isabella finally spoke, her voice devoid of a single drop of warmth. "You may leave, Don Moretti."

She didn't even use my name. The formal title was a weapon in her mouth, designed to keep me at a distance.

I ignored her command. I walked slowly toward the sofa, my heavy footsteps sinking into the cashmere rug. I stopped right beside her, towering over her seated form. I looked down at the ugly, blistering welt marring her flawless skin. The sight of it twisted something dark and possessive in my gut. She was mine to protect, mine to break, mine to command.

I shifted my gaze to the trembling doctor. "How long until the scar fades?"

My voice was deceptively calm, masking the violent storm brewing beneath my ribs. Isabella closed her eyes, turning her face away, shutting me out completely. The air between us pulled taut, vibrating with a silent, bitter war.