Divorcing the Don: And Then I Took Everything

Isabella POV The silence in my suite was a living thing, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic *clink* of Dr. Bianchi’s instruments. Damien stood over me like a dark monolith, his shadow stretching across the velvet chaise lounge, claiming a space he hadn't occupied in six years. Looking at him now—scarred, hardened, and radiating a lethal authority—my mind involuntarily drifted back to our wedding night. I had been eighteen, the only daughter of the Rossi family, draped in white lace and trembling with a mixture of terror and a girl’s foolish hope. I remembered the way the silk sheets felt against my skin as I waited for him in this very room. When Damien finally entered, he hadn't looked at me with desire. His eyes were cold, fixed on a horizon I couldn't see. *"There is trouble in the North,"* he had said, not even bothering to sit on the edge of the bed. *"The Irish are moving on our docks. I must leave at dawn to coordinate with the Capos."* He hadn't touched me. Not a kiss, not a stroke of my hair. He had spent our wedding night in his study, surrounded by maps and whiskey, leaving me to face the dawn as a virgin Queen—a title that felt more like a mockery with every passing year of his absence. He vanished the next morning, and for six years, I was the one who kept the Moretti name from crumbling into bankruptcy, using my own dowry and the Rossi connections to fill the holes his "emergency" had left behind. "You're still here, Don Moretti," I said, my voice cutting through the medicinal scent of the room. "Is there more justice you wish to dispense? Or perhaps another child you need to traumatize?" Damien’s jaw tightened. He gestured for Dr. Bianchi to leave. The doctor scurried out, sensing the impending storm. "I am trying to fix this, Isabella," he said, his voice a low rasp. "Fix what? Six years of silence? Or the fact that you brought a mistress and a bastard into my home?" I sat up slowly, ignoring the sting in my wrist. "Tell me about her. Tell me why Cora Diaz is worth the insult you’ve dealt my family." Damien paced to the window, his broad shoulders blocking the moonlight. "It was a bloodbath in Chicago. The Irish mob didn't play by the rules. I was ambushed in a warehouse near the Cicero border. I should have died there." He turned back to me, and for a fleeting second, I saw the ghost of the man who had bled in the trenches. "Bernardo Diaz, one of my most loyal Capos, took a bullet meant for me. He died in my arms," Damien continued, his voice thickening with a dark, heavy emotion. "His daughter, Cora... she found me. She hid me in a cellar for three weeks, stitching my wounds while the Irish hunted us. She lost everything—her father, her home, her safety—to keep me alive." He stepped closer, his eyes searching mine for a sympathy I didn't have. "She was injured during the final raid. A scar that means no other man in our world will take her. I owe her a debt of blood, Isabella. I promised Bernardo I would care for her. I must be responsible for her." A hollow laugh escaped my lips. "A debt of blood. How romantic." The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. While I was balancing ledgers, negotiating with greedy bankers, and maintaining the facade of a powerful Mafia family to keep our enemies at bay, he was in a cellar being nursed by a "war hero." I had given him my wealth, my youth, and my loyalty. She had given him her blood. In the twisted logic of the Omertà, I was just a contract signed in ink; she was a covenant forged in fire. "You love her," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. Damien didn't deny it. He didn't confirm it either, but the way his gaze softened when he spoke her name was answer enough. "I intend to compensate you, Isabella. You will have everything you desire. Jewels, property, the respect of the Commission." "Compensate me?" I stood up, my legs shaking but my heart turning to ice. "You think you can buy off six years of abandonment with a necklace?" He reached out as if to touch my shoulder, but I recoiled. The man I had waited for was a stranger, and the husband I was promised was a lie. He wanted to give Cora the heart of the family while I remained its bank. "Leave," I commanded, my voice as cold as the marble floors. "Go to your soldier-girl, Damien. But remember this: a Queen without a King is still a Queen. A Don without a treasury is just a man with a gun." He lingered for a moment, a flicker of something—regret, perhaps?—crossing his face before he turned and strode out. I watched the door close, the fire of revenge finally consuming the last remnants of my grief. He thought he could manage me like a business transaction. He was about to learn that the Rossi blood in my veins didn't just bring gold—it brought a vengeance that never forgot a debt.