Imprisoned by the Don I Called Mine

The sting of Lorenzo’s handprint burned on my cheek.

He stood over me, his chest heaving, the rage in his eyes still burning.

"Isabella, this isn't over."

He spun on his heel and left.

The door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the silence.

I touched my cheek. My fingertips came away wet.

Blood.

Lorenzo's ring had cut my skin.

I closed my eyes and laughed, a bitter, silent laugh.

The man who once swore to protect me with his life had just struck me himself.

The next morning, I was woken by a nurse’s gasp.

"Oh my god, Mrs. Romano, have you seen the news?"

I took the remote and turned on the TV.

The scandal about Antonio Viti was gone.

In its place was a picture of me.

A small, frail child, standing in a pool of blood.

The crime scene from when I was six years old, when I watched my mother die.

A news anchor read in a cold, detached voice:

"Sources close to the family say Isabella Romano suffered from severe mental illness after witnessing a violent event in her childhood..."

"Psychologists believe this trauma could lead to retaliatory behavior..."

"Reports are now claiming that, in a jealous rage, she spread false information to ruin a rival for her husband Lorenzo Romano's affections..."

My hands started to shake.

My deepest trauma, splashed across the screen for the world's entertainment. A slideshow of my personal hell.

The comments online were even worse:

"They should lock that crazy bitch up in an asylum for life!"

"How did Lorenzo Romano end up with a monster like her?"

"She killed her own father, now she's trying to destroy Cassandra. She's pure evil!"

"Poor Miss Viti, so kind and she's being targeted by this psycho!"

The bloody images, the vicious words, the childhood nightmares…

It all came rushing back.

My breathing became shallow, my chest felt like it was being crushed by a stone.

My PTSD was hitting me like a freight train.

I gasped for air, but it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

"Help… help me…"

A nurse rushed in and gave me a sedative.

As my consciousness faded, I heard familiar footsteps.

Lorenzo.

"How is she?" he asked the nurse.

"Mr. Romano, the online news triggered an acute stress reaction…"

"I know," Lorenzo's voice was cold. "The stories have been pulled. It won't happen again."

He walked to my bed and looked down at me.

“Isabella,” he warned, his voice dangerously low. “There won’t be a next time.”

That was it.

No comfort. No apology.

Just a cold, hard warning.

Then he left.

To be with his Cassandra.

In the days that followed, Lorenzo and Cassandra were everywhere.

Fancy restaurants, private parties, charity galas.

The press snapped photos of them talking intimately, of Lorenzo opening her car door.

The public was firmly on their side:

"Lorenzo and Cassandra are a perfect match!"

"A union of two great families. It's good for business!"

"He needs to divorce her already. That psycho doesn't deserve the Romano name!"

"Miss Viti is so kind. She'll be the one to heal Lorenzo's heart!"

I lay in my hospital bed, reading the news, my heart dead.

That night, I put in the micro-earpiece Sofia had given me.

The bug in Lorenzo's study came to life.

"Lorenzo…" It was Cassandra's sweet, cloying voice. "I have a favor to ask."

"What is it?" Lorenzo's voice sounded tired.

"Your tattoo… the one on your arm…"

My heart skipped a beat.

Lorenzo had an iris tattooed on his forearm. My favorite flower. A symbol of our love.

"The iris?" Lorenzo asked.

“Yes,” Cassandra’s voice was a venomous sugar. “Every time I see it, it’s a reminder… of her. Can’t you just… cover it up? For me?”

A long silence.

I held my breath, waiting.

"To what?" he finally asked.

"My initial," Cassandra's voice filled with excitement. "Just a 'C.' It's simple."

Another silence.

"Is this it?" Lorenzo asked. "Your last wish?"

"Yes," Cassandra cooed. "The very last one. After this, we can finally…"

"Fine," Lorenzo cut her off. "I'll go to the tattoo shop tomorrow."

I heard Cassandra's happy laugh through the earpiece.

I turned off the recording, my face a mask, and saved the audio file.

The iris. The symbol of our love. Erased.

Replaced by another woman's initial.

The next day, I called Sofia.

"Give me Nonna's address."

"Isabella, are you sure you want to go now? Your body…"

"The address," I said. My voice was steel.

Sofia sighed. "I'm sending it to you now. I'll send the contact for your new identity, too."

"Thank you."

"Take care of yourself, sister."

After I hung up, I packed a small bag.

When the nurse tried to stop me from leaving, I just looked at her. "Are you going to try and stop me?"

My stare was enough. She stepped aside.

I stopped at a flower shop and bought a bouquet of white roses, Nonna's favorite.

Three years. I was finally going to see her.

The taxi stopped in front of the care facility.

It was an expensive, private place. Beautiful grounds, modern facilities.

Lorenzo hadn't skimped on Nonna's care.

I held the flowers and walked toward her room.

Room 308.

I took a deep breath and reached for the door.