Married To The Comatose Mafia King

Isabella POV The Don’s suite was a vast, cold cathedral of silence. The air was heavy with the scent of antiseptic, lavender, and the faint, sweet smell of decay. I stood over the four-poster bed where Damien Moretti lay like a fallen king in effigy, his handsome face a mask of waxy stillness. My sanctuary was short-lived. The door opened without a knock, and a severe-looking woman in a stark black dress entered. Sister Agnes, the estate’s housekeeper and Elena’s shadow. I knew her kind. A creature of routine and rigid hierarchy, one who saw me not as a savior, but as a disruption. “The Matriarch summons you,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth. She did not look at me, but at a point somewhere over my shoulder. “You are to come at once, Miss Rossi.” Miss Rossi. The title was a deliberate barb, meant to remind me of my place. I was an outsider. A temporary inconvenience. I didn’t turn. I continued to unwrap the small, oilskin pouch containing my grandmother’s silver needles. “I am busy,” I said softly. “It was not a request.” I finally looked at her, my eyes meeting her cold, dismissive gaze in the reflection of a silver tray. “It’s Mrs. Moretti,” I corrected her, my voice as quiet and sharp as the needle I was now holding. “This is the first, and the last time, I will correct you. Next time, I will not use my words. I will ask Luca to throw you from this estate. Do you wish to test whether an Enforcer will obey the Don’s wife?” The color drained from her face. The threat, coupled with the sheer audacity of my claim, struck her dumb. “Now get out,” I commanded, turning my back on her. “Go and tell the Matriarch that her son will be awake within the hour. If she wishes to see him alive, she will wait.” She fled, her hurried footsteps echoing my victory. But it was a small victory, and I knew it was one I’d have to pay for. They came less than ten minutes later. Not just Elena, but Julian, Clara, and two stone-faced soldiers. Julian was the one who began to shout, his voice hysterical as he pounded on the heavy oak door. “She’s in there killing him! I know it! She’s a witch, a liar! We have to stop her!” I met them at the threshold, blocking the entrance with my body. I had locked the inner door to the bedroom, buying myself precious time. “You will not enter,” I said. “Get out of the way, you little whore!” Julian snarled, lunging for me. Before he could touch me, I pointed to the thin wisp of smoke curling from under the bedroom door. A strange, aromatic scent began to fill the antechamber. “I am in the middle of a delicate procedure. The incense is a catalyst for the antidote. Any disturbance, any outside air, any… hostile presence… could corrupt the process and kill him instantly.” It was a masterful lie, woven from threads of their own ignorance and fear. Elena, her face a wreck of tears and indecision, put a restraining hand on Julian’s arm. “You’re lying!” he spat, though his eyes were wide with a flicker of uncertainty. “Am I?” I looked directly into Elena’s eyes, a mother at the end of her rope. I made my wager, a vow sealed in blood and desperation. “Give me one hour. Sixty minutes. Uninterrupted. If, at the end of that hour, Damien is not awake, you can do with me what you will. A bullet, a knife, I will not resist. But if he is…” I let my gaze drift to Julian, whose face was now slick with sweat. “If he is, then the Moretti family will have its vendetta against the traitors who put him in that bed.” Elena’s breath hitched. A life for a life. A trial by ordeal. It was an ancient, Sicilian bargain she understood. She looked at her frantic, pleading grandson, then back at me, the calm, unblinking stranger. “One hour,” she conceded, her voice a ragged whisper. She turned to the soldiers. “Guard this door. No one enters. No one.” The door clicked shut, leaving me alone with the dying Don and the ticking clock. My gamble had been accepted. Now, I had to perform a miracle.