Married To The Comatose Mafia King
I stood before the altar of the grand gothic cathedral, about to marry Julian Moretti, the grieving adopted son stepping up for the comatose Don.
To the hundreds of mafia men behind us, it was a dutiful wedding. But I knew the horrifying truth.
Julian and his pregnant mistress, Clara, had orchestrated a brutal plot to steal my dowry and secure his place as the next Don.
In my past life, I was completely blind to their betrayal. Julian trapped me in our apartment and set it ablaze.
I could still feel the blistering heat of the fire. I could still hear my mother’s agonizing screams and my little brother Antonio’s desperate coughing as the smoke filled our lungs.
My entire family was burned alive just so Julian could swap the brides and put his whore in my place.
I died in pure agony, filled with hatred and despair, wondering why I had trusted a monster.
God hadn't saved me from those flames. The Devil had.
And he sent me back to this exact moment at the altar.
"Do you, Isabella Rossi, take Julian Moretti to be your lawfully wedded husband?" the priest asked.
Julian reached for my hand with a sickeningly gentle smile.
I didn't give it to him. I tore back my lace veil and turned to face the crowd.
"You are mistaken, Father," I said, my voice like ice. "The man I am bound to marry is your Don. Damien Moretti."
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Chapter 5
Isabella POV
The silence in the antechamber was a brittle, shattering thing. It was broken by Elena, who let out a sound that was half-sob, half-scream of pure, unadulterated joy. She scrambled into the bedroom and fell to her knees beside the bed, clutching Damien’s hand as if he were an apparition.
Julian stood frozen, his face the color of chalk. The triumphant predator of a moment ago was gone, replaced by a cornered, terrified animal. He knew, as I did, that a resurrected king is the most dangerous kind.
But I would not give him a moment to recover. I would not allow him the chance to spin a new web of lies. I had cut off the serpent’s head, and now I would expose its second, more venomous one.
He began to stammer, turning to Elena. “Nonna… thank God… I was so worried… this woman…”
I walked calmly past him, stopping directly in front of Clara, who was trying to shrink into the damask wallpaper. I looked down at her, then lifted my gaze to meet Elena’s tear-filled eyes.
“His betrayal runs deeper than poison, Elena,” I announced, my voice cutting through the matriarch’s relieved sobs. “He did not just try to murder the Don. He planned to pollute the Moretti bloodline.”
I let the accusation hang in the air, its ugliness spreading like a stain.
“This woman,” I said, gesturing to the trembling Clara, “is pregnant with his child. His plan was to let the Don die, and then have his bastard son inherit the entire Moretti empire.”
If my first revelation in the church was a shock, this was an earthquake. For a family that prized blood and lineage above all else, this was the ultimate sin. It was worse than murder; it was sacrilege.
Elena’s head snapped up, her expression of joy curdling into one of horrified disgust. She stared at Julian as if seeing him for the first time.
“No!” Julian finally found his voice, a desperate, strangled cry. “She’s lying! She’s a demon sent to tear us apart! Clara is a good girl, a virgin! She would never…”
“Then prove it,” I interrupted smoothly. “Call Dr. Bianchi. Let him examine her. If I am wrong, I will accept any punishment the Don deems fit.”
The trap was sprung. Again.
Elena’s eyes, filled with a new, terrible understanding, shifted to Julian. For a long moment, she just stared at him, her gaze traveling from his panicked face to Clara’s, and back again. I could see the memories warring in her mind, the years of love and trust fighting a losing battle against the ugly truth crystallizing before her.
A memory surfaced in her eyes, a flash of pain and affection. A younger Julian, perhaps. A moment of loyalty or bravery that had cemented his place in her heart. I saw it soften her expression for a fraction of a second, a flicker of the grandmother who had raised a traitor.
He saw it too, and lunged for that last ember of affection. “Nonna, please,” he begged, his voice breaking. “You know me. You know my heart. I would die for this family. I have bled for this family.”
The memory of a long-ago car bomb, of a teenage Julian shielding her with his body, flashed between them, an unspoken plea.
But it was too late. The serpent had been unmasked.
“Get the doctor,” Elena commanded, her voice hollow. The last thread of her affection for him had just snapped.
Dr. Bianchi was an old man with shaky hands and the weary eyes of someone who had seen too many family secrets. He arrived with his black leather bag, his presence lending a grim finality to the proceedings.
Clara resisted, a whimpering, flailing mess, but the two soldiers who had materialized at the door held her fast. Julian watched, his face a rictus of pure hatred, his eyes promising me a thousand painful deaths. I met his gaze without flinching.
The examination was brief, conducted behind a hastily erected privacy screen. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by Clara’s muffled sobs and the ticking of the grandfather clock.
Finally, Dr. Bianchi emerged, his face grim. He removed his spectacles and began to polish them with a handkerchief.
Elena’s voice was a parched whisper. “Doctor? The results?”
He cleared his throat, his eyes darting nervously towards the bedroom where the Don was silently listening.
“The girl…” he began, his voice barely audible.
The world held its breath.
“She is with child. Approximately two months.”