My Husband Sold Me to the Don

Isabella POV I stepped into the bedroom, the heavy scent of gardenia clinging to my damp skin like a second soul. Hudson was waiting by the foot of the bed, his tie loosened, a glass of whiskey trembling in his hand. His eyes raked over my silk robe, not with love, but with a greedy, desperate hunger that made my stomach turn. He set the glass down with a sharp clink and crossed the distance between us in two strides. Before I could react, his hand clamped around my wrist, jerking me toward him. The smell of cheap alcohol on his breath clashed violently with the floral perfume I wore. "You think you're too good for me now?" he sneered, his voice slurring slightly. "Just because you're going to him? You're still my wife, Isabella. Until you walk out that door, you belong to me." He reached for the belt of my robe, his fingers clumsy and rough. Panic flared in my chest—a primal, terrified instinct—but I strangled it instantly. The girl who would have cried and begged was dead. I was a weapon now, and weapons didn't tremble. I didn't struggle. Instead, I twisted my body just enough to evade his grasp, stepping back with a cold, fluid grace. "Think, Hudson," I said, my voice devoid of emotion, sharp as shattered glass. He froze, his hand hovering in the air, confusion warring with lust in his bloodshot eyes. "What?" "You orchestrated this deal," I continued, my gaze boring into his. "I am no longer your wife. I am a tribute to the Don. I am the price of your admission into the Falcone family." I took a step toward him, and for the first time in our marriage, he was the one who flinched. "Do you really want to send Damien Falcone a damaged gift?" I whispered, letting the threat hang heavy in the air. "How do you think the most ruthless man in Chicago will react if his new possession arrives with bruises? Do you think he will reward an Associate who can't even keep his merchandise in pristine condition?" The color drained from Hudson's face. The lust in his eyes was instantly extinguished, replaced by the stark, hollow terror of a man who realized he was standing on the edge of a precipice. He knew the stories. He knew that Damien Falcone didn't just kill people who displeased him; he erased them. Hudson's hand dropped to his side. He backed away, stumbling slightly, his bravado crumbling into dust. He looked at me, really looked at me, and realized he had lost. Not just me, but his power over me. A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence. "Mrs. Higgins?" the maid's voice came through the wood, trembling. "The car... it's here." Hudson didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stood there, a small, pathetic man in an expensive suit. I didn't look back at him as I walked out the door. The black Cadillac waiting in the alley was massive, like a hearse designed for the living. The rear door swung open before I even reached it. I slid into the backseat. The interior was a cavern of black leather and velvet, the windows tinted so dark that the city outside was reduced to nothing but vague streaks of light. The air was cool and smelled of sterile cleanliness and expensive cigars. The driver was a mountain of a man, a Falcone Soldier with a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He didn't turn around. He didn't greet me. He simply passed a black box over the partition and then raised the privacy glass, sealing me in. I opened the box. Inside lay a dress. It was white silk, simple and terrifyingly innocent. There was no note, but the command was implicit. In this moving cage, stripped of my dignity, I was to be remade. I shed my robe and slipped the dress on. It fit perfectly, clinging to my curves like a second skin, the fabric cool against my heated flesh. It was a dress for a ghost. As soon as I was dressed, the partition lowered just an inch. The Soldier's hand appeared again, this time holding a photograph. I took it. It was an old Polaroid, the edges worn and soft from being held too many times. I brought it closer to the dim light. The girl in the photo was beautiful, with dark hair and eyes that mirrored my own, but she was younger. So much younger. She stood in a sunlit garden, laughing at something off-camera. But the photo was amateurish, slightly out of focus, blurring her features into a dreamlike haze. It was Adela. "The Don wants you to study her smile," the Soldier's voice grated out, rough like sandpaper over stone. "He expects to see it when you arrive." I stared at the girl in the photo. Her smile was radiant, yet there was a fragility to it, a brittleness that suggested she was moments away from shattering. Why would a man like Damien Falcone, who commanded armies and owned the city, cling to such a poorly taken, blurry photo? Why was this his relic? A chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning settled in my bones. I wasn't just walking into a lion's den; I was walking into a mausoleum. I closed my eyes, etching the curve of Adela's lips into my mind. When I opened them again, I wasn't Isabella anymore. I was the echo of a dead girl, ready to haunt the man who had killed her.