My Husband Sold Me to the Don

Isabella POV

The cab ride away from The Onyx Club was suffocating. Hudson's fingers dug into my arm, his chest heaving with a mix of terror and misplaced rage. I kept my gaze fixed on the passing streetlamps of Chicago, ignoring his erratic muttering. I didn't need to look at him; my mind was miles behind us, lingering in the penthouse we had just fled.

Even though I wasn't there, the memories of my past life painted the scene with brutal clarity. Right now, Frederick 'Freddie' Solis—the Falcone family's snake-eyed Consigliere—was standing before Don Damien Falcone. Freddie would be laying out my life like a ledger: the daughter of a ruined legitimate family, the heavy dowry that bought my marriage to an Associate, and Hudson's pathetic gamble to trade me for a seat at the table. I knew Damien was listening in that terrifying, absolute silence of his, his dark eyes judging Hudson's worth. And I knew Hudson had already been found wanting.

But the swift execution I expected didn't come.

Days bled into one another inside the Higgins townhouse. The walls, paid for by my dowry, felt like a velvet-lined cage reeking of Hudson's cheap cologne and my own lingering gardenia perfume.

Hudson was unraveling. The silence from the Falcone estate was driving him mad. He paced the halls, jumping at every knock, desperate for the promotion he thought he had bought with my flesh. To soothe his bruised ego, he tried to reclaim his territory—me. Every night, he approached our bed with that sickening, entitled gleam in his eyes. And every night, I used my daughter as a shield.

Josie is crying, I would say, slipping out of his grasp. She needs her mother.

Hudson couldn't argue without looking like a monster. More importantly, his underlying fear of what the Don might do if he bruised his new possession kept his hands tied. He was forced to sleep in his study, leaving me alone in the dark.

Standing before the brass-rimmed mirror in my bedroom, I traced the line of my jaw. I practiced the fragile, shattered smile that had hooked Damien on the stairs. It was Adela's smile. Freddie had taught me how to mimic the Don's dead ghost in my past life, molding me into the perfect, compliant pet.

But my reflection mocked me. The timeline was wrong. By now, Freddie should have sent his men to collect me. Damien's inaction was a glaring deviation from the past. Had I overplayed my hand? Was the Don's paranoia stronger than his obsession? A cold knot of unease tightened in my stomach. I couldn't afford to be passive. If Damien Falcone was changing the rules of the game, I had to adapt. I would not be a victim again; I would be the architect of my own Vendetta.

A timid knock broke my concentration. "Ma'am," the maid murmured through the door. "Mr. Higgins is asking for you in his study."

I smoothed the skirt of my dress, masking my cold calculation with a veil of wifely obedience.

Hudson's study was a monument to his mediocrity, suffocating under the stench of stale cigars and cheap whiskey. When I pushed the heavy oak door open, I found him standing by the bar cart. His hands were shaking so violently that the amber liquid sloshed over the rim of his crystal glass, soaking into the lapel of his tailored suit.

He didn't even bother to curse. He just stared at the stain, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. When he looked up at me, his eyes were bloodshot, swimming with a pathetic, desperate anxiety. The silence from the Don was breaking him.

"Hudson?" I asked softly, playing my part.

He closed the distance between us, his sour breath washing over my face as he grabbed my hand. His grip was painfully tight, his knuckles white. He was a drowning man trying to anchor himself to the only thing he thought he still owned.

"Isabella," he rasped, his voice trembling with a sickening mix of fear and forced authority. "You're my wife. I need you to stay in our bed tonight. Leave Josie with the nanny. I need you with me."