The Jilted Bride's Secret Mafia King

Isabella POV The harsh smell of bleach burned my nostrils, but it wasn't strong enough to mask the memory of Damiano's visceral disgust. I knelt on the cold tiles of the massive, lifeless kitchen, scrubbing the grout until my knuckles ached. *Get the fuck out of my sight.* His feral roar from yesterday echoed in my ears with every swipe of the sponge. The 72nd Street townhouse felt like a mausoleum, and I was just another ghost haunting its halls. I had tried to bridge the gap between us, only to be violently reminded of my place. He didn't just hate our arranged marriage; he was physically repulsed by me. I scrubbed harder, desperate to erase the humiliation. But beneath the sting of rejection, a quiet, desperate realization took root: I had twelve dollars to my name. I couldn't survive as a despised canary in a gilded cage. I needed a purpose. I needed out. * Damiano POV The heavy mahogany door of my study separated me from the wife I had broken. I stared at the encrypted laptop on my desk, the taste of self-loathing bitter on my tongue. I had seen the tears in Isabella's eyes, the profound humiliation. But I couldn't explain my panic without exposing the truth of my legs, and with it, the entirety of my *Vendetta*. "Earth to the Ghost," Nico Romano's voice crackled through the encrypted line, pulling me from the dark spiral. "You're distracted. Marital bliss with the Doyle outcast wearing you down? I told you not to marry her." "Watch your mouth, Nico," I warned, my voice dropping to a lethal chill. "She is my wife." Nico cleared his throat, instantly dropping the mockery. "Right. Business. Lorenzo is sniffing around the offshore accounts. Your father is tracking the funds. We need to move the L'Unico money faster to keep the operation hidden." "Do it. Leave no trace." "Also, our head designer for the spring collection just walked out," Nico added, frustration bleeding into his tone. "It's a disaster for the brand." I rubbed my jaw, my mind calculating the angles. L'Unico was my legitimate front, the financial engine of my impending war. It couldn't falter. "Find a replacement immediately. And Nico? Keep an eye out for anything involving adaptive wear. It's an untapped market we need to corner." * Isabella POV By dinner time, the silence of the house was suffocating. I couldn't hide in the kitchen forever. Gathering whatever fractured courage I had left, I prepared a simple tray of roasted chicken and walked to his study. I knocked once and pushed the heavy brass handle. The room smelled of old leather, whiskey, and isolation. Damiano sat behind his massive desk, the shadows clinging to his broad shoulders. He looked up, his storm-gray eyes instantly guarded. "I brought dinner," I said softly, setting the tray down. I took a steadying breath, refusing to look away. "And I want to apologize for yesterday. I... I understand that your condition makes you feel vulnerable. I overstepped." A muscle feathered in his tight jaw. He looked at me, really looked at me, and the impenetrable ice in his gaze seemed to fracture just a fraction. "I also came to tell you that I need a job," I continued, lifting my chin. "I refuse to be a burden in this house. I have a portfolio, and I'm applying for a junior designer position at L'Unico." Damiano went perfectly still. For a second, the air in the room stopped circulating. "L'Unico," he repeated, his voice entirely unreadable. "Show me your portfolio." I hesitated, then hurried to my room to fetch my sketchbook. When I handed it to him, my heart hammered against my ribs. He flipped through the pages of evening gowns and tailored coats in silence. His expression remained a cold mask until he reached the final page. He froze. It was a charcoal sketch of a men's bespoke suit. But the cut was different—the jacket was cropped slightly higher at the front to prevent fabric from bunching at the waist, the trousers reinforced at the friction points, the shoulders broadened to accommodate the posture of a man in a wheelchair. It was powerful, elegant, and undeniably designed for him. Damiano's knuckles turned white as he gripped the leather-bound book. He stared at the sketch for a long, agonizing minute. When he finally looked up, the coldness was entirely gone, replaced by a raw, burning intensity that stole the breath from my lungs. After he had humiliated me, after he had banished me, I had spent my night designing armor for his pride. "You drew this," he said, his voice a hoarse, dangerous rasp. "Yes," I whispered. He closed the book slowly, his eyes locking onto mine with a weight I had never felt before. "Submit it, Isabella."