The Mafia Don's Runaway Heiress Wife

Isabella POV The darkness was heavy, a comforting blanket pulling me under. I was finally escaping the freezing, decaying walls of the West Wing. But then, a violent rush of freezing air and the sharp, unmistakable scent of bergamot, winter wind, and fresh copper shattered the peace. I forced my heavy eyelids open. Rocco had pronounced me dead, and for a moment, the cold had indeed claimed my heart. But the sheer, violent heat of Damien’s presence had dragged me back from the brink. Damien Moretti was hovering over my bed. For a fraction of a second, the mask of the ruthless Underboss slipped. His face was a chaotic storm of shock, fury, and a sickening flash of relief. I could smell the warm blood dripping from his clenched fist, staining my faded cotton blanket. Seeing his face violently yanked me back to the night this nightmare began. Three years ago. The master bedroom. I had worn a sheer silk nightgown, offering myself with naive, starry-eyed devotion, hoping my warmth could melt the ice in his veins. Instead, he had looked at me like a ledger entry. He took me with a cold, punishing dominance, stripping away my dignity with every mechanical thrust. He made sure I understood that there was no love—only a transaction bought with Sterling Industries stock. That memory—the sheer humiliation of my past self—ignited a dormant fire in my hollow chest. I wasn't that begging girl anymore. I wasn't the prisoner waiting to die. As Damien reached out, his bleeding hand trembling slightly, I channeled every ounce of my surviving strength. My palm cracked against his jaw. The sharp sound echoed in the dusty room. His head snapped to the side. The brief vulnerability in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a familiar, glacial darkness. He slowly turned back to me, a lethal, predatory fascination twisting his lips. He didn't strike back—not because he was soft, but because he was savoring the impossible sight of his 'corpse' showing teeth. "Waking from the dead just to play more games, Isabella? What's the trick this time?" I didn't flinch. I pushed myself up against the headboard, my lungs burning with the effort. "There are no more tricks," I said, my voice raspy but entirely steady. "The deal is done. I want a divorce." Before he could process the absolute finality in my tone, the door creaked wider. Liliana Vance stepped into the room, her designer heels clicking against the scuffed floorboards—she had clearly followed the commotion, desperate to see my body hauled out in a bag. She took one look at me, her eyes flashing with disappointment that I was still breathing, before she draped herself against Damien's arm. "Damien, darling, don't let her upset you," she purred, her gaze dripping with venom. "A dying woman's last fit." A year ago, her presence would have broken me. Today, it only fueled my resurrection. I ignored her completely, keeping my eyes locked on Damien's. Then, with a sudden, fluid motion that defied my weakened state, I swung my arm and slapped Liliana across the face. She shrieked, stumbling backward and clutching her cheek. "You dare touch her?" Damien snarled, his massive frame tensing, the air in the room dropping to sub-zero. He looked ready to snap my neck, yet he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze anchored to the red handprint on my own skin as if memorizing the sensation of my defiance. I looked at the red handprint blooming on his own cheek, then offered a hollow, mocking smile. "I was just teaching your... *whore*... some manners. A woman should know her place." I didn't wait for his explosion. I threw off the thin blanket. My legs shook violently as my bare feet hit the freezing floorboards, but I forced myself to stand. I walked straight between them, my shoulder brushing past Damien's rigid chest. He let me pass, a silent, terrifying promise in his stillness that I wouldn't get far. I didn't look back as I stepped out of the room, my sights set on the estate's side gate and the freezing Chicago rain waiting beyond it.