The Mafia King's Pregnant Captive Bride

Isabella POV The feral heat of Damien's mouth was still burning against mine when Hanson's urgent voice bled through the heavy oak doors. Damien froze. The predatory darkness in his eyes flickered, and in a fraction of a second, the dangerous lover vanished. The cold, ruthless Underboss returned. He tore his mouth from mine, his chest heaving once before his iron grip on my waist loosened. He stood, effortlessly lifting me off his lap and setting me on my feet. He adjusted his tailored cuffs, his face an impenetrable mask of ice. "Enter." Hanson stepped in quickly, his eyes strictly averted from my bruised, disheveled state. He crossed to the desk, his expression unreadable. "The matter from earlier, Boss," Hanson murmured, his voice just loud enough for me to catch. "It's handled. The hand is in storage." Damien gave a curt nod. A cold satisfaction flickered across his features before vanishing. Hanson leaned closer, his voice dropping to a grave whisper. "There's something else. Sean O'Connell-he shot up a rival family's underground casino on the South Side. Claimed the Falcone name while doing it. Word is, Asher and Francisco's men were hyping him up at a bar just an hour before." The temperature in the study plummeted. Damien's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. Asher and Francisco. His brothers were using his mother's reckless nephew to ignite a Vendetta and destabilize his power. "The Don wants to see me," Damien said, his voice devoid of any emotion, yet lethal enough to make my blood run cold. He turned on his heel, but before he reached the door, his piercing gaze locked onto me one last time. The sheer possessiveness in his stare pinned me to the floor. "Move her to the suite in my wing," Damien ordered Hanson, his tone absolute. "She answers to no one but me from now on." He didn't wait for a response, striding out of the room to face his father. I stood trembling in the sheer black lace. This wasn't part of the plan. I had wanted to secure his protection, to prove my worth, but his brothers' political sabotage had just dragged me into the epicenter of a mafia war. My fate was now entirely tethered to a man fighting for his throne. "Let's go, Rossi," Hanson said, his voice completely neutral. He grabbed a heavy cashmere coat from a nearby chair and draped it over my bare shoulders. I pulled the coat tight and followed him out of the study. We stepped directly into the heavily guarded corridor of the West Wing-the study had always been at its innermost end, just before the private family quarters. Hanson turned left, guiding me deeper into the wing, away from the study and toward Damien's personal sanctuary. The guest quarters lay far behind us, on the opposite side of the estate. As we rounded a corner, we nearly collided with Cecile and Bertha. Cecile stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes darted from the cashmere coat swallowing my frame to the direction we were heading-toward the deepest, most restricted part of the West Wing. The color drained from her perfectly powdered face. The facade of the poised, untouchable wife shattered, leaving behind nothing but raw, naked venom. "Where are you taking her?" Cecile demanded, her voice shrill. Hanson didn't even blink. He stepped slightly in front of me, a physical barrier between the furious wife and the Underboss's property. "Underboss's orders, Ma'am. She is being relocated to his wing." Cecile looked as if she had been slapped. Her chest heaved, her manicured nails digging into her palms. Hanson didn't wait for her permission. He gave a curt nod and guided me past them. I kept my eyes on the floor, but I could feel Cecile's murderous glare burning into my spine. Hanson led me into a suite that made Cecile's look like a servant's quarters. It was a sprawling expanse of dark wood, white marble, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the heavily patrolled estate grounds. A massive walk-in closet sat half-open, revealing rows of expensive garments. It was breathtaking. It was a gilded cage. I turned to Hanson, pulling the cashmere coat tighter. "She'll come for me," I said quietly. "Cecile won't let this stand." Hanson's jaw tightened. "The Boss is aware." He pulled a small, untraceable burner phone from his jacket and placed it on the glass coffee table. "If you need anything, the Underboss wants to be the first to know." His meaning was clear: Damien knows she will come for you. With that, Hanson turned to leave. But at the threshold, he paused. He looked back at me-not at my bruised face or the lace barely hidden beneath the coat, but into my eyes. For a fraction of a second, something flickered across his stoic features. Recognition? Respect? It was gone before I could name it. The heavy door clicked shut behind him. I walked toward the massive windows, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to calm my racing heart. I had survived the night, but I had painted a massive target on my back. Less than ten minutes later, the suite door was shoved open violently. There was no knock. I turned. Cecile stood in the doorway, Bertha looming behind her like a silent executioner. Cecile's earlier hysteria was gone, replaced by a terrifying, icy calm. She stepped into the room, her expensive silk robe dragging across the plush carpet with a soft hiss, like a viper sliding through the grass. "So," Cecile said, her voice sickeningly sweet but laced with lethal poison, "this is what a five-minute whore looks like in a queen's castle."