The Mafia King's Runaway Genius Wife

Isabella POV The sharp stab in my lower abdomen made me gasp, my pen slipping across the final page of the Trevino smuggling ledgers. Three hours of this relentless agony. I pressed a trembling hand to my stomach, feeling the crinkle of the doctor's referral slip hidden in my pocket—*suspected acute appendicitis*. Before I could catch my breath, the heavy rotary phone on the mahogany desk rang, shattering the silence of the penthouse. "Viktor is handling family business tonight," Eleanor Trevino's voice came through the receiver, sharp and unyielding as a guillotine. "Bring the car to The Plaza and fetch my son." I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles turning white. "Eleanor, I'm unwell. The doctor said I need to—" "You are a Trevino now, Isabella," the former Mafia Queen cut me off, her tone dripping with absolute disdain. "Your duty is to maintain the Don's dignity. Try to be useful for once." *Click.* She hung up. In this family, I wasn't a wife. I was collateral. A piece of property expected to function flawlessly until it broke. Swallowing the bile in my throat, I forced myself into my plain black wool coat and took the keys to the armored Cadillac. The drive through the rain-slicked streets of New York was a blur of neon lights and blinding pain. The Plaza Hotel lobby smelled of expensive lilies, thick and suffocating like a lavish funeral. I dragged my aching body toward the grand ballroom, standing in the shadows near the entrance. It didn't take long to find him. Damien Trevino, the Dark Don of New York, was the center of gravity in any room. But he wasn't looking for me. He was looking down at Giselle Bernard. She wore a deep red silk dress that clung to her curves like hellfire. Her hand rested intimately on his tailored sleeve, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered something. Damien let out a low, genuine chuckle—a sound I had never earned in our entire marriage. Their bodies swayed in a predatory, exclusive rhythm. The air in my lungs turned to broken glass. I was the Mafia Queen, yet I was standing in the cold, watching my husband parade his mistress before the city's elite. Then, his dark eyes swept the room and locked onto me. The smile vanished from his face instantly. His expression hardened into obsidian, a mask of pure, chilling irritation. He closed the distance between us, his strides measured and heavy with authority. He didn't notice my deathly pale skin. He didn't notice the way I gripped my own waist just to stay upright. "You're late," he stated, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that demanded absolute submission. "The traffic—Eleanor just called—" I started, my voice weak from the stabbing pain in my gut. He cut me off with an impatient flick of his wrist. "Is the car out front?" Before I could answer, the cloying scent of gardenias washed over me. Giselle materialized at his side, a victor stepping up to claim her spoils. "Don't be too harsh on her, *caro*" (dear), Giselle purred, her manicured fingers brushing his arm again. She turned her gaze to me, her eyes dripping with venomous pity as she took in my damp, unstylish coat. "You look so tired, Isabella. Damien worries, you know." Every word was a poisoned dagger, expertly slipped between my ribs. She didn't wait for my response, turning her radiant, triumphant smile back to my husband. "Call me when you get home?" she asked, her voice loud enough for the nearby associates to hear. Damien gave a barely perceptible nod. A public confirmation. A final execution of my dignity. The pain in my abdomen flared, sharp and blinding, but it was nothing compared to the cold, dead weight settling in my chest. I turned away from the glittering chandelier and the whispers of the elite. Damien fell into step beside me, his presence a suffocating shadow as we walked out into the freezing rain toward the waiting Cadillac.