Too Late To Beg, Mr. Mafia Don

Isabella POV

The master bedroom of the penthouse on 5th Avenue was a gilded cage. It was massive, immaculate, and entirely devoid of us. The king-sized bed with its pristine gray duvet looked more like a display in a high-end hotel than a place where a husband and wife slept. But then again, ours was a marriage forged in blood and boardroom negotiations, not love.

I stood by the bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the glittering Manhattan skyline, when the heavy oak door swung open.

Damien Moretti strode into the room. He was wearing a $5,000 bespoke suit, but the metallic scent of fresh blood and the biting chill of the New York night clung to his broad shoulders. As the Don of the Moretti family, he carried absolute authority in every step. Tonight, however, his dark, ruthless eyes held a frantic, impatient energy.

He didn't greet me. Instead, he tossed a thick manila envelope onto the mahogany nightstand. It landed with a heavy thud next to the encrypted landline.

"Sign it," he commanded. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble—the Don's Command. It wasn't a request; it was absolute law.

I didn't flinch. I slowly turned away from the window, my eyes dropping to the envelope. "What is it?"

"An annulment," Damien said coldly, his jaw ticking. He watched me closely, waiting for the shatter. "Giuliana is back in New York. She was attacked, Isabella. And she's sick. Dying. She needs me, and I am done playing house with a Falcone to appease our families."

He stood there, a dark god of violence, expecting a performance. He wanted the tears. He wanted the hysteria, the begging, the shattered heart of a pampered Mafia Princess. He needed my devastation to validate his twisted savior complex for his fragile ex-girlfriend.

I looked at the envelope, then up into his deep, unfathomable eyes.

"Okay."

The single word hung in the sterile air. Damien’s imposing frame went completely rigid. The absolute lack of emotion in my voice stripped him of the control he craved.

"Okay?" he sneered, taking a menacing step toward me. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "That's it? Two years of marriage, and you have nothing to say?"

A threatened enemy is hunted to the ends of the earth, I thought, keeping my face perfectly blank. But a greedy piece of trash is just discarded.

I needed him to see me as trash. I needed his contempt as my shield.

I walked over to the nightstand and picked up the papers, flipping through them with a feigned, bored sigh. "I have plenty to say, Damien. Mostly about how insulting this severance package is."

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of pure disgust replacing his anger. "Excuse me?"

"Two years of my youth, playing the perfect, silent, obedient wife to a man who still pines for a ghost," I said, tapping my manicured nail against the legal jargon. "If you want me out of your life tonight so you can run to her bedside, it's going to cost you."

"You greedy little bitch," he breathed out, a harsh, mocking laugh escaping his lips. It validated every prejudice he ever held against me.

"I want this penthouse," I demanded, my voice steady. "Five percent equity in the Moretti International Group. And my monthly allowance doubled, effective immediately. Have the deeds and bank drafts ready in an hour, or I drag this annulment out in the mafia commission for months."

Damien stared at me as if I were a cockroach on his expensive rug. The disgust in his eyes was absolute. "Fine," he spat, snatching the encrypted phone from the nightstand. "If it gets you out of my sight so I can get to the hospital, take the damn money."

He barked orders at his Advisor on the other end of the line. I could hear the lawyer's frantic protests about the 5% equity, but Damien roared, "Do it and get here in ten minutes with a notary, or I'll put a bullet in your head!"

Fifteen minutes later, a sweating lawyer and a trembling notary stood in our bedroom. Under Damien's murderous, impatient glare, I signed my name across the dotted lines. The ink was barely dry before Damien snatched his copy.

"Be gone by the time I care to check," he warned, turning on his heel. He didn't look back. The heavy door slammed shut, echoing through the empty penthouse.

Silence descended. I stood alone in the center of the room, looking down at the documents that had just made me a very wealthy, very free woman.

Slowly, the meek, obedient mask of Isabella Moretti fractured and fell away. I let out a breath, and for the first time in two years, a genuine, ice-cold smile touched my lips.