Too Late To Beg, Mr. Mafia Don

Isabella POV The genuine, ice-cold smile lingered on my lips as the echo of the slamming door faded into the cavernous silence of the penthouse. Two years. Two years of playing the docile, vapid wife, dulling my own edges so Damien Moretti could feel like the smartest predator in the room. The act was finally over. I didn't waste a second. I walked straight into the massive walk-in closet, bypassing the racks of designer gowns I despised. At the very back, behind a custom display of unworn Louboutins, I pressed my thumb against a hidden biometric scanner. The wood paneled wall clicked and slid open, revealing a steel safe. I pulled out a matte-black, military-grade laptop. I wasn't just Isabella Falcone, the hidden Mafia Princess. In the digital underworld, I was a ghost. I was 'K'. Sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet, I booted up the system, routing my connection through three untraceable satellite networks. Damien’s frantic rush to the hospital was the perfect window. I never believed in coincidences, and Giuliana Ricci’s sudden, tragic return reeked of a setup. My fingers flew across the keyboard. Within minutes, I bypassed the firewalls of New York Presbyterian Hospital. I pulled Giuliana’s supposedly terminal medical file. It took me exactly thirty seconds to find the flaw. The metadata was sloppy, and the attending oncologist who signed her charts—Dr. Aris Thorne—had his license revoked for malpractice before dying of a heart attack a year ago. *Sloppy,* I thought, my eyes narrowing. I dug deeper, pivoting to the Swiss banking servers. I tracked a $5,000,000 transfer from Damien’s charity front—a slush fund I knew intimately—to a shell account, which then wired the exact amount to an elite plastic surgery clinic in Zurich. The dates aligned perfectly with Giuliana’s "chemotherapy" timeline. For the killing blow, I hacked the VIP security feeds at Zurich Airport from three days ago. The screen flickered, and there she was. Giuliana Ricci, looking radiant, tanned, and entirely cancer-free, carrying a stack of Hermès shopping bags. There was no heartbreak in my chest. Only the chilling, absolute satisfaction of a hunter locking onto a blood trail. Giuliana was too stupid to orchestrate a fraud of this magnitude. Someone else—a puppet master with deep pockets and a dangerous agenda—was funding her to destabilize the Moretti Don. I ran a background algorithm to silently monitor all of Damien’s personal accounts and the Moretti Group’s financial flows. Then, I stood up to shed my skin. I stripped off the expensive silk robe—the uniform of a kept woman—and let it pool on the floor. I pulled on black tactical pants, a fitted combat shirt, and heavy boots. From the safe, I retrieved my custom SIG Sauer, three spare magazines, and a handful of encrypted burner phones, shoving them into a nondescript black duffel bag. Walking back into the bedroom, I stopped at the vanity. I unclasped the diamond necklace Damien had given me for our anniversary and dropped it onto the mahogany wood. Finally, I slid the heavy, flawless diamond wedding ring off my finger and tossed it next to the annulment papers. It looked exactly like what it was: garbage. I picked up one of the burner phones and dialed a number I hadn't called in two years. It rang twice before a deep, gravelly voice answered. "Speak." "The papers are signed," I said. Constantino Falcone, Don of the Falcone family and my father, let out a harsh scoff. "About time. I told you marrying that emotionally blinded fool was a waste of your time. His grandfather is the only Moretti with half a brain." "It wasn't a waste. I have the layout of their entire network," I replied smoothly. "I'm sending a team of Soldiers to extract you," Constantino ordered. "No. I'm staying in New York," I countered, zipping my duffel bag. "Giuliana is a pawn. Someone is using her to manipulate Damien and blind the Morettis. If there's a new player trying to shift the power dynamic in the city, I need to know who it is before they aim at us." A heavy silence hung on the line. "Don't let personal emotions cloud your judgment, Isabella," my father warned, his tone turning lethal. "A sentimental Falcone only brings ruin to the family. Remember, this is business." "It's always business, Father." I hung up. I needed to investigate, but to do that freely, I needed Damien to look the other way. I needed to reinforce his delusion that I was nothing but a greedy, scorned socialite throwing a tantrum. I looked out at the glittering Manhattan skyline. Tomorrow morning, I was going to make the Moretti Don bleed the only way he thought I could—through his wallet. And I knew exactly which of his Underbosses I was going to drag along to carry my bags.