Divorcing the Don: And Then I Took Everything

Isabella POV

The heat was a living thing, clawing at my wrist and soaking through the silk of my dress like acid. I gritted my teeth, refusing to let a scream escape, my breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

Across the table, the silence was broken not by an apology, but by the frantic cooing of an old woman.

"Oh, *povero* (poor thing) Leo! Shh, shh, *non piangere* (don't cry)." Nonna Elena had launched herself from her chair, not to check on the woman whose skin was blistering, but to cradle the boy who had thrown the bowl. She pressed Leo’s face into her bosom, glaring at me as if my cry of pain had been an assault on the child’s ears.

Cora stood up, her face pale, reaching for a napkin to dab at the mess on the table. "Leo, oh my god... Isabella, I am so sorry, he didn't mean—"

"Sit down, Cora," Nonna snapped. She turned her cold, reptilian gaze on me. I was clutching my wrist, my vision blurring slightly from the shock. "Stop making a scene, Isabella. It is a little hot water. A woman's skin is made to endure. But the spirit of a future Don is fragile. He must not be frightened by your hysterics."

The cruelty of her words acted like a bucket of ice water, numbing the fire in my arm. *Made to endure.* That was all I was to them—a vessel for endurance, a bank account with a pulse.

The heavy oak doors swung open, and Dr. Bianchi rushed in, her medical bag in hand. Sofia must have summoned her the moment the soup was served, anticipating the tension, though not the violence.

"What happened?" Dr. Bianchi asked, her eyes darting between the sobbing boy and me.

"The boy is shaken," Nonna Elena commanded, waving a hand dismissively at me. "Check his heart rate. He is hyperventilating."

Dr. Bianchi hesitated, looking at the angry red welt spreading across my hand. "But Signora Moretti appears to be burned—"

"I gave you an order, Doctor," Nonna hissed.

I didn't look at Damien. I didn't look at the woman who had stolen my husband. I straightened my spine, ignoring the throbbing agony in my limb.

"Dr. Bianchi," I said, my voice cutting through the room like shattered glass. It was low, devoid of emotion, and absolutely final. "You are paid by the Rossi family trust. You are *my* physician. You will attend to *me*."

The room fell silent again. Nonna’s mouth opened in outrage, but Dr. Bianchi didn't hesitate this time. She nodded sharply, turning her back on the matriarch.

"Of course, Mrs. Moretti."

"Sofia," I said, turning to my maid. "Help me to my suite."

"In this house, a servant knows her place!" Nonna screeched, her authority fracturing under my blatant disregard.

I didn't answer. I simply turned and walked out, Sofia and the doctor flanking me like a praetorian guard. I left them in the wreckage of their dinner, with their spoiled heir and their simmering hate.

Once in the hallway, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a wave of nausea. I leaned heavily against the wall just outside the dining room doors, clutching my wrist to my chest.

"Signora?" Sofia whispered, terrified.

"Just... a moment," I breathed.

From inside the room, voices rose. They thought I was gone.

"Look at this mess you've made!" Nonna’s voice was a rasping saw. "You bring this... *puttana* (whore) and her wild offspring into our home, and you have alienated the one woman whose money keeps these lights on! A Don provides, Damien. Right now, *she* provides, and you are acting like a fool. Fix this, before she decides to let us all starve."

I closed my eyes. Of course. It was always about the money.

"You are wrong, Nonna."

The voice was deeper, darker. Damien.

My heart stuttered, a traitorous reaction I couldn't control.

"The boy was at fault," Damien continued, his tone laced with a lethal calm that usually preceded violence. "We do not raise Moretti men to be weaklings who harm women and hide behind their elders. You are teaching him to be a coward."

There was a pause, heavy and suffocating.

"And Isabella..." Damien’s voice dropped an octave, vibrating through the wood of the door and into my spine. "She is the *Mafia Queen* of this family. She has done nothing to deserve this disrespect. You will not speak to her that way again."

I pushed myself off the wall, signaling Sofia to move.

He defended me. Not because he loved me, but because I was a title he owned. *Mafia Queen.* A piece on his chessboard that had been knocked over. He was protecting his property, not his wife.

But as I walked away into the shadows of the corridor, I realized that for the first time in months, the Don had drawn a line. And I wondered if he knew that lines, once drawn, could be crossed from both sides.