My Husband Sold Me to the Don

Isabella POV

Surviving the aftermath of the penthouse had required every ounce of my willpower. Now, twenty-four hours later, the air in the private booth of The Onyx Club was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, aged whiskey, and the faint, sickeningly sweet notes of my gardenia perfume.

Red velvet walls absorbed the jazz music from the speakeasy's main floor. Hudson Higgins, my husband and a mere Associate desperate to climb the ranks of the Falcone family, sat across from me, practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.

He poured champagne—a drink I despised—into my crystal flute. "To our bright future, mia bella (my beautiful)," he murmured, reaching across the small table to cover my trembling hands with his.

His touch made my skin crawl. I had to force down the bile rising in my throat, burying the agonizing memory of my daughter Josie's cold, lifeless body. I kept my eyes downcast, painting the perfect picture of a broken, terrified wife. "Yes, Hudson," I whispered, my voice hollow.

He smiled, a greasy, self-satisfied smirk. He thought he had won. He thought selling me to the Devil of Chicago had secured his rise from a lowly street-level earner to a made man. I let him stroke my knuckles, cataloging every arrogant twitch of his jaw, every weakness I would later exploit for my Vendetta (revenge). I would let him play the doting husband, all while I carefully measured him for his coffin.

Dinner concluded with me playing the obedient doll. As we stepped out of the booth and approached the grand, sweeping marble staircase of the club, the raucous laughter and clinking glasses of the speakeasy abruptly died. A suffocating silence fell over the room.

Don Damien Falcone had arrived.

He moved like a dark god descending upon mortals, flanked by his most lethal Soldiers and his trusted Capo. The massive crystal chandelier above cast harsh light on the brass railings, but shadows seemed to cling to Damien's tailored black suit. Every man in the vicinity bowed their heads in absolute submission.

Hudson immediately puffed out his chest, stepping forward with a sickeningly eager grin. "Don Falcone, it is an honor—"

Damien didn't even blink at him.

He walked right past my husband as if Hudson were nothing more than a stain on the plush red carpet. The Don's pitch-black eyes were locked entirely on me.

My breath hitched as he stopped inches away. The sheer size of him, the radiating heat and the dangerous scent of mint and gunpowder, overwhelmed my senses. Slowly, deliberately, he raised a large, calloused hand. His knuckles brushed against my cheek, a touch so intimate and possessive it sent a visible shockwave through the watching crowd.

He was branding me. Right in front of my husband, he was claiming his property.

Hudson stood frozen, his face draining of color as his last shred of masculine pride was publicly eviscerated.

Damien leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "My driver will pick you up tomorrow night," he murmured, his deep voice a dark promise that vibrated straight to my core.

He pulled back, his thumb lingering on my lower lip for a fraction of a second, before he turned and continued up the marble stairs. Halfway up, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. His predatory gaze pinned me in place, a silent warning that I belonged to him now.

Beside me, Hudson's fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, his breathing ragged with humiliated rage. The ride back to our house was going to be suffocatingly silent, the air thick with the fragile remnants of his shattered ego.