My Husband Sold Me to the Don

Damien POV

The world stopped. The low, thrumming jazz of The Onyx Club faded into a dull, meaningless hum. On the grand marble staircase, she looked back at me.

Isabella.

That was the name my Consigliere had whispered to me days ago, a mere footnote in a background check. But the smile she gave me right now—fragile, shattered, yet laced with a silent, desperate plea—was a ghost brought to life. It was Adela. But beneath that haunting resemblance, there was a spine of steel Adela had never possessed. It hit me with the force of a physical blow, locking the air in my lungs.

Beside her, the pathetic excuse for a man, Hudson Higgins, was practically vibrating with terror. The stench of his sour sweat and cowardice drifted up the stairs, polluting the air around her. He gripped her arm, his knuckles white, dragging her toward the exit like a thief fleeing a crime scene. Yet, she didn't stumble. Her back remained perfectly straight, a white rose refusing to snap in the mud.

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. In that single heartbeat, Isabella Flores ceased to be just a curious replacement. She became a necessity. An absolute obsession.

I didn't linger on the stairs. I bypassed the crowded floor and headed straight for my private suite on the top floor. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn back just enough to let the city lights bleed into the dark room, the air thick with the scent of aged whiskey and expensive Cuban cigars. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a god looking down at the filthy streets of Chicago.

Down below, the valet brought around a cab. I watched as Higgins roughly shoved Isabella into the backseat. Even through the thick glass, I could read the violent, erratic jerks of his body. He was shouting at her, his face twisted in a pathetic display of misplaced authority. He was trying to reclaim his fragile manhood after cowering before me.

And Isabella? She simply turned her head, staring out the window into the night, completely indifferent to his tantrum. Her apathy was a silent, ringing slap to his face.

A dark, violent fury coiled in my gut. Higgins was putting his filthy hands on something that belonged to me. He was dirtying my possession.

The heavy oak door clicked open behind me. Frederick 'Freddie' Solis stepped into the room. As my Consigliere, Freddie was a man with snake-like eyes and a mind built for the family's dirtiest, most delicate negotiations. He was the architect of tonight's little theater.

I didn't turn around. I picked up the silver letter opener from my mahogany desk, the cold metal grounding the violent urge I had to snap someone's neck.

"Was this your idea of a subtle introduction, Freddie?" My voice was dangerously quiet.

Freddie cleared his throat, the sound tight. "I thought you would want to see her in person, Don Falcone. To confirm the... resemblance." He stepped closer, though keeping a respectful distance. "Isabella Flores. Daughter of a ruined legitimate family. She came with a heavy dowry, which went straight to the man who married her—Hudson Higgins, one of our Associates. He's ambitious. He thought offering her up to your attention would earn him a seat at the big table."

I traced the sharp edge of the blade with my thumb. An Associate. A bottom-feeder who sold his own wife for a scrap of power.

I turned to face Freddie, pointing the tip of the silver blade toward the window, toward the street where the cab had disappeared.

"Do you think," I started, the ice in my tone making Freddie stiffen, "that a man like that deserves her?"

Freddie swallowed hard, a bead of sweat forming at his temple. He knew better than to misread my mood. "No, Boss. He is nothing."

I tossed the letter opener onto the desk. It landed with a sharp, final clatter. I thought of Isabella's straight back, her haunting smile, and the crude way Higgins had shoved her into the car.

"A man like that doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as her," I said, my voice dropping to a lethal register. "It's an insult... to my possession. Fix it."