Pampered By The Ruthless Chicago Don

Isabella POV

Eleonora’s cold eyes assessed me over the rim of her teacup. Slowly, she tilted her chin, silently demanding the traditional kiss on the cheek. I stepped forward, leaning in to offer the gesture of submission. But just as my lips neared her powdered skin, she abruptly turned her head away.

"Maria, ensure the silver is polished for dinner," she ordered the housekeeper, leaving me frozen in a humiliating, half-bowed posture.

The air in the solarium thickened. Instead of straightening up in defeat, I let my body sway slightly, catching myself on the arm of a white rattan chair. I let out a soft, breathless sigh.

"Forgive me, Donna Eleonora," I murmured, my voice laced with innocent exhaustion. "I suppose... my husband was far too eager to teach me the Russo family 'traditions' last night. I am still a bit unsteady on my feet today."

Damien’s gaze snapped to me, burning like a physical brand against my skin. Eleonora’s lips parted in shock, her attempt to humble me instantly twisted into an inappropriate, scandalous joke. She opened her mouth to reprimand me, but how could she without insulting her Don's virility?

"Mother, enough," Damien cut in, his baritone freezing the room. He was furious at my audacity, but he had just shielded me.

Eleonora’s eyes narrowed with fresh venom. She abandoned the physical test and moved to a stricter law. "Since you are now the Mafia Queen, you will attend the family breakfast every Sunday at eight sharp. It is a mandatory display of respect to the Don and this family."

I didn't argue. Instead, I let a distressed, obedient expression wash over my face. I glanced at Damien, then back to the Matriarch.

"I would be honored to observe every rule," I said softly. "But... my father consulted Dr. Marino before the wedding. He warned that for a woman of my delicate constitution, any undue stress or lack of sleep in these crucial first months might... severely impact my chances of providing the Russo family with a healthy heir."

The word *heir* dropped like a bomb. Eleonora’s face paled. Beside me, Damien remained perfectly stoic, though I noticed his large fists clenching at his sides. He knew I was lying through my teeth, yet he said absolutely nothing. By remaining silent, the Don of Chicago had just become my co-conspirator.

Eleonora swallowed her pride, unwilling to risk the sacred bloodline. "You are excused from Sunday breakfasts," she forced out through gritted teeth. "Until you bear the first child."

Before the tension could settle, Rocco, Damien's bodyguard, stepped into the glass room and murmured something in his ear. Damien’s jaw tightened. He gave me a dark, unreadable look—a silent promise that we would discuss my lies later—before turning on his heel and leaving to handle family business.

Moments later, the solarium doors opened again. Three women walked in. I recognized them from the wedding: Sophia, with her gentle smile; Gloria, whose eyes immediately scanned my dress with blatant envy; and Angelina, Damien’s youngest sister, the spoiled Mafia Princess.

After a brief, polite exchange with Sophia, Angelina leaned toward Gloria. She didn't bother to lower her voice. "She is just a social climber with a pretty face. Her father was practically bankrupt before he sold her to us."

I didn't flinch. I simply smiled, turning my lazy feline gaze to the youngest Russo. "Angelina, what a lovely Chanel dress. Is it this season's new arrival?"

Angelina lifted her chin, a smug smirk playing on her lips. "Of course it is."

I let out a soft, pitying sigh and turned to my maid. "Clara, look. I told you this piece wouldn't suit me. It is far too... simple. Much better suited for young girls who are still trying to learn how to dress themselves."

Angelina’s smugness vanished, her face flushing a violent, blotchy crimson. Sophia quickly looked down at her lap, biting her lip to suppress a smile, while Gloria’s eyes gleamed with malicious amusement at the princess's public humiliation.

Just then, Maria approached the table, setting down a tiered silver tray filled with delicate French macarons. Angelina’s eyes locked onto the pastries, her chest heaving as she desperately searched for a way to strike back.