Pampered By The Ruthless Chicago Don

Eleonora POV

The heavy scent of lilies in my suite usually brought me peace, but tonight, it felt suffocating. I paced across the antique Persian rug, my hands trembling with a rage I hadn't felt in decades.

"She dared to invoke *The Commissione*(the national mafia committee)," I hissed, turning to Maria, who stood quietly by the mahogany dresser. "To my face! In my own home! That Rossi girl has no honor. She is not a *Mafia Queen*, Maria. She is a calculating, ambitious merchant."

"She is young, Donna Eleonora," Maria murmured soothingly, her head bowed. "And she brings legitimate wealth. For the sake of the Russo family's *Heir*, you must have patience."

"Patience?" I snapped, stopping in front of the silver-framed portrait of my late husband. "Her so-called delicate constitution is a farce. She isn't sleeping until noon out of exhaustion. She is calculating! She is testing the boundaries of my son's authority."

But Maria was right. As long as Damien shielded her, my hands were tied. I took a deep breath, smoothing the heavy fabric of my black skirt. I would find a way to remind this arrogant girl who truly ruled the women of this family.

*

Gloria POV

I stared at my reflection in the ornate vanity mirror, hating the flush of humiliation that still stained my cheeks. No matter how much I spent on Parisian silk, I couldn't replicate Isabella's effortless, infuriating grace.

The door swung open. My husband, Marco, strolled in, humming a jazz tune and waving a leather folder.

"Look at this pedigree, *amore*(love)," he grinned, completely oblivious to my foul mood. "A purebred racing hound."

"Is that all you care about?" I shrieked, slamming my silver hairbrush onto the vanity. "Your brother's new wife humiliated me today, and you are buying dogs! Even your bastard brother Vincent commands more respect than you!"

Marco didn't even flinch. He leaned against the doorframe, a mocking smirk on his handsome face. "Don't waste your energy, Gloria. You could empty the entire Van Cleef & Arpels vault, and you still wouldn't be her."

Tears of pure spite pricked my eyes. "You are a useless parasite."

"And you are my wife," he replied cheerfully. "Relax. Once Damien and his pretty bride produce an heir, our positions are secure. We can just enjoy the money."

He walked out, leaving me suffocating in the gilded cage of our sham marriage.

*

Isabella POV

Damien didn't release his scorching grip on my hand until we crossed the threshold of our private wing. The tension from the cliffside followed us into the bedroom, thick and suffocating.

I let my silk shawl slip off my shoulders and lay face-down on the massive four-poster bed. "Clara," I called out softly. "The ointment."

My maid hurried over with a small white porcelain jar. As she pulled down the collar of my dress, the dark, violent bruises Damien had left on my shoulders and back were exposed to the dim light.

Damien stiffened. "Leave us," he commanded.

Clara and Sofia practically fled the room. The heavy oak door clicked shut.

The mattress dipped as Damien sat beside me. "I apologize," he murmured, his baritone rough. "Next time... I will be gentler."

To my surprise, he took the jar. The cool ointment hit my feverish skin, but as he rubbed it in, the rough, abrasive texture of his palm made me wince.

"Ouch," I hissed, shifting away.

Before he could pull back, I caught his wrist. I turned his large hand over, my thumb tracing the thick, unnatural calluses and the jagged, faded scars crisscrossing his knuckles.

I looked up through my lashes, meeting his obsidian eyes. "Damien," I asked lazily, "aren't you a legitimate businessman? Why do your hands feel like they belong to an *Enforcer*(executioner)?"

The air in the room froze. The vulnerability in his eyes vanished, replaced by a lethal, icy void. He snatched his hand back, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn't answer.

Instead of shrinking back from his coldness, I pushed myself up on my elbows, letting the silk slip lower. The silence between us was no longer just uncomfortable; it was a dangerous, intoxicating puzzle waiting to be solved.