Rejected by the Son, I Chose the Don

Isabella POV

The priest's hands shook so violently that the Bible nearly slipped from his grasp. Father Shawn was a man who had heard the confessions of murderers and thieves for thirty years, yet standing before Damien Moreno, he looked like a child afraid of the dark.

"Do you, Damien Moreno," the priest stammered, his voice thin and reedy in the cavernous silence of the cathedral, "take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Damien didn't look at the priest. He didn't look at the cross hanging above us. His eyes were locked on mine, dark voids that swallowed the light. There was no affection in them, no lust. Just a cold, clinical assessment, as if he were inspecting the edge of a blade he had just purchased.

"I do," Damien said. His voice was low, devoid of emotion, yet it carried to the back of the church with the weight of a gavel sentence.

He reached into his pocket and produced a ring. It wasn't the delicate diamond Alex had given me—a ring chosen by his mother. This was a thick band of platinum, encrusted with diamonds that looked like shards of ice.

He took my left hand. His skin was rough, calloused from violence, and shockingly hot against my cold fingers. He slid the ring onto my finger. It was heavy. It felt less like jewelry and more like a shackle.

"And do you, Isabella Carlson," the priest turned to me, sweat beading on his forehead, "take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

I felt the gaze of every Don, Capo, and soldier in the room boring into my back. I felt Sofia Moreno's sharp eyes dissecting my posture. But mostly, I felt the man in front of me. The monster I had summoned to save me from a boy.

I lifted my chin. "I do."

"Then... by the power vested in me..." Father Shawn rushed the words, desperate to end the sacrilege. "I pronounce you man and wife."

Damien didn't kiss me. He didn't even lean in. He simply released my hand and turned to face the congregation. The silence broke, replaced by a murmur of shock and awe that rippled through the pews. I was no longer Isabella Carlson, the discarded fiancée. I was Isabella Moreno. I was the stepmother to the boy who had broken my heart, and the wife of the man who ruled the city.

The ride to the Moreno estate was a blur of tinted windows and oppressive silence. Damien didn't speak a word to me in the car, nor did he acknowledge me as we walked through the grand foyer of his home.

His private quarters were located in the east wing, a sanctuary of dark mahogany and shadows. The room smelled of him—sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and the metallic tang of authority. It was beautiful, vast, and utterly terrifying.

Damien closed the heavy double doors behind us, the click of the lock echoing like a gunshot.

"This is where you will sleep," he said, walking past me to a small table where a crystal decanter of scotch sat. He poured a glass but didn't drink it. He just swirled the amber liquid, staring at me.

"And you?" I asked, my voice steady despite the trembling in my knees.

"Entertaining the guests is the Underboss's duty," he said, his back to me. "My duty is to ensure my new wife understands her reality." He turned then, his gaze sweeping over my white dress. "You are in the lion's den now, Isabella. Do not mistake the quiet for safety."

He set the glass down with a sharp clink. "I have a son to discipline and a mess to clean up. Make yourself comfortable."

With that, he walked out. He didn't touch me. He didn't claim his marital rights. He left me alone in his bedroom like a piece of furniture he hadn't decided where to place yet.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, my legs finally giving way as I sank onto the edge of the massive bed.

A soft knock interrupted my spiraling thoughts. The door opened, and a woman in a severe black uniform stepped in. It was Elena, Sofia Moreno's personal maid and eyes within the household. She carried a tray with water and a towel, her expression tight with disapproval.

She set the tray down and looked at me, her lips pursed. "You have made a mess of things, girl."

I stiffened. The fear that had paralyzed me in front of Damien evaporated, replaced by the cold instinct of survival. I couldn't afford to be disrespected by the help, not if I wanted to survive the masters.

"I made a choice, Elena," I said, standing up to meet her gaze. "Alex would have made me a tragedy. Damien makes me a Queen."

Elena scoffed, folding her arms. "A Queen? You are a child playing in a graveyard. Do you think the Don is a prize? He is a war."

"I know what he is," I stepped closer to her. "And I know what I am. I am not the Carlson girl anymore. I am the woman who saved your family's honor when your precious heir ran off with a nobody."

Elena blinked, taken aback by the venom in my tone.

"You may judge me," I continued, my voice dropping to a whisper that was harder than steel. "But you will do it silently. And when you address me, you will show the respect due to the Don's wife."

I waited, holding her gaze until she looked away, her shoulders dropping slightly.

"Do you understand?" I pressed.

"Yes," she muttered, picking up the empty tray. "Yes, Mrs. Moreno."

She retreated, closing the door softly behind her. I turned back to the empty room, the title echoing in the silence. Mrs. Moreno. I had won the first battle, but as I looked at the empty side of the bed, I knew the war for my survival had only just begun.