The Don's Wife's Sweetest Revenge

Isabella POV:

The drive to his parents' estate felt like a funeral procession. I had laid out his favorite suit, a deep charcoal gray that made him look like a king. It was a final, quiet game, a last performance as the perfect wife.

I insisted on taking my own car. "I have an early appointment tomorrow," I lied. "It's easier this way."

He sat beside me in the passenger seat of my Mercedes, a stark reversal of our usual roles. It made him uncomfortable. Good.

"You're driving too slow," he commented, tapping his fingers impatiently on the dashboard.

I just smiled faintly and kept my speed exactly as it was.

His parents' home was a fortress, a sprawling mansion that spoke of old money and older power. His father, the retired Don, still held immense influence. The Moretti Family was a dynasty, and Gio was the reigning monarch.

The dinner was an elaborate affair. His mother praised my dress. His father praised Gio's latest business acquisition. It was all a well-rehearsed play. They talked about loyalty, about the supremacy of the Family. They talked about how a Don is only as strong as the woman standing beside him.

Gio beamed, placing a hand on my back. "Isabella is my anchor," he said to the table, the words echoing the lie he’d told me a hundred times. "I'd be lost without her."

After dinner, the men retired to the study to talk business, their voices low and serious. I was ushered into the parlor with his mother. It was a beautiful room, filled with priceless antiques and suffocating expectations.

She handed me a fashion magazine. "Something to keep you occupied, dear."

I flipped through the glossy pages, not seeing a single image. The dismissal was clear. I was the wife. My role was to be beautiful, silent, and patient.

I excused myself to use the restroom. Instead, I slipped down the hall, my heels silent on the thick Persian rug. The study door was slightly ajar. I stood in the shadows, listening.

It wasn't business they were discussing. It was Sofia.

"She's getting impatient," his father said, his voice a low growl. "A pregnant mistress is a liability, Giovanni. You know the rules."

"I'm handling it," Gio's voice was tight with frustration. "I've moved her into the penthouse downtown. Set up a trust for the child. She's taken care of."

The penthouse. The one I had helped him decorate, believing it was for visiting business associates. The trust fund. Our money. My money.

"And Isabella?" his mother's sharp voice cut in. I hadn't realized she had joined them. "Does she suspect?"

"Nothing," Gio said with absolute certainty. "She's been a little emotional lately. Upset stomach. I think it's stress."

The casual cruelty of it, the clinical discussion of his betrayal, it didn’t even hurt anymore. It was just information. Data points for my final calculation.

I heard footsteps approaching and melted back into the shadows of the hallway. Gio came out, his face a mask of controlled authority.

"The drivers are whispering," he said to one of the guards standing by the door. "Find out who's talking about the girl. Shut them up. Permanently if you have to. No one talks about my business." His voice was pure ice. The Don was giving an order. This was the real him. Not the charming husband, but the ruthless killer who protected his secrets at any cost.

I slipped back into the parlor just as he re-entered the study. I picked up the magazine, my hands steady.

My phone vibrated in my purse. A blocked number. I answered.

"Isabella Rossi?" a crisp, professional voice asked.

My heart gave a single, hard thump.

"Yes," I said, my voice clear and confident. "This is she."

"This is Air Portugal. We're calling to confirm your first-class ticket for flight 714 to Lisbon, departing tomorrow at 11:00 a.m."

"Thank you," I said. "Everything is in order."

I hung up. Gio was standing in the doorway, watching me, a frown on his face. "Who was that?"