The Mafia Don's Runaway Collateral Wife

Isabella POV

In the fraction of a second after my warning, the terror in Gianna’s eyes vanished, replaced by a triumphant, vicious smirk. She had exactly what she wanted.

She threw her head back and unleashed a theatrical, piercing shriek. "Assault! She's attacking me!"

The remaining paparazzi, hungry for blood, surged forward. A fresh storm of white flashes erupted around us. It was a trap. Gianna’s two massive bodyguards immediately lunged toward us, their hands reaching out to grab me.

Before they could close the distance, Marco stepped directly in front of me. He bared his teeth, a low, feral growl vibrating in his small chest like a cornered wolf cub.

I couldn't afford a fight here. I shoved Gianna hard by her twisted wrist, using her backward stumble to create a vital gap. I scooped up a terrified Chiara with one arm, grabbed my sons' wrists with my free hand, and hissed, "Run!"

We bolted like rabbits fleeing hounds, sprinting toward the nearest exit sign. Behind us, Gianna’s shrill voice cut through the chaos. "Get them! Don't let that bitch get away! I want her arrested!"

We tore out of the main hall and ducked into a secluded service corridor near the restrooms. The air here was cold, smelling of cheap bleach and dust. The buzzing fluorescent lights overhead flickered, casting sickly yellow shadows on the tiled walls.

"Alex, watch the perimeter," I ordered, my chest heaving. I pushed the kids into a blind alcove leading to the family restroom.

I stumbled to the sink, turning on the cold tap and splashing water onto my face. My hands were shaking violently. The flashing lights, the shouting, the feeling of being hunted—it was tearing at the edges of my PTSD, threatening to pull me back into the dark cell I had escaped six years ago.

"Look at that. Your mother abandoned you."

The cruel, mocking voice echoed off the tiles. I spun around, water dripping from my chin.

Gianna stood at the entrance of the alcove, her two bodyguards blocking our only exit. Her eyes swept over my children with utter disdain before landing on the worn teddy bear clutched tightly against Chiara’s chest.

"That's an ugly little thing, isn't it?" Gianna sneered.

Before I could move, Gianna stepped forward. With a vicious swipe of her hand, she knocked the bear out of Chiara's grasp. It hit the floor, and Gianna immediately brought her six-inch stiletto down on its head. She ground her heel into the fabric, twisting her ankle with sadistic pleasure until the seams ripped and the white stuffing burst out onto the dirty tiles.

Chiara let out a soul-tearing scream, her small hands covering her face.

The insult was absolute. It wasn't just an attack on a child; it was a declaration of war.

And Marco Moretti answered it.

He didn't yell. He didn't cry. He moved with a terrifying, calculated precision that belonged entirely to the bloodline I had tried so hard to suppress.

Marco slipped a solid glass marble from his pocket. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, he flicked it with astonishing force and flawless aim.

*Crack.*

The marble struck Gianna’s kneecap dead center. She let out an unearthly wail, her leg buckling instantly as she collapsed onto the floor, clutching her shattered knee.

"Grab the little bastard!" one of the guards roared, lunging forward.

Marco dropped into a slide, gliding right beneath the guard's outstretched hands. From his other pocket, he ripped open a small paper packet—a homemade mixture of stolen restaurant black pepper and crushed chili flakes—and threw it violently upward into the faces of the two towering men.

The guards inhaled the caustic powder. They instantly staggered backward, violently coughing and clawing at their streaming, burning eyes, completely incapacitated.

The alcove fell into a heavy, stunned silence, broken only by Gianna’s whimpers and the guards' choking.

Marco calmly walked over to the ruined teddy bear. He picked it up, dusted it off, and gently pressed it back into Chiara’s trembling arms. Then, he turned to Gianna. He looked down at the bleeding socialite with eyes that were entirely too old, too cold—eyes that were a perfect mirror of his father's.

"Apologize," Marco commanded, his voice devoid of any childish innocence.

"You little freak! I'll kill you!" Gianna spat, her face twisted in agony and hatred.

Before Marco could react, the atmosphere in the corridor shifted.

A heavy, rhythmic tread echoed from the far end of the hallway, the sound of leather shoes striking the tiles with absolute, unquestionable authority. A second later, the muffled but unmistakable *THUMP* of a heavy, armored car door slamming shut reverberated from the street outside.