The Mafia Don's Runaway Collateral Wife

Isabella POV

The heavy, rhythmic tread stopped at the entrance of our alcove. A man stepped into the flickering fluorescent light. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his face a mask of absolute, chilling indifference.

Casimiro Gallo. Damien's Underboss. His shadow.

Gianna, still clutching her shattered knee, let out a breathless sob of relief. "Cass! Thank God. Grab them! That little psycho broke my leg with a marble!"

Casimiro didn't even blink in her direction. He stepped right over one of the groaning bodyguards, his cold, calculating gaze sweeping over my children like a searchlight. He was assessing them. Cataloging them. He wasn't here for Gianna's petty drama; he was here to collect his Don's property.

I shoved Marco and Alex behind me, shielding them with my body as I held Chiara tight. I was a cornered wolf, baring my teeth at the executioner.

Casimiro stopped three feet away. He pressed a finger to the earpiece in his right ear, listening for a split second before his dark eyes locked onto mine.

"Mrs. Moretti," Casimiro said, his voice devoid of any inflection. "The Don wishes to speak with you."

That name. That title. It felt like a noose tightening around my throat.

My gaze darted past his broad shoulders, looking through the glass doors at the end of the corridor. There it was, idling at the curb. A black Rolls Royce Phantom. It sat there like a dormant beast, its heavily tinted windows impenetrable.

Six years of meticulously buried trauma clawed its way up my throat. The dark cell. The suffocating control. The violence. He was in there. The head of the family that had destroyed my life.

A violent tremor wracked my body. I stared at that blacked-out window, knowing with absolute certainty that Damien was watching me, listening through Casimiro's open comms.

"Monster," I breathed. The word slipped from my trembling lips, laced with a venom and terror so profound it scraped my throat raw.

Casimiro's jaw tightened slightly. He reached out, his massive hand aiming for my arm. "You need to come with me now."

He never saw Alessandro move.

My five-year-old son darted out from behind my legs. He didn't yell. He just pulled a small, thick glass vial from his jacket pocket and hurled it with all his might straight through the open automatic doors.

The vial shattered against the asphalt, right beneath the Phantom's front left tire.

A thick cloud of acrid white smoke erupted instantly. The violent hiss of a highly corrosive chemical eating through military-grade rubber echoed over the street noise. In less than two seconds, both front tires blew out with a deafening BANG.

The massive, armored chassis of the Rolls Royce slammed violently onto its metal rims, jarring the entire vehicle. The impact triggered the car's security system, sending a piercing, continuous alarm blaring into the evening air.

Total chaos erupted. Pedestrians screamed, scattering in panic.

Casimiro whipped his head around, his stoic facade cracking in sheer disbelief as he stared at his Don's crippled fortress.

It was the only opening we were going to get.

I hoisted Chiara onto my hip, my fingers digging like talons into Marco and Alex's wrists.

"Go!" I shrieked.

We bolted. We didn't look back at Casimiro, nor at the ruined Phantom. We plunged headfirst into the panicked, surging crowd of the terminal, sprinting desperately toward the concrete labyrinth of the parking garage.