The Mafia Don's Runaway Collateral Wife

Damien POV

The armored chassis of the Rolls Royce Phantom groaned as it settled violently onto its metal rims. The piercing, continuous shriek of the car’s security alarm vibrated through the floorboards, but it was nothing compared to the deafening roar of my own blood.

I sat in the back seat of my crippled fortress, the vehicle tilted awkwardly to the left. The acrid stench of burning military-grade rubber seeped through the air vents.

I pressed two fingers to my earpiece, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. *"Status,"* I barked over the encrypted comms, my voice a lethal, low frequency that cut through the blaring alarm.

Casimiro’s voice crackled back, laced with a heavy, unnatural breathlessness. *"Don, they're heading for the parking garage."* In the background, I heard the violent crash of metal colliding with concrete. *"The boy—Marco—he just created a barricade with the luggage carts. He shoved a stack of them down the ramp. He's blocking my men."*

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the leather armrest. A five-year-old. A five-year-old boy had just crippled my three-ton vehicle and outmaneuvered a squad of my elite *Soldiers*.

"Get me out of this metal coffin," I growled.

Minutes later, my men had secured the perimeter. I stepped out of the ruined Phantom and immediately slid into the back of the backup black SUV. The heavy doors slammed shut, instantly severing the chaotic noise of the terminal. The silence inside was absolute, cold, and expectant.

Casimiro slid into the passenger seat. His tailored suit was dusted with concrete powder, his stoic face tight with the humiliation of failure.

"Report," I commanded, my eyes fixed on the back of his head.

"They hijacked a yellow cab, Don," Casimiro said, his tone strictly professional, though I could hear the underlying tension. "We have the plate, but they were gone before we could lock down the exits. They vanished into the evening traffic."

*Vanished.*

The word was a poisoned dagger scraping against my pride. No one vanished from Damien Moretti. Not in my city.

I leaned back into the shadows of the leather seat. My mind was a dark, churning storm. Vittorio, my grandfather, had handed me a file six years ago painting Isabella Rossi as a greedy, calculating *Rat* who sold our secrets and abandoned my heir for a payout.

But rats didn't look at you like that.

Through the live feed, and through Casimiro's open comms, I had heard her voice. *Monster.* The word hadn't been spat with defiance or calculated malice. It had been breathed out with a raw, suffocating terror. She had looked at my blacked-out window not like a thief caught in a lie, but like a prey staring into the jaws of hell.

"The tires," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "How?"

"A corrosive agent," Casimiro replied, turning slightly to face me. "Thrown by the other boy, Alessandro. The one with the glasses. It ate through the reinforced rubber in seconds."

A tactical barricade. A chemical weapon. These weren't the actions of pampered children raised on a secret payout. They were trained. They were survivors.

I leaned forward, the leather creaking under my weight. "The boy, Marco. His eyes. Tell me again."

Casimiro met my gaze in the rearview mirror. He didn't hesitate. "They are yours, Don. The exact same storm-gray. The jawline, the temper... he is a Moretti."

A violent, possessive thrill ignited in my chest, burning away the last remnants of my patience. My blood. My sons. My daughter. She had stolen them from me, hidden them in the dark, and turned them into little soldiers.

*"Cazzo,"* (Fuck) I hissed, the Italian curse slipping out like a promise of violence.

I looked at Casimiro, stripping away any illusion of a measured response. This was no longer a simple retrieval. This was a *Vendetta*.

"Gianna Santoro," I ordered, my voice devoid of any mercy. "Handle her. I never want to see or hear from her again. Strip her family of the new dock contracts."

"Understood," Casimiro nodded.

"And activate every asset we have in the NYPD," I continued, the dark authority of the *Don's Command* filling the confined space. "I want access to every traffic camera from here to Queens. Run facial recognition on all four of them. I don't care if you have to shut down the goddamn city, Cass. Find that cab. Find *her*."

I stared out the tinted window at the sprawling, neon-lit veins of New York.

"I want them before sunrise."