The Mafia Don's Runaway Heiress Wife

Isabella POV

The Sterling Estate's solarium was supposed to be my sanctuary. Sunlight poured through the soaring glass dome, warming the humid air that was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming orchids. For the first time in days, a genuine smile graced my lips as I guided seven-year-old Chloe Hayes's small hands around a brass watering can.

"Like this, Bella?" Chloe asked, her bright eyes looking up at me.

"Perfect," I murmured. Nate Hayes stood beside us, his relaxed posture a stark contrast to the suffocating tension I'd left behind at the Moretti estate. Julian and his friend, Gio Rossi, lounged on the rattan sofas nearby. I needed this. I needed to project to the world—and to any of Damien's watching eyes—that I was unbothered, that his archaic mafia rules couldn't break me.

Then, the temperature in the room plummeted.

Damien Moretti stepped into the glass conservatory like a storm cloud swallowing the sun. Rocco Gallo, his massive Enforcer, flanked him like a lethal shadow. Silence instantly strangled the room.

Gio, ever the oblivious fool trying to impress a Don, let out a low whistle. "Careful, Nate. If you look at another man's wife like that, you might lose a hand. Though for a beauty like Bella, maybe it's worth the risk."

Nate paled instantly, his jaw clenching. I didn't look at Damien. Instead, I fixed Gio with a dead, icy stare. "Don't mistake a functioning circulatory system for genuine emotion, Gio. It's a common mistake for men like you."

Gio choked on his next breath, his face flushing a deep, humiliated red.

Damien didn't say a word. His eyes, cold as a Siberian winter, were locked onto Nate. The unspoken threat radiating from my husband was so thick it was hard to breathe. He despised the intimacy of Nate calling me 'Bella'. Julian, finally reading the lethal shift in the room, abruptly stood.

"Nate, why don't you and Chloe come see the new horses? Gio, you too," Julian ordered, his voice tight. Within seconds, they practically fled the solarium, leaving me alone with the devil.

Damien stalked toward me, his presence a suffocating weight. I tried to step back, but he boxed me in against the wrought-iron plant stands. His dark gaze dropped to the V-neck of my cashmere sweater, locking onto the fading, purple bruises marring my collarbone.

"Still wearing my mark, I see," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in my chest. "Or have you been careless enough to let some other man touch what's mine?"

The sheer arrogance of his words ignited a blinding fury within me. "You mean the brand you left the night you dragged me out of the West Wing?" I spat back, lifting my chin to meet his lethal glare. "Don't pretend it meant anything more."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. His eyes darkened with a rage so absolute it made my pulse hammer against my ribs. This was my chance. I had to push him over the edge.

"If my presence disgusts you so much, Damien, then end it," I said, my voice ringing with a desperate finality. "The contract died with my father. Break it. I will sign anything."

Instead of the disgust I hoped for, a terrifying, possessive fire flared in his eyes. He didn't believe me. He thought this was just another move on a chessboard. He lunged, his large hand wrapping around my wrist like a steel vice.

"You started this game, Isabella," he whispered, his breath brushing my ear, sending a violent shiver down my spine. "And a Moretti always finishes what they start. The only way you leave this family is in a coffin."

He released me so abruptly I stumbled, turning on his heel and striding out of the solarium without looking back.

I stood trembling among the orchids, my wrist burning from his grip. *In a coffin.* The words echoed in my mind, a definitive death sentence. I pressed a shaking hand to my flat stomach. If I were to carry his heir, that coffin would be sealed forever, binding my blood to his darkness. I had to make sure that never happened, no matter the cost.