The Mafia King's Pregnant Captive Bride

Isabella POV

The air in Cecile Fitzgerald-Falcone's suite was thick with the cloying scent of expensive roses, a suffocating perfume that failed to mask the rot of her jealousy. I stood barefoot on the plush Persian rug, shivering despite the oppressive warmth of the room.

"Take it off," Bertha barked. The older woman, Cecile's loyal enforcer, looked at me with eyes like dead coal.

I hesitated, my fingers trembling at the hem of my simple cotton dress. I was a Rossi. The last of my bloodline, a hostage kept alive only for the Falcone family's amusement and use.

"Do it, or I will tear it off you," Bertha threatened, taking a heavy step closer.

I swallowed my pride and let the dress fall to the floor. I stood naked under the harsh, scrutinizing glare of the two women.

Cecile circled me, her eyes raking over my body with undisguised disgust. "Look at her," she sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "Dirty Rossi blood. You are nothing but a vessel, Isabella. A temporary container to breed the heir I cannot give my husband."

Bertha threw a wisp of black fabric at my face. It fluttered to the floor-a La Perla lace lingerie set, worth more than my entire existence in this house.

"Put it on," Bertha ordered. "You're going to Damien's bed tonight. Try to look like a gift, not trash."

I pulled the delicate silk and lace over my skin. It felt like a cage.

Cecile stopped in front of me. The sight of the black lace against my pale skin seemed to snap something inside her. Her perfectly manicured hand flew through the air.

*Crack.*

The slap echoed in the cavernous suite. My head snapped to the side, my right cheek instantly burning with a fierce, stinging heat. I didn't flinch. I didn't raise a hand to protect myself. I just let my dark hair fall over my face, playing the part of the broken captive.

Cecile grabbed my chin, her nails digging into my jaw. "Remember your place," she hissed, her breath hot against my face. "You are a tool. If you dare to harbor any delusions of grandeur, I will erase you from Chicago, just like the rest of your pathetic family. Your life is worth less than an ant's."

"Yes, Ma'am," I whispered, keeping my eyes downcast.

She released me with a scoff, satisfied she had broken whatever spirit I had left.

They locked me in the adjoining guest bathroom to wait until Damien was ready for me. The stark white Italian marble and blinding chrome fixtures offered no comfort, but the massive frameless mirror gave me exactly what I needed.

I stared at my reflection. The girl looking back was terrifyingly calm. There were no tears. The Rossi family had bled out on the floor of our home; I had no tears left to shed.

I turned my face to the harsh light. Cecile's handprint was a stark red bloom on my cheek. My skin was notoriously sensitive, bruising at the slightest rough touch. But it wasn't enough.

Damien Falcone was a monster, a cold and ruthless Underboss. But I had watched him from the shadows. I knew he possessed a dark, obsessive protectiveness over what he considered his property. Tonight, I was his property.

I raised my hand and pressed my fingertips into the inflamed skin of my cheek. I rubbed and kneaded the flesh mercilessly until the red deepened into a vicious, mottled purple. It looked brutal. Heartbreaking.

Then, I caught my lower lip between my teeth and bit down hard. A sharp copper taste flooded my mouth as a bead of fresh blood swelled on the delicate skin.

I looked at the mirror again. The bruised, bleeding girl in the black lace was a masterpiece of vulnerability. Cecile thought she had given me a warning. She didn't realize she had just handed me a weapon.

A sharp knock rapped against the bathroom door.

"Time's up, Rossi," Bertha's gravelly voice called out. "The Underboss is waiting."

I wiped a single drop of blood from my chin, unlocked the door, and stepped out to meet her.