The Mafia King's Pregnant Captive Bride

Isabella POV

I stepped out of the blinding white bathroom and into the suffocating heat of the suite. Bertha's dead-coal eyes immediately dropped to the black La Perla lace clinging to my skin, her lip curling in absolute disgust. She didn't comment on the vicious purple bruise blooming on my cheek or the dried blood on my lower lip. To her, my pain was simply the natural order of things.

"Move," she grunted, gesturing toward the door.

I kept my head bowed, wrapping my arms around my waist as if trying to shield myself from her stare. We stepped out of the suite and into the West Wing corridor. The atmosphere shifted instantly. The air here was heavy, thick with the scent of aged cigars, polished leather, and old wood-the undeniable smell of absolute power. Beneath my bare feet, a deep crimson carpet swallowed the sound of our footsteps, making the long walk feel like a silent march to the gallows.

Bertha walked half a step behind me, her voice a cruel, scraping whisper in the quiet hall.

"Don't think putting on that expensive lace makes you anything more than what you are," she hissed, her words dripping with venom. "You are a dirty Rossi leftover. A temporary vessel meant to warm a bed and breed. Once you serve your purpose, nobody in this family will even remember your name."

I squeezed my eyes shut for a fraction of a second, letting my shoulders tremble. I played the part of the terrified captive flawlessly. But beneath the facade of the broken girl, my mind was terrifyingly clear. I cataloged every insult, every drop of venom. They thought they were breaking me, but they were only forging my resolve. I would collect on this debt.

As we walked deeper into the corridor, the shadows seemed to lengthen. The walls were lined with massive oil portraits of the past Falcone Dons. Their cold, painted eyes seemed to follow me, judging the last surviving Rossi walking through their halls. The oppressive weight of their stares triggered a sudden, violent memory of my family's blood soaking into the floorboards.

My breath hitched. The shadows twisted, and a waking nightmare seized me.

In my mind's eye, I didn't see the empty corridor. I saw a little boy. He had a mop of dark hair and Damien's piercing, ruthless eyes. My son. Before I could reach out to him, Cecile materialized behind the boy. She wore that same sickeningly sweet, fake smile, but her perfectly manicured nails were digging viciously into his small arms, drawing blood. The vision shifted violently-the boy was suddenly face-down in the estate's marble fountain, his small body motionless in the water while Cecile walked away.

A wave of nausea crashed over me, so intense my knees nearly buckled. The cold sweat on my skin was real now.

This wasn't just about my survival anymore. If I gave birth to a Falcone heir, Cecile would never let us live in peace. She would poison him, torture him, or drown him to secure her own power. A dark, primal instinct clawed its way up my throat. I couldn't just hide behind Damien's protection. I had to tear Cecile down. This was a mother's *Vendetta*, and it would only end in blood.

"Stop," Bertha snapped.

I blinked, the horrific vision dissolving as I realized we had reached the end of the hall. Towering before us were the massive double oak doors of the Underboss's private study.

Bertha grabbed my shoulder, her grip bruising. She leaned in close, her breath hot against my ear.

"The Don is handling family business," she ordered, her tone leaving no room for error. "He does not like to be disturbed. When you go in, you stand by the fireplace. You do not make a sound. You do not speak unless he asks you a direct question, and you never look him in the eye. Remember your place, Rossi. Your life is worth less than the dust on his shoes."

I gave a small, pathetic nod, keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the polished brass doorknob.

Satisfied that I was thoroughly cowed, Bertha raised her fist and knocked twice. A low, gravelly voice from inside granted entry.

Bertha pushed the heavy oak door open, shoved me roughly inside, and pulled the door shut behind me. The heavy latch clicked into place, sealing me in. The air inside was dense with the smell of rich whiskey and burning wood. I stood barefoot on the dark hardwood floor, the flickering light of the fireplace casting long, trembling shadows across my bruised skin.