The Mafia King's Pregnant Captive Bride

Isabella POV

The echo of Cecile's venomous words hung in the sprawling suite. *A five-minute whore in a queen's castle.*

I stood frozen by the floor-to-ceiling windows, clutching the heavy cashmere coat Hanson had draped over my trembling shoulders. The scent of Damien's cedar and whiskey still clung to the fabric, a stark contrast to the suffocating, cloying rose perfume radiating from Cecile.

She paced across the plush Persian rug, her eyes raking over the luxurious space with a sickening mix of entitlement and raw jealousy. Finally, her gaze snapped back to me, her upper lip curling in absolute disgust.

"Take it off," Cecile commanded, her voice like cracking ice.

I didn't move. My fingers only tightened their death grip on the lapels of the coat.

"Take off that coat that doesn't belong to you," she sneered, taking a menacing step closer. "I want to see what's left of a Rossi piece of trash after stripping away the Falcone family's charity."

Behind her, Bertha shifted, her massive frame effectively blocking the only exit. I was trapped.

A cold sweat broke out across my nape. In the span of a heartbeat, the luxurious suite dissolved. I was back in my family's estate on the night of the massacre. I saw my cousin on her knees, sobbing, offering absolute submission to the Falcone Soldiers. *I'll do anything. Just let my boy live.* Her obedience hadn't saved her; it had only made her execution easier.

In their world, submission was synonymous with death.

If I cowered now, Cecile would tear me apart. My only weapon was the very man who had orchestrated my family's ruin. I had to wield Damien's authority like a shield.

I forced my lungs to expand, swallowing the terror threatening to choke me. Slowly, I lifted my chin and met Cecile's furious glare.

"I can't," I said. My voice was quiet, but it didn't shake.

Cecile's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. Before she could unleash her wrath, I pressed my advantage.

"This coat, this room, and I, are now the *Underboss*'s property," I stated, deliberately weaponizing the title. "His orders were that from now on, I answer only to him. Forcing me to take off the clothes he gave me is defying his direct command."

I took a fraction of a step forward, meeting her shock with cold survival instinct. "Lady Cecile, are you openly challenging the Underboss's authority?"

The words struck her like a physical blow. The color drained from her perfectly powdered face, only to be replaced by a violent, mottled red. I had taken her private, petty humiliation and elevated it to a treasonous offense against the mafia hierarchy.

"You dirty little bitch," Cecile shrieked, her carefully crafted facade of a poised Mafia Queen shattering completely.

Blinded by rage, she lunged toward the glass coffee table and snatched up a heavy, solid crystal ashtray. She raised it high, her eyes wild with the intent to cave my skull in.

I braced myself, refusing to flinch.

Just as she swung, a thick, calloused hand clamped down on her wrist like a vice.

"My Lady, stop," Bertha growled, her voice a low, urgent rumble.

Cecile thrashed against the enforcer's grip, but Bertha was an immovable wall of muscle. She leaned in, her lips brushing Cecile's ear, though the silence of the room allowed me to catch every word.

"Not here. Not now," Bertha hissed, her dead-coal eyes flicking toward me with lethal calculation. "This is his territory. You do this here, you lose. You give him the perfect reason to send you back to Ireland."

The threat of exile acted like a bucket of ice water over Cecile's manic fury. Her chest heaved violently as she stared at me, taking in jagged breaths. Slowly, her fingers uncurled.

The crystal ashtray slipped from her grasp, hitting the thick carpet with a heavy, muffled thud.

Cecile wrenched her arm free from Bertha's grip. She looked at me not as a helpless hostage, but as a genuine threat that needed to be eradicated.

"This isn't over, Rossi," she whispered, her voice dripping with a promise of death.

She spun on her heel and stormed out of the suite, her silk robe snapping behind her. Bertha lingered for a fraction of a second, shooting me a dark, warning glare before following her mistress into the corridor.

I let out a shaky breath, my knees nearly buckling as I stared at the open doorway. I had survived the initial strike, but the heavy silence bleeding in from the hall told me she was only retreating to gather her wolves.