Too Late To Beg, Mr. Mafia Don

Isabella POV

The morning sun over 5th Avenue was blinding, but the espresso on the cafe terrace tasted like victory. I watched the gilded doors of Bergdorf Goodman across the street, tapping my new encrypted burner phone against the table.

It was time to put on a show.

I dialed a number I knew by heart. Rocco, the Moretti family's Underboss, answered with a gruff bark. "I'm busy, Isabella."

"Bergdorf Goodman. Ten minutes," I ordered, my voice perfectly flat.

"The Don is in a virtual sit-down with the Chicago Outfit," Rocco growled, his patience already fraying. "I'm not playing bag boy for your divorce tantrum."

I smiled, ice-cold. "Ten minutes, Rocco. Or I walk straight into Damien's study, interrupt his little meeting, and tell the Chicagoans the Moretti Don can't even leash his ex-wife. Let's see how that inspires confidence in your new gun-running routes."

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the line. In our world, a threat to the family's business and the Don's honor was a lethal offense. Rocco let out a vicious curse. "Ten minutes."

When Rocco arrived, he was practically vibrating with suppressed violence. He stood behind me, a hulking shadow of fury, as I dropped the heavy, matte-black AmEx on the glass counter. It was the ultimate symbol of the Mafia Queen, and I was about to weaponize it.

"I'll take all the exotic leathers," I told the clerk. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I knew Damien's phone was currently screaming with top-tier fraud alerts, right in the middle of his delicate Chicago negotiations.

Next, I pointed to a half-million-dollar diamond necklace. "It's beautiful," I murmured, glancing at Rocco's murderous reflection in the mirror. "Like a collar he could never put on me."

Rocco's jaw ticked, but he remained silent, his hands full of designer bags.

Finally, we moved to the men's department. I selected a Patek Philippe watch and raised my voice just enough for the surrounding Moretti shadows to hear. "Have this couriered to the Falcone estate. A gift for a Don who actually understands the value of Loyalty."

As the clerk—one of Topo's Associates in disguise—handed me the receipt, our fingers brushed. A micro-USB drive slipped seamlessly into my palm. My strategic objective was complete.

Suddenly, Rocco pressed two fingers to his earpiece. His broad shoulders stiffened. The irritation in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, dead stare of an executioner.

He lunged, his massive hand clamping down on my bicep like a steel vice.

"Hey!" I snapped, dropping a shopping bag.

"We're leaving," Rocco snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Now."

"Let go of me, Rocco."

"Giuliana's transport was just ambushed on the way to the hospital," he hissed, dragging me toward the exit with terrifying force. "Professional hit. The Don wants you at Mount Sinai. He wants you to see exactly what your fucking Vendetta has done."

My blood ran cold. An ambush? Now? The timing was too perfect. The precision, the lack of traces—it was a textbook Falcone Enforcer strike. But I hadn't given the order.

Someone else had. A puppet master had just used my perfectly timed shopping spree as a smokescreen, framing me for a hit I didn't commit, and pointing the full, murderous wrath of the Moretti Don directly at my head.