Too Late To Beg, Mr. Mafia Don

Isabella POV

The tires of Rocco’s town car screeched to a halt outside the VIP entrance of Mount Sinai Hospital. Black armored SUVs formed a barricade, and heavily armed Soldiers stood like statues, turning the drop-off zone into a militarized checkpoint.

Before the vehicle even settled, the rear door was ripped open.

Damien stood there, a towering shadow of vengeance. He didn't care about the hospital staff watching from the glass doors. His large hand clamped down on my arm like a steel vice, hauling me out of the leather seat with enough force to make my teeth rattle.

"You think you can touch what's mine in broad daylight?" he snarled, his face inches from mine. His icy blue eyes were completely feral, burning with a murderous intent that would have made any other woman drop to her knees. "Is this your fucking Vendetta, Isabella? A warm-up?"

I didn't struggle against his grip. I simply adjusted my designer sunglasses, meeting his lethal glare with absolute calm. "I didn't touch her, Damien."

My composure was the worst thing I could have offered him. To a Don demanding submission and fear, my indifference was a confession of cold-blooded guilt. His jaw clenched so hard I thought the bone might snap. Without another word, he dragged me through the pristine hospital lobby, his dark aura parting the sea of doctors and nurses like a scythe.

He shoved the heavy door of Room 302 open.

The air inside was thick with the cloying scent of lilies and antiseptic. Giuliana lay in the center of the high-tech bed. Her head was wrapped in thick white gauze, and her right leg was elevated in a heavy cast.

The moment her eyes landed on me, she let out a theatrical, terrified gasp. She shrank back against the pillows, her trembling hands reaching out to clutch Damien’s tailored sleeve.

"It's her," Giuliana sobbed, her voice a fragile, broken whisper. "Damien, please... keep her away from me. It's a Falcone warning..."

It was a flawless performance. I watched Damien’s posture shift, his broad shoulders curving protectively over her as his savior complex went into overdrive. When he turned his head to look at me, the disgust in his eyes was absolute. I was the monster; she was the martyr.

I leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing my arms. I didn't see a victim. Through the lens of my training, I saw a poorly constructed crime scene.

"You need a better makeup artist, Giuliana," I said, my voice slicing through her fake sobs like a scalpel.

Damien stepped toward me, his fists balled. "Shut your fucking mouth—"

"The blood on her gauze," I interrupted, pointing a manicured finger at the bandage. "It's a splatter pattern. Head wounds seep; they don't spray outward onto the dressing after it's been applied. That's a burst blood pack." I let my gaze drop to her elevated leg. "And for someone with a fractured tibia, there is absolutely no stress tension in her thigh or calf muscles. She's relaxed."

Giuliana’s fake crying hitched, a flicker of panic crossing her pale face.

"Damien," I continued, my tone dropping to a dead, chilling flatline. "If I wanted her dead, we would be discussing how to dredge her car from the bottom of the Hudson River right now. We wouldn't be standing here watching this pathetic community theater."

I pulled my burner phone from my pocket, tapping the screen to open the camera. "Let's get this on the record for the Commission."

"Give me the damn phone!" Damien roared.

He lunged at me, his massive frame moving with the terrifying speed of an apex predator. A normal woman would have frozen. I executed a micro-shift. I twisted my ankle just a fraction of an inch, letting my weight collapse as if my stiletto heel had caught on the linoleum floor.

I dropped smoothly out of his trajectory. Damien’s momentum carried him forward, and his heavy fist smashed straight into the drywall beside the doorframe with a sickening crunch.

Plaster dusted the air. I was already back on my feet, smoothing the invisible wrinkles from my blouse, completely unharmed.

Damien slowly pulled his fist from the wall. His knuckles were split and bleeding. He looked down at me, the blind rage in his eyes suddenly fracturing into profound, unsettling confusion. He was a master of violence; his brain was struggling to process how a clumsy trip had perfectly evaded a lethal strike.

"Should we call the police to document this 'attack'?" I asked calmly, looking past him.

On the bed, Giuliana wasn't crying anymore. She was staring at me, her knuckles white as she gripped the sheets. For the first time since I met her, the fear in her eyes wasn't an act. It was real.