Too Late To Beg, Mr. Mafia Don

Isabella POV

The VIP parking garage of Mount Sinai Hospital was a concrete cavern that smelled of damp earth and heavy exhaust. A cold, gray drizzle drifted in through the open archways, leaving greasy, iridescent puddles across the asphalt. Through the exit, the New York skyline was a blurred watercolor of gray, a perfect reflection of the storm brewing within the Moretti empire.

My armored SUV sat idling at the curb, a low, predatory purr in the gloom. I was halfway to the door when heavy, urgent footsteps echoed behind me.

"Isabella."

I turned slowly. Damien strode toward me, his face a mask of barely contained fury. Rocco trailed a step behind him, looking as though he were marching to his own execution.

"Speak," Damien barked at his Underboss, his eyes never leaving mine.

Rocco swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably under the fluorescent lights. "The text message sent to Giuliana... it's a ghost, Boss. It was routed through multiple military-grade proxies and encrypted at the source. Completely untraceable."

Damien’s jaw ticked. The veins in his neck strained against his collar as he took a menacing step toward me. "You used Falcone resources," he accused, his voice a lethal, vibrating hum. "You had your family's tech division scrub your tracks."

I lied smoothly, a mocking smile playing on my lips. Let him drown in his paranoia; he had no idea he was looking at 'K', the very ghost his men were chasing. "I'm just a discarded wife, Damien. If I wanted to send a message, I’d send a Soldier to knock on her door, not play children's games."

The absolute dismissal in my tone made his eyes darken with a dangerous, volatile storm. He was a Don used to absolute submission, and my defiance was tearing him apart.

A gust of damp wind swept through the garage. I didn't shiver, but Damien’s deeply ingrained savior complex—his desperate need to control and protect—flared to life. He stripped off his custom, five-thousand-dollar Brioni suit jacket and stepped into my space, reaching out to drape it over my shoulders.

I recoiled, stepping back as if his touch were a plague.

The sudden, violent rejection caught him off guard. The heavy silk-blend fabric slipped from his grasp, falling with a wet, pathetic slap into a filthy puddle of rainwater and motor oil.

Damien froze. He stared down at the ruined garment, the symbol of his wealth and authority soaking up the grime of the garage floor. When he looked back up at me, the raw frustration in his eyes was almost palpable.

"Ten million," he gritted out, his voice tight, trying to buy back the control he had just lost. "I'll add another ten million dollars to the annulment settlement."

I looked at him with pure, unadulterated disgust. "I don't want your blood money."

I reached for my car door, but he slammed his hand against the frame, trapping me.

"My grandfather called," Damien said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Don Carlo. He wants us both at the family estate tonight for the monthly dinner. He wants an explanation for the... chaos."

The Chairman. The ruthless architect of the Moretti legacy. To defy him was a death sentence, even for a sitting Don.

"I'll unfreeze your accounts," Damien offered, the command in his voice bleeding into a desperate plea. "All of your credit cards. Just be there."

I paused, calculating the angles. The Chairman's dinner was the absolute epicenter of Moretti power. It was the perfect stage.

A slow, ice-cold smile curved my lips. "Fine. I'll attend." I leaned in slightly, dropping my voice to a deadly whisper. "But don't expect me to perform the role of a doting wife, Damien. And don't expect me to honor Omertà. If your grandfather asks me a question, I will tell him the exact, ugly truth."

The color drained from his face. I had just handed him a live grenade, and he had no choice but to hold it.

"Pick me up at the St. Regis at eight," I ordered, pulling the door open and forcing him to step back into the freezing rain.

I climbed into the back seat, the heavy armored door sealing shut with a definitive thud. As my driver pulled away, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Damien Moretti was left standing alone in the cold drizzle, staring after me, his ruined jacket forgotten in the dirt at his feet.