Betrayed, I Married the Feared Cripple

Isabella POV

The bead curtain at the entrance of my private suite clicked softly, a fragile sound easily swallowed by the heavy silence of the Herrera estate. I sat by the half-open window, watching the gray clouds gather over the manicured lawns, a cup of lukewarm chamomile tea resting in my hands.

"I still can't believe he did it. A public statement, Isabella! He didn't even have the decency to tell you to your face."

Clara, my loyal Associate and maid, paced the length of my modest bedroom. Her hands were clenched into fists, her dark eyes blazing with a protective fury that I myself couldn't muster.

It had been exactly three days since Leo Contreras, the Underboss of the Contreras family, unilaterally severed our engagement. The society was already whispering, branding me the ultimate laughingstock—the forgotten Herrera girl, supposedly so talentless, plain, and devoid of virtue that even a political alliance couldn't force a man to stomach her.

"Let them talk, Clara," I said, taking a slow sip of my tea. "Leo's rejection is a blessing in disguise. With my ruined reputation, the family will likely forget about me. I might actually buy myself a few years of peace."

"Peace?" Clara stopped pacing, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Sophia has been parading around the estate like a peacock. Everyone knows she's the reason Leo broke it off. She's hated you since we were children, and now she's stolen your future."

Before I could tell Clara that a future with a man as fickle as Leo was no future at all, a sharp knock echoed through the suite. A guard's gruff voice filtered through the wood. "Miss Isabella. The Matriarch demands your presence in the main drawing room. Immediately."

Clara and I exchanged a look. The illusion of peace had shattered faster than I anticipated.

When I stepped into the Herrera family drawing room, the oppressive atmosphere hit me instantly. The air was thick with the scent of stale cigars and the suffocating, heavy floral perfume worn by Elena Herrera, the family's Mafia Queen and my stepmother. She sat on the velvet sofa, her eyes gleaming with a predatory anticipation. Standing near the fireplace was Sophia, looking radiant and entirely too smug.

But it wasn't them who commanded the room's attention.

Standing in the center of the Persian rug was Quinn, the stoic Underboss of the Russo family. The silver pin on his lapel caught the dim light—the crest of Don Vincenzo, the supreme ruler of our world.

"Isabella," Elena purred, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Come forward. Sir Quinn brings a direct command from Don Vincenzo himself."

My heart gave a single, hard thud, but I kept my face a smooth, unreadable mask. I stepped forward, my posture perfectly straight. A Don's Command was absolute law. To question it was a death sentence.

Quinn Foster unrolled a heavy parchment, his dark eyes flicking toward me with a hint of pity. "By the decree of Don Vincenzo,