Imprisoned by the Don I Called Mine

My husband, Don Lorenzo, ran New York's underworld. And he's the one who put me in prison.

All because his childhood flame, Cassandra Viti—the Viti family princess—killed my father.

I was the first one on the scene. The Feds caught me standing over the body.

He faked the evidence. Made sure I took the fall.

I spent three years in hell.

His apology? A single sentence and an unlimited black card.

"I owe Cassandra three wishes. Once you're out, once I've paid my debt to her, you'll be my Donna again."

My husband’s old flame killed my father, and I did the time for it. Three years.

“Inmate 7734. Pack your shit. You’re out.”

I slowly got to my feet.

The concrete walls were covered in scratches. Every single one clawed there by my own nails. A tally of my despair.

“Move it!” the guard barked, tapping his baton.

I walked the long corridor, my footsteps echoing over the ghosts of the past three years.

“Isabella Rossi, congratulations on your freedom.” The warden’s smile was so fake it hurt to look at. “Your husband has people waiting for you outside.”

Husband?

I almost laughed.

I pushed open the last gate. The sunlight was so bright it made me squint.

I hadn't seen light like that in three years.

I stared at the black Lincoln parked by the curb.

I knew the license plate, but the man leaning against the door wasn't my so-called husband.

It was Marco, Lorenzo’s right-hand man.

“Bella.” Marco hurried over. “The Don got held up. He sent me.”

Held up? Or with someone more important?

A bitter taste filled my mouth. I pulled open the back door and got in.

“Ma’am, the boss got you some clothes.” Marco handed me an expensive-looking bag. “He said… he said you could change in the car.”

Change.

The pity and disgust in Marco's eyes stung.

Was he disgusted by the smell of prison on me?

I sat in the back and, not caring about Marco’s eyes in the rearview mirror, I stripped off my prison uniform.

My emaciated body, all sharp angles and jutting ribs, met the cool air of the car.

My shame had been torn to shreds by Lorenzo himself, the day I stood in that courtroom three years ago.

I closed my eyes. The memories flooded back.

The trial. Three years ago.

Don Lorenzo Romano, the Godfather who controlled half of New York’s underworld.

He stood on the witness stand in his expensive, tailored suit. He was elegant. He was cruel. And he showed the jury my deepest scars—the ones no one could see.

“Members of the jury,” Lorenzo’s voice echoed, cold and calm. “My wife, Isabella Rossi, was six years old when she watched her mother get shot to death. Her father ran, leaving her mother behind to die.”

I snapped my head up to look at him, unable to believe my ears.

That was my deepest wound.

The secret I only ever told him,