In The Wrong Mafia Don's Bed

Isabella POV

The scent of melting wax and ancient myrrh in Holy Trinity Cathedral usually brought me peace. Today, it only fueled the bitter fire burning in my chest.

I knelt before the marble statue of the Virgin Mary, the cold stone biting into my knees. It was early March, and the Chicago wind howling outside matched the turmoil I’d carried since returning from my forced exile in Europe.

My fingers trembled as I lit a votive candle. The flickering flame mirrored the flash of cameras from that disastrous night last fall at The Drake Hotel.

I closed my eyes, but the memory was a relentless loop. The charity gala. The suffocating scent of expensive perfume and illegal champagne. Victoria Kramer, the spoiled princess of our rival family, standing in her pristine white silk gown, loudly mocking the Griffin family’s crumbling empire. She had deliberately outbid me on a sapphire necklace that once belonged to my late mother, her voice dripping with venom about my father’s failing bootlegging routes.

I hadn't planned it. But the sight of her smug smile had snapped the last thread of my restraint. The crystal goblet of Bordeaux in my hand had tipped, the dark red liquid splashing across Victoria’s bodice like a fresh bloodstain.

The ballroom had erupted. A public vendetta waiting to happen.

And then, he had stepped in.

Damien Moretti.

The Don of the Chicago Outfit. The undisputed king of the city’s underworld.

When Damien moved, the room didn't just quiet down; it stopped breathing. He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't even looked at Victoria. He had simply walked up to me, his tailored black suit absorbing the chandelier's light, his eyes as dead and freezing as Lake Michigan in midwinter.

He looked at my father, who was already sweating, and delivered his verdict with a voice that left no room for appeal.

"Uncontrolled. A liability."

Three words. That was all it took for the Don to strip away my dignity. Three words that branded me a foolish, reckless girl in front of the entire Chicago elite, forcing my father to ship me off to Florence the very next morning to avoid the Moretti family's wrath and a potential war with the Kramers.

"I hate him," I whispered to the Virgin Mary, my voice echoing faintly in the cavernous nave.

I gripped the wooden rail of the kneeler, my knuckles turning white. "Damien Moretti is a cold-blooded monster. He ruined my life over a spilled glass of wine. He has no heart, no soul."

I stared into the painted, compassionate eyes of the statue, my chest heaving with a toxic mix of anger and helplessness. In our world, a Don's word was absolute law. But here, in the sanctuary of the church, I could speak my truth.

"Whoever marries him is truly cursed," I hissed, the venom tasting bitter on my tongue. "She will be chained to a corpse."

A sudden, chilling draft swept through the nave, making the candle flames