Reborn Heiress: Claimed By The Dark Don

Isabella POV

The roar of the Tommy guns still echoed in my skull. The damp, freezing air of the speakeasy cellar was suffocating, thick with the stench of cheap whiskey and copper. Damien’s blood was everywhere—soaking my hands, pooling on the unforgiving cement beneath us. He had used his own massive body as a shield, taking the bullets meant for me.

My father, Arthur. My sweet, venomous sister, Sophia. They had poisoned me, offering me up as a weakened bait for the Barron family’s trap. And Damien, the ruthless Underboss of the Castillo family, the man I had hated for ruining my life, had driven his armored Cadillac straight into hell to pull me out. He died in my arms. And as the poison finally stopped my own heart, I realized the terrifying truth: I had loved the wrong man, and the devil himself had loved me.

I gasped, my eyes snapping open.

There was no cold cement. No blood. Only the soft, suffocating embrace of deep crimson silk sheets. The scent of expensive whiskey and a faint, masculine cologne replaced the smell of death. A fire crackled in the hearth of a sprawling, dimly lit room.

The penthouse at The Castillo Grand.

I turned my head, my breath catching in my throat. He was standing at the foot of the massive four-poster bed. Damien Castillo. The Demon.

He was alive. He wasn't riddled with bullets; his broad, muscular chest rose and fell steadily beneath his unbuttoned dress shirt. His face, a cruel masterpiece carved from marble, was set in a hard line. His deep blue eyes—like the darkest depths of the Sicilian sea—watched me with a chilling, predatory stillness.

It was March 7, 1925. The night of my engagement party. The night he had publicly ripped me away from Julian Barron and dragged me into his fortress to claim me.

A sob tore from my throat. I didn't care about the past life's hatred. I didn't care that he had just taken my innocence by force hours ago. He was breathing. I scrambled across the mattress, ignoring the ache in my body, and threw myself at him. My hands framed his face, and I crashed my lips against his. It was a desperate, messy kiss, pouring all my grief, my regret, and my sudden, overwhelming relief into him.

For a fraction of a second, his body went rigid. Then, a large, calloused hand clamped around my jaw, his fingers digging into my skin with bruising force. He tore me away, his grip holding my face inches from his.

"Don't play games with me, principessa," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated against my chest.

The absolute zero in his eyes made me shiver. Of course. To him, I was still the caged bird who loved Julian Barron. To him, this sudden submission was a calculated ploy, a desperate woman's trick to lower his guard so I could escape. He didn't know about the warehouse. He didn't