The Mafia Bride's Lethal Revenge

Isabella POV

The heavy, suffocating fog of the sedative began to burn off much faster than my new husband had anticipated. My metabolism, conditioned by years of grueling operative training, chewed through the chemical restraint.

Before I even opened my eyes, my senses mapped the room. The sharp scent of expensive bourbon clashed with the cloying, sweet perfume of another woman. Then came the sounds—the wet, rhythmic slapping of flesh against flesh, accompanied by exaggerated, breathy moans.

I slowly opened my eyes. The Onyx Suite at the Moretti Grand Casino & Hotel was a sprawling monument to mafia excess, all cold black marble and gilded accents. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the neon bleed of Chicago’s skyline illuminated the center of the room. There, on a massive black velvet bed, my husband, Julian Moretti, was vigorously fucking his mistress.

In the dark corner where I had been carelessly dumped, my custom-made white wedding dress lay pooled around me like a discarded corpse. This was Julian’s grand design—a calculated, brutal humiliation meant to break the Rossi family’s eldest daughter on her wedding night.

He thought he had married a sheep. He had no idea he had dragged a wolf into his cage.

On the bed, the woman—Dahlia Vance, if my intel was correct—arched her back and caught sight of me in the shadows. Instead of stopping, a cruel, victorious smile stretched across her lips.

"You're awake," Dahlia purred, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. She ran a hand down Julian’s sweat-slicked chest. "You’ll have to get used to this view, sweetie. This is where you belong—in the corner, watching."

Julian didn't even bother to look back at me, his hips still moving.

I pushed myself up from the floor, the cold marble seeping through the torn tulle of my dress. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I simply brushed a stray lock of hair from my face and let the mask of the obedient mafia princess shatter completely.

"If I wanted to watch a cheap porno, I would have paid for better actors," I said, my voice echoing through the cavernous suite with icy clarity.

Julian froze. He finally turned his head, his dark eyes narrowing at my tone.

I tilted my head, my gaze sweeping over them with absolute disgust. "A whore and her lapdog. How fitting."

The silence that followed was deafening. Julian’s face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He shoved Dahlia aside and stepped off the bed. Naked, heavily muscled, and radiating the lethal arrogance of a Moretti Caporegime, he marched toward me.

"You stupid bitch," he snarled, his fists clenching. "I'm going to teach you how to speak to your betters."

He closed the distance, expecting me to cower. He raised his hand, telegraphing a heavy backhand.

I didn't flinch. I waited until he was exactly within my strike zone.

With blinding speed, I pivoted. My heel connected with the common peroneal nerve on the outside of his thigh. The impact sounded like a cracking