The Mafia Don's Runaway Collateral Wife

Isabella POV

I woke up gasping, the phantom weight of a massive body still crushing the breath from my lungs.

My hands gripped the narrow armrests of the airplane seat, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The stale, recycled air of the cabin slowly replaced the phantom scents that had just suffocated me in my sleep: expensive leather, rain, and the sharp bite of whiskey.

Six years had passed, yet the memory of that blackout in the JFK Hilton presidential suite still hunted me. I had been ordered to wait there, a silent display of power for a rival family. Instead, the storm killed the power, and a monster walked in. He was heavy, frantic, and violent—like a wounded beast. I fought him in the pitch black. I clawed at his skin, and in a final act of desperation, I sank my teeth into his shoulder until I tasted blood.

*"Maledizione,"* (Curse it) he had rasped against my ear in Italian, a painful, guttural sound that still echoed in my nightmares.

I didn't know his face, but every instinct screamed it was the man who owned me. Damien Moretti.

I turned my head, looking out the small oval window. Beneath the clouds, the gray, unforgiving skyline of New York City pierced the horizon like the teeth of a predator. I was flying back into the jaws of hell.

I was never supposed to be a wife. I was a *Collateral*. A blood debt contract signed in a sterile lawyer's office to pay off my father's gambling sins. Damien hadn't even looked at me when he signed the papers. To the heir of the Moretti empire, I wasn't a human being; I was a breathing piece of property, locked away in a remote Long Island estate for six months, untouched and unseen.

Until that night at the Hilton.

And then came the purge. A week after the assault, while my body was still bruised and my soul shattered, Vittorio 'The Old Wolf' Moretti summoned me. Damien's grandfather didn't care about the truth. To him, my commoner blood was a stain on their royal mafia lineage. He branded me a traitor, stripped me of the Moretti name, and had his Soldiers throw me onto the freezing New York streets with nothing but the clothes on my back.

I touched my stomach instinctively, though it had been flat for years. They threw me away, not knowing I was carrying the consequences of that dark room.

"Mom?"

I blinked, pulling myself out of the abyss. Alessandro was looking at me from the seat across the aisle, his dark eyes—so terrifyingly familiar—studying me with a calm calculation that didn't belong on a five-year-old's face. He pushed his small glasses up his nose. "Your heart rate is elevated. Are you having a panic attack?"

"I'm fine, Alex," I whispered, forcing a reassuring smile.

Next to him, Marco was practically vibrating with restless energy, kicking the back of the empty seat in front