The Neglected Wife's Ultimate Mafia Vendetta

Isabella POV

The master suite of the Moretti Estate was a beautifully disguised prison. Despite the California king mattress and the expensive Egyptian cotton duvet, the room felt like a tomb. The soundproofed walls swallowed the silence, and the window grilles cast a grid-like shadow across the plush carpet, a constant reminder of my captivity.

The digital clock on the nightstand glowed a harsh red: 10:14 PM.

I stood near the edge of the bed, the silk of my nightgown feeling like ice against my skin. According to the archaic traditions of our world, producing an heir was my sole purpose. I took a trembling breath and stepped closer to Vincenzo.

Before my hand could even brush his shoulder, he raised a single finger. A minute gesture, but carrying the absolute weight of a Don's command.

"Don't," Vincenzo said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He didn't even bother to look at me, his gaze fixed on the dark ceiling. "I need a clear head for the negotiations with the Chicago Outfit tomorrow. Distractions are a liability to the family."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "You said the same thing last month, Vincenzo. You claimed you had to go to Sicily to settle old scores."

His head turned slowly. His hazel eyes, usually so calculating, were like a Sicilian winter night—freezing and merciless. "You forget your place, Isabella," he sneered, the cruelty in his tone slicing through me. "You are a *Collateral Bride*. A pretty asset acquired to pay off the pathetic gambling debts of the Parisi family. Do not overstep your bounds and demand things you are not entitled to."

He turned his back to me, building an invisible, impenetrable wall between us. I stood there, stripped of my dignity, reduced to nothing more than an item on a ledger.

By 2:00 AM, the steady, rhythmic breathing of the monster beside me confirmed he was asleep. I lay awake, the humiliation burning in my chest. That was when I saw it—the faint, pulsing blue light of his encrypted tablet, carelessly left on the floor near his discarded suit jacket.

Touching the Don's personal property was a death sentence. If he woke up, he wouldn't just kill me; he would make one phone call and cut the life support keeping my mother, Hazle, alive in that sanitarium. But a destructive, desperate intuition pulled me out of bed.

I stepped silently onto the thick carpet and picked up the cold metal device. The passcode screen glared at me. I tried his birthday. Incorrect. The Moretti family founding date. Incorrect. My fingers shook as I typed four digits: `0815`. The day my mother had her stroke. The day I was sold to him.

The screen unlocked.

My breath hitched. I opened a hidden folder labeled *Sanctuary*.

What I saw shattered the last fragile illusion of my marriage. It was a digital shrine to another life. There were dozens of photos of Vincenzo