Isabella POV

I stepped out of the blinding white bathroom and into the suffocating heat of the suite. Bertha's dead-coal eyes immediately dropped to the black La Perla lace clinging to my skin, her lip curling in absolute disgust. She didn't comment on the vicious purple bruise blooming on my cheek or the dried blood on my lower lip. To her, my pain was simply the natural order of things.

"Move," she grunted, gesturing toward the door.

I kept my head bowed, wrapping my arms around my waist as if trying to shield myself from her stare. We stepped out of the suite and into the West Wing corridor. The atmosphere shifted instantly. The air here was heavy, thick with the scent of aged cigars, polished leather, and old wood-the undeniable smell of absolute power. Beneath my bare feet, a deep crimson carpet swallowed the sound of our footsteps, making the long walk feel like a silent march to the gallows.

Bertha walked half a step behind me, her voice a cruel, scraping whisper in the quiet hall.

"Don't think putting on that expensive lace makes you anything more than what you are," she hissed, her words dripping with venom. "You are a dirty Rossi leftover. A temporary vessel meant to warm a bed and breed. Once you serve your purpose, nobody in this family will even remember your name."

I squeezed my eyes shut for a fraction of a second, letting my shoulders tremble. I played the part of the terrified captive flawlessly. But beneath the facade of the broken girl, my mind was terrifyingly clear. I cataloged every insult, every drop of venom. They thought they were breaking me, but they were only forging my resolve. I would collect on this debt.

As we walked deeper into the corridor, the shadows seemed to lengthen. The walls were lined with massive oil portraits of the past Falcone Dons. Their cold, painted eyes seemed to follow me, judging the last surviving Rossi walking through their halls. The oppressive weight of their stares triggered a sudden, violent memory of my family's blood soaking into the floorboards.

My breath hitched. The shadows twisted, and a waking nightmare seized me.

In my mind's eye, I didn't see the empty corridor. I saw a little boy. He had a mop of dark hair and Damien's piercing, ruthless eyes. My son. Before I could reach out to him, Cecile materialized behind the boy. She wore that same sickeningly sweet, fake smile, but her perfectly manicured nails were digging viciously into his small arms, drawing blood. The vision shifted violently-the boy was suddenly face-down in the estate's marble fountain, his small body motionless in the water while Cecile walked away.

A wave of nausea crashed over me, so intense my knees nearly buckled. The cold sweat on my skin was real now.

This wasn't just about my survival anymore. If I gave birth to a Falcone heir, Cecile would never let us live in peace. She would poison him, torture him, or drown him to secure her own power. A dark, primal instinct clawed its way up my throat. I couldn't just hide behind Damien's protection. I had to tear Cecile down. This was a mother's *Vendetta*, and it would only end in blood.

"Stop," Bertha snapped.

I blinked, the horrific vision dissolving as I realized we had reached the end of the hall. Towering before us were the massive double oak doors of the Underboss's private study.

Bertha grabbed my shoulder, her grip bruising. She leaned in close, her breath hot against my ear.

"The Don is handling family business," she ordered, her tone leaving no room for error. "He does not like to be disturbed. When you go in, you stand by the fireplace. You do not make a sound. You do not speak unless he asks you a direct question, and you never look him in the eye. Remember your place, Rossi. Your life is worth less than the dust on his shoes."

I gave a small, pathetic nod, keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the polished brass doorknob.

Satisfied that I was thoroughly cowed, Bertha raised her fist and knocked twice. A low, gravelly voice from inside granted entry.

Bertha pushed the heavy oak door open, shoved me roughly inside, and pulled the door shut behind me. The heavy latch clicked into place, sealing me in. The air inside was dense with the smell of rich whiskey and burning wood. I stood barefoot on the dark hardwood floor, the flickering light of the fireplace casting long, trembling shadows across my bruised skin.

Isabella POV

The heavy latch clicked into place, sealing me in. The air inside was dense with the smell of rich whiskey and burning wood. I stood barefoot on the dark hardwood floor, the flickering light of the fireplace casting long, trembling shadows across my bruised skin.

Behind a massive ebony desk that looked more like an altar of judgment, sat Damien Falcone. He didn't look up immediately. The scratch of his fountain pen against paper was the only sound in the cavernous room.

"Come here." His voice was a low, gravelly command that demanded absolute obedience.

I forced my legs to move, keeping my head bowed. I stopped a few feet from his desk, shivering in the sheer black lace.

Damien finally lifted his gaze. His narrow, piercing eyes-cold and ruthless as a winter storm-swept over my body. He took in the La Perla lingerie, the trembling of my bare shoulders, and then, his gaze snapped to my face.

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. His eyes locked onto the vicious purple bruise blooming on my right cheek and the dried blood on my lower lip.

"Who did this?" he asked. The words were softly spoken, devoid of any inflection, yet they carried a lethal weight that made my breath catch.

I kept my eyes glued to the floor, playing the broken captive. I didn't need to answer.

Damien didn't ask twice. He reached out and pressed a button on his intercom. A second later, the heavy oak doors opened, and Hanson, his most trusted Soldier, stepped inside.

Damien didn't even look at his bodyguard. He just jutted his chin toward my face. "Find out who touched her," Damien ordered, his tone absolute. "Bring me the hand."

"Yes, Boss," Hanson replied without a flicker of hesitation, turning on his heel and leaving the room.

The door clicked shut. We were alone again.

Damien pushed his chair back and stood. He was a towering figure of lethal grace, his tailored Italian suit doing nothing to hide the sheer, brutal power of his physique. He rounded the desk, his slow, deliberate steps echoing like a countdown.

He stopped right in front of me. The oppressive aura of his dominance was suffocating. He raised a hand, his long, calloused fingers gripping my chin with an inescapable force. He tilted my head up, forcing me to meet his icy stare as he inspected the ruined flesh of my cheek.

His touch was cold, but it sent a violent shockwave through my system. The sheer terror of being this close to the Underboss, combined with the agonizing adrenaline crash from my encounter with Cecile, finally pushed my body past its breaking point.

My vision blurred. A wave of dizziness hit me so hard my knees simply gave out.

I collapsed forward.

Damien reacted with the lightning reflexes of a predator. His arms shot out, catching me before I hit the floor. The momentum carried us both, and I found myself crashing into his chest, my legs tangling with his as he sank onto the edge of his massive desk to brace our fall.

I was suddenly sitting sideways across his lap. My soft, nearly bare curves were pressed flush against the iron-hard muscles of his thighs and chest. The intimacy of the contact was jarring. I felt his entire body go rigid beneath me.

Panic clawed at my throat. I scrambled, pressing my hands against his chest to push myself off.

"Stay," he growled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.

His large hand clamped down on my waist like a steel vise, while his other hand shackled my delicate wrist, pinning me against him. The heat radiating from his body was intoxicating, dangerous.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Minutes stretched, marked only by the erratic pounding of my heart against his ribs. Damien didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply held me there, his grip unyielding, his gaze boring into the flames as if they held the answers to a question he dared not ask.

I felt the wild hammering of his pulse beneath my palm-a crack in the ice. He was not as unaffected as he pretended.

Then, the heavy oak doors burst open.

Hanson strode in, his face flushed from the cold outside and the urgency of his task. A solid twenty minutes had passed since he'd left-enough time to question the guards, trace the whispers, and extract a name.

He froze mid-step. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of me sprawled across the Underboss's lap. Instantly, a flash of lethal intent crossed Hanson's face. He thought I was a seductress, a dirty Rossi trying to compromise his boss. He took a step forward, his hand twitching toward his jacket, ready to drag me away by my hair.

Damien's head snapped up. His eyes pinned Hanson to the floor with a glare so chilling it could freeze hell over.

"Get. Out," Damien commanded. Two words, dripping with a deadly promise.

Hanson swallowed hard, bowing his head. He backed out immediately, pulling the doors shut with a soft click.

The silence rushed back in, heavier and more suffocating than before. I was trapped in the arms of the devil, my heart hammering wildly against his chest, waiting for the axe to fall.

Isabella POV

The silence rushed back in, heavier and more suffocating than before. I was trapped in the arms of the devil, my heart hammering wildly against his chest, waiting for the axe to fall.

Damien didn't move to push me away. Instead, the arm banded around my waist tightened, feeling like a bar of solid iron. I could feel the rigid tension in his muscles, the dangerous heat radiating through his tailored suit, burning against my bare skin.

He needed to regain absolute control. I could see it in the glacial depths of his eyes.

"Cecile thinks any child you bear should be raised by her," Damien said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. "Like a true *Mafia Queen* raises an heir."

He paused, leaning in until his lips were mere inches from my ear. His breath was hot, smelling faintly of expensive whiskey and impending doom. "Tell me, Rossi. What is your purpose here?"

The question froze the blood in my veins. It was a trap, a poisoned blade aimed straight at my throat.

For a fraction of a second, the dimly lit study vanished. The scent of woodsmoke was replaced by the suffocating stench of copper and gunpowder. I was back in the Rossi estate on the night of the massacre.

In my mind's eye, I saw my older cousin kneeling on the blood-soaked carpet, clutching her four-year-old son to her chest. She was sobbing, begging the towering Falcone Soldier standing over them. *I'll do anything,* she had pleaded, her voice cracking with desperation. *Let him be a servant. I want nothing. Just let my boy live.*

She had offered the most submissive, broken answer a captive could give.

The Soldier had merely sneered down at her. *"The Don has no use for a coward's bloodline,"* he had said coldly.

Then came the deafening crack of the gunshot.

The memory shattered, snapping me back to the present. I was sitting on the lap of the man who had orchestrated that very *Vendetta*. The lesson from that night was carved into my bones: in their world, subservience was useless. And to be useless meant death. If I gave Damien a weak, maternal answer, he would discard me the moment the child was born.

I had to show him something he couldn't get from Cecile. I had to show him value.

I drew in a sharp breath, forcing my trembling muscles to lock. Slowly, I lifted my chin and did the one thing Bertha had explicitly forbidden-I looked Damien Falcone directly in his ice-cold eyes.

"My purpose," I said, my voice quiet but laced with an unyielding steel that surprised even me, "is to give you a son with fire in his veins. An heir who knows loyalty is paid in blood, not maintained by empty titles."

I leaned forward, closing the fraction of space between us until my lips were almost brushing his.

"Cecile can give him a name," I whispered fiercely. "I will give him a spine."

Damien's pupils blew wide, swallowing the icy blue of his irises. The cold scrutiny in his gaze fractured, replaced by something infinitely darker, something predatory and raw. His grip on my waist became almost painful.

"Just like your father," Damien murmured, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "A fighter to the last breath."

He didn't give me a chance to process the words.

His hand slid to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as he crashed his mouth onto mine. It wasn't a kiss; it was a conquest. It was brutal, hot, and entirely consuming. His lips parted mine with ruthless precision, tasting of whiskey and absolute power. A startled gasp escaped my throat, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sweeping into my mouth to claim every inch of me.

My hands instinctively gripped the lapels of his suit, holding on as the room seemed to spin. The sheer, terrifying dominance of the Underboss was overwhelming, igniting a dangerous, forbidden heat deep in my belly.

Just as the kiss deepened into something feral, a sharp, frantic knock hammered against the heavy oak doors.

"Boss!" Hanson's voice bled through the thick wood, tight with urgency. "It's urgent."