Cut by the Don

I was performing the hundredth "restoration" surgery on my mafia husband's latest mistress when I finally decided to leave him.

For five years, I, Isabella Rossi, have lived a double life: the respected wife of a powerful Don, and the personal physician tasked with "purifying" the women he discards.

Vincent's twisted religious conviction is his law: only a wife untouched by any other man can bear his legitimate heir.

I was that pure wife, yet he treated me as his most unclean possession.

My love for him died a slow death. A thousand empty nights. It was killed by the cold steel of my own operating table. By the sounds of other women boasting about his touch.

The five-year prenuptial agreement that bound me to this hell was set to expire at midnight.

I had already called my grandfather, the only man Vincent truly fears. My escape was hours away.

By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late.

...

The scent of antiseptic couldn't mask the cloying perfume of the girl in the examination room.

"I heard after five years of marriage, he still hasn't touched you?" the girl, young and blooming like a newly opened rose, preened. "Vincent and I have only been together ten days, and he can't get enough of me. He'd rather have me 'restored' than even glance at you."

I adjusted my white coat, my face a calm mask behind my surgical mask. Dr. Rossi. The head of obstetrics and gynecology at this private hospital owned by the Rossi family. The lawful wife of Vincent Rossi for five years.

"Assume the position for the examination," my voice was flat, routine taking over as I noted the history.

The girl chattered on, detailing the acrobatics and passion of her time with Vincent. I listened, silent, as I had ninety-nine times before. This was the one-hundredth. The one-hundredth little bird Vincent had sent to me for "restoration."

He'd spelled it out during my first, tear-strewn breakdown, his voice deceptively gentle as he cupped my chin.

"Isabella, remember who's keeping your father's company afloat. Be a good wife. Handle this for me. When I find a truly pure woman, one worthy of bearing my legitimate heir, then perhaps I'll consider giving you a child."

His belief was deep-seated, twisted by our religion. It was clear: only an unsullied wife could give him a true successor. He forgot, or didn't care, that I was that woman.

Vincent walked in, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, exuding an air of untouchable power. He handed me a black card. "Make it perfect. She's particular," he said, the transaction as casual as buying a coffee.

This time, I didn't throw the card back in his face. I pocketed it silently. The five-year term stipulated in our prenuptial agreement ended today.

After the procedure, I dialed a secure number. "Grandfather," I said, my voice low. "The flight details are confirmed."

The old man's voice on the other end was like granite. "I'll be waiting, Isabella. It's time to come home."