Denied Divorce? The Donna Widows Herself

A hunting knife slammed deep into the mahogany tabletop, its blade piercing straight through the thin agreement. The Conti family crest carved into the hilt looked vicious under the flickering light.

Luigi Conti slowly slipped on his leather gloves.

"Isabella Serra, looks like you need a refresher on the family rules." His voice was as gentle as usual. "You can only become a widower in the Conti family, never a divorcee."

After saying that, he didn't bother sparing me a glance and turned to leave, slamming the door behind him.

The butler, Marco Vitale, who had been waiting nervously at the side, stepped forward. He held a silver tray bearing an urgent letter.

"Donna Conti, this just arrived from the hunting grounds."

When I opened the envelope, several photos slipped out and fell to the floor. They showed the family's private shooting range in the background.

Irina Venti stood in the center, clad in an ivory white dress, looking out of place. She held Luigi's custom handgun, the one he never parted with.

Luigi stood right behind her, pressed against her back, his hands wrapped around hers intimately.

On the back of the photo was an arrogant message, "Your hands are for arranging flowers, mine are for holding guns. The Conti family doesn't need another pretty face."

I was disgusted, not because I was jealous, but because someone was going too far.

Late that night, the door to the manor was pushed open.

Luigi returned, reeking of gunpowder. Before he could take off his shoes, he heard a loud commotion from the collection room.

I stood amid the chaos, a golf club gripped tightly in my hands.

The antique firearms he treasured lay destroyed on the floor. The barrel was twisted, and the parts were scattered everywhere.

Luigi's expression turned dark instantly.

"What's gotten into you?" he demanded.

He strode toward me, his leather shoes clanging sharply against the scattered metal parts.

"She's just a tool!" he said, trying to explain himself. "Irina's a weapon I'm shaping. She exists to launder the family's dirty money. Isabella, when did you become this unreasonable? Fussing over a mere tool?"

A tool?

I scoffed icily and tossed the golf club aside. Then I pulled out an orthopedic injury report and slammed it hard against his chest.

"Sorry about that." I met his gaze. "Ten minutes ago, I sent someone to break your weapon's right hand."

Luigi's eyes widened in shock.

The next second, a large hand clamped around my neck, crushing it hard. My entire body was slammed back against the icy wall.

Luigi's eyes were bloodshot, his killing intent unmistakable. It was the same look he'd had when he executed those traitors back then.

"You destroyed my perfect creation!" he roared, his grip tightening.

My vision blurred as air was squeezed from my lungs, but I didn't struggle. Instead, I forced out a mocking smile.

"Seven years ago, you dug me out of hell," I said. "Are you going to bury me yourself now?"

Luigi's hand froze visibly as he gazed at the purplish red marks appearing swiftly on my neck. His expression shifted in an instant from rage to panic, and he yanked his hand away.

I slid down the wall, gulping in air in ragged breaths.

Luigi stood rooted to the spot, looking at a loss.

"She's just a pawn," he said harshly, attempting to conceal his earlier loss of control. "Don't push me, Isabella."

He knelt, trying to caress my cheek. "You know I can't live without you."

I turned my head away in disgust to avoid his touch, then pulled out a silk handkerchief from my sleeve and scrubbed my jaw hard.

"Don't touch me." I tossed the used handkerchief at his face. "You're revolting."