Imprisoned by the Don I Called Mine

My husband’s old flame killed my father, and I did the time for it. Three years.

“Inmate 7734. Pack your shit. You’re out.”

I slowly got to my feet.

The concrete walls were covered in scratches. Every single one clawed there by my own nails. A tally of my despair.

“Move it!” the guard barked, tapping his baton.

I walked the long corridor, my footsteps echoing over the ghosts of the past three years.

“Isabella Rossi, congratulations on your freedom.” The warden’s smile was so fake it hurt to look at. “Your husband has people waiting for you outside.”

Husband?

I almost laughed.

I pushed open the last gate. The sunlight was so bright it made me squint.

I hadn't seen light like that in three years.

I stared at the black Lincoln parked by the curb.

I knew the license plate, but the man leaning against the door wasn't my so-called husband.

It was Marco, Lorenzo’s right-hand man.

“Bella.” Marco hurried over. “The Don got held up. He sent me.”

Held up? Or with someone more important?

A bitter taste filled my mouth. I pulled open the back door and got in.

“Ma’am, the boss got you some clothes.” Marco handed me an expensive-looking bag. “He said… he said you could change in the car.”

Change.

The pity and disgust in Marco's eyes stung.

Was he disgusted by the smell of prison on me?

I sat in the back and, not caring about Marco’s eyes in the rearview mirror, I stripped off my prison uniform.

My emaciated body, all sharp angles and jutting ribs, met the cool air of the car.

My shame had been torn to shreds by Lorenzo himself, the day I stood in that courtroom three years ago.

I closed my eyes. The memories flooded back.

The trial. Three years ago.

Don Lorenzo Romano, the Godfather who controlled half of New York’s underworld.

He stood on the witness stand in his expensive, tailored suit. He was elegant. He was cruel. And he showed the jury my deepest scars—the ones no one could see.

“Members of the jury,” Lorenzo’s voice echoed, cold and calm. “My wife, Isabella Rossi, was six years old when she watched her mother get shot to death. Her father ran, leaving her mother behind to die.”

I snapped my head up to look at him, unable to believe my ears.

That was my deepest wound.

The secret I only ever told him, after he held me through countless nightmares.

“She suffers from severe PTSD,” Lorenzo continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “It causes violent, vengeful outbursts.”

“No!” I screamed. “Lorenzo, what are you saying?”

He didn’t look at me. He didn’t even pause.

“Given her mental state, and her hatred for her dead father, I believe she had every reason and capability to commit this murder.”

He sold me out.

All because the real killer—the delicate Cassandra Viti, who could break his heart with a single tear—had cried and whispered, “Lorenzo, I don’t want to go to jail. I’ll die in there.”

“Lorenzo, you can’t do this to me!” I fought against the guards, trying to get to him. “You promised you’d protect me!”

He finally looked at me. His eyes were cold, like I was a stranger.

“Isabella, please. Calm down.”

Calm down?

The love of my life was pushing me into an abyss.

I stared out the window, my heart turning to ash.

Later, Lorenzo had visited me in prison. He held the phone on the other side of the glass, his face twisted in pain. “Bella, it’s not a promise. It’s a blood oath. An old one between our families. The Romano heir must grant the Viti heir three wishes. No questions. If I refuse, I’m an oath-breaker. The Commission will come for us, and everything my father built will turn to dust. I’m protecting her to protect us. Just hold on. Once this is done, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

Three years in a cell can’t be ‘made up.’

He was a goddamn liar.

“Ma’am? Ma’am?”

Marco’s voice pulled me back.

The car had stopped.

I looked out the window. We were in front of a lavish private club.

Dozens of men in black suits stood guard at the entrance.

This wasn’t the way home.

“Where are we?”

“The boss is waiting inside,” Marco said, opening my door.

Just as I stepped out, I heard a familiar voice.

“Bella!”

Lorenzo walked out of the club, his face as handsome and suffocating as ever.

He looked more powerful, more commanding than he did three years ago.

He’d done well for himself while I rotted in a cell.

And me?

I looked at my reflection in the car window—skin and bones, pale, like a ghost clawed from a grave.

Lorenzo got closer, moving to hug me. I took a step back.

“Bella, you’re so thin,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

Missed me?

Missed me while you were what? Traveling the world with Cassandra?

“Lorenzo.” My voice was so hoarse I barely recognized it. “Get out of my way.”

A flash of hurt crossed his face, but he covered it with a smile.

“Bella, come on,” he said, holding out his hand. “Cassandra threw a welcome home party for you. We’re just waiting on you.”