The Don I Housebroke After Divorce

I lay curled on the ground, the damp warmth beneath my skirt slowly leeching the heat from my body. With every second, inhaling Damiano Vito's scent and the metallic tang of blood churned my stomach.

I still remembered the pouring rain on the night I found out I was pregnant. Elated, I pushed open the study door, only to find Damiano making love to Bianca Sorace—one was my husband, and the other the daughter of a rival mafia family.

The sight of their intertwined bodies was sickening.

From then on, any contact from the outside world made me feel physically nauseated. I would scrub my hands obsessively, shower frantically, and refuse to touch anything that hadn't been sterilized at high temperature.

Damiano blamed it on my hormones. He humored me, participating in that charade of atonement—until tonight, when he finally grew tired of the act.

"Look at you—you're no different than a madwoman!" he bellowed through the living room, urging his men into a frenzy of revelry. Then, he grabbed a chunk of rotten meat and hurled it at me.

"I want you to see that this world has always been filthy!"

At that moment, I could feel the pain tearing through my abdomen. Damiano watched as I dropped to the ground, wailing in agony, my white-laced skirt now tainted red, but he showed no sign of panic.

"Quit the act, Isabella," he said coldly. "The baby's not that fragile."

He bypassed the pool of blood, pushed the door open, and strode off nonchalantly. The door shut with a loud thud. The clamoring men soon scattered, leaving the room in complete disarray.

With trembling hands, I dialed the emergency hotline of our private doctor instead of Damiano's number. "Save me… No, it's too late…"

I sobbed into the phone, my voice shaking.

While waiting for help, my thoughts began to blur. In a daze, I found myself back on my wedding day. Inside that five-century-old cathedral, Damiano was down on one knee, pressing a kiss to my fingertip.

Before the priest, before God, he swore he would be faithful to me and our vows. The veil had blurred my vision, and I couldn't tell if it had been love or just a family arrangement.

By the time the doctor arrived, the blood on the floor had already clotted. He looked at the shocking red and shook his head regretfully. "My condolences, Signora… The heir is gone."

"I know."

I closed my eyes, a cold tear slipping down my cheek.

Due to my condition, I couldn't undergo full anesthesia. I stayed awake, feeling the cold instruments probe inside me. That said, the physical pain was only a fraction of the heartbreak I was drowning in.

A five-month-old fetus—already a little life—was gone from me. His heart no longer beat, nor could he listen to my heartbeat again. He didn't even have a chance to open his eyes.

"Should we send him to the Vito cemetery?" the doctor asked carefully.

"No," I said, staying silent for some time. "That place belongs to Damiano. It's filthy."

I didn't want my child lying beside a traitor. In a small chapel tucked away at the edge of the estate, I held a funeral only I knew about. There was no priest nor flowers, just endless silence.

All the while, Damiano's right-hand man, the underboss, kept calling his phone, but no one answered. He had cut off all contact and vanished as if he had dropped off the face of the earth.

I imagined him somewhere wrapped in comfort and warmth, pleased with himself and convinced this was my punishment.

He thought I would come crawling back, crying and begging, but some things, once shattered, could never be put back together. That was a lesson he had yet to learn.

When the first shovelful of earth covered that tiny coffin, it hit me that my obsessive-compulsive disorder was a form of defense mechanism.

It was the only thing I had in this world of lies, violence, betrayal, and mafia family—the only net that let me feel even a shred of safety.

I stood up and brushed the dust from my skirt. This time, I didn't rush to wash my hands.

Pulling out my phone, I bypassed the family lawyers, the ones who always tried to smooth things over, and went straight to a top attorney from the neutral territory.

"Draft me an agreement."