Too Late To Beg, Mr. Mafia Don

ella

the cavernous silence of the penthouse. Two years. Two years of playing the docile, vapid wi

was fina

ner gowns I despised. At the very back, behind a custom display of unworn Louboutins, I pressed my thumb

asn't just Isabella Falcone, the hidden Mafia Princess

hree untraceable satellite networks. Damien's frantic rush to the hospital was the perfect window

s supposedly terminal medical file. It took me exactly thirty seconds to find the flaw. The metadata was sloppy, and the attending

hought, my ey

ty front-a slush fund I knew intimately-to a shell account, which then wired the exact amount to an elit

e days ago. The screen flickered, and there she was. Giuliana Ricci, looking radi

to a blood trail. Giuliana was too stupid to orchestrate a fraud of this magnitude. Someone else-a p

of Damien's personal accounts and the Moretti Group

ack tactical pants, a fitted combat shirt, and heavy boots. From the safe, I retrieved my custom SIG Sauer, thr

for our anniversary and dropped it onto the mahogany wood. Finally, I slid the heavy, flawless diamond weddin

phones and dialed a number I

a deep, gravelly vo

are signed

h scoff. "About time. I told you marrying that emotionally blinded fool was

he layout of their entire ne

Soldiers to extract you

eone is using her to manipulate Damien and blind the Morettis. If there's a new player tryi

judgment, Isabella," my father warned, his tone turning lethal. "A senti

ys busines

Damien to look the other way. I needed to reinforce his delusion tha

make the Moretti Don bleed the only way he thought I could-through his wallet. And