Jilted By The Heir, Married The Don

ella

cage. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of expensive French perfume and dying white roses. I sat rigid at

my loyal assistant, practically stumbled into th

ds trembling violently as she held

d Parisian speakeasy. There, amidst the decadent haze of the Prohibition era, was my fiancé, Marco

jagged letters: *MORETTI HEIR

rco himself: *"To Hell with

father's insurmountable debts and secure the Rossi family's survival under the Moretti umb

again. My father, Riccardo Rossi, burst in. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his eyes we

He lunged at me, his clammy fingers digging painfully into my bare arm. "Without this wedding, we are dead, Isabella! The r

turned my blood to ice. I yanked my a

ragile illusion of my father shattered. He didn't care about my ruined dignity;

u, Riccardo," a sharp, c

e room. Her tailored suit was immaculate, her expression devoid of any huma

tement to the press. We will claim that at the final hour, the Rossi bride was found im

the cross of public sha

meeting her calculating gaze, "you tell the Five Families that the great Moretti syndicate was almost t

tually looked at me, a flicker o

will f

h, leaned against the frame, reeking of Scotch. He pushed himself off the wood, his eyes

ser. He reached out, his rough thumb attempting to stroke my cheek. "

h. To Pietro, I was just a stepping stone to the Don's seat.

rtunists, and pawns. If I stayed

room like a straight razor. I looked past all of them. "Where i

abella, are you insane? He is downstairs

the heavy silk of my skirt and walked out of

button for the elevator. As the polished brass doors slid open, I caught my reflection

, stepping into the descending car, *I will be