Divorcing the Don: And Then I Took Everything

Isabella POV

The rich, dark aroma of freshly ground espresso beans filled the private kitchen of the Moretti estate. I smoothed the silk of my custom loungewear, my hands trembling slightly. For the first time in six years, my heart was beating with genuine rhythm. Damien was home. My husband, the Don of the Moretti family, had finally returned from the blood-soaked borders.

The swinging doors burst open. Sofia, my most loyal maid, rushed in. Her usually pristine uniform was rumpled, and her dark eyes were wide with a frantic mixture of fury and panic.

"Signora," she gasped, struggling to catch her breath. "He is here. But... he is not alone."

I paused, the silver espresso tamper hovering over the machine. "What do you mean, Sofia?"

"He brought a woman," she whispered fiercely, stepping closer as if the walls were listening. "And two children. They look... *intimi* (intimate). They are in the Grand Parlor."

The silver tamper slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the marble counter. A cold dread, sharp and sudden, pierced through my chest. Without a word, I bypassed Sofia and walked out of the kitchen.

The walk to the Grand Parlor felt like a march to the gallows. As I approached the heavy velvet curtains, the unfamiliar sound of a child’s laughter echoed into the hallway. I stepped through the threshold and froze.

The tableau before me was a grotesque mockery of the life I had waited for. Nonna Elena, the family matriarch I had dutifully cared for, sat in her high-backed chair with a boy of about five on her lap. On the leather sofa sat Damien. He was broader, his jaw sharper, a jagged new scar cutting through his left eyebrow. The ruthless, suffocating aura of the Dark Don radiated from him.

But it wasn't his hardened gaze that stopped my breath—it was the woman beside him. She held a toddler in her arms, wearing a brightly colored, exotic dress that clashed violently with the somber, Renaissance elegance of our estate.

"Damien," I breathed, my voice sounding hollow in the vast room.

He looked up. There was no warmth, no guilt in his pitch-black eyes. Just the cold calculation of a ruler. "Isabella."

I forced my eyes toward the stranger. "Who is this?"

"This is Cora Diaz," Damien said, his voice a low, authoritative rumble that demanded absolute submission. "She saved my life at the border. I took her as my wife."

The words struck me like physical blows. *Wife.* The room spun, but I locked my knees, refusing to fall in front of them. I turned my gaze to Nonna Elena. She wouldn't meet my eyes.

"You knew," I stated, the betrayal tasting like ash in my mouth. I had bled for this family, using my own Rossi dowry to keep the Moretti empire afloat while he was gone. And they had made a fool of me.

"It is complicated, Isabella," Nonna Elena said dismissively, waving a wrinkled hand. "Letters could not explain. It is about the Moretti bloodline. The Don's decision is absolute."

She patted the boy's dark hair, attempting a sickeningly sweet smile. "Leo, *mio caro* (my dear), say hello to Isabella. Call her Mama."

The boy shrank back, burying his face in Cora's vibrant skirts. "No," his high voice rang out in the silent room. "My Mama is Cora. She's not my Mama."

I looked at Damien, silently begging for a denial, for some explanation that this was a misunderstanding.

"He is mine," Damien confirmed coldly, shattering my last illusion. "Cora and the children will take the West Wing suites. They won't bother you."

The West Wing. The very rooms I had voluntarily vacated six years ago to protect his operational security, isolating myself in the East Wing. I had made myself a ghost in my own home for his sake, and he had simply moved a new family into the space I left behind.

Cora stood up, shifting the toddler to her hip. A sickeningly sweet, almost triumphant smile played on her lips. "Isabella, I know this is a shock. But we share him now. We can be sisters—"

"Do not speak to me," I cut her off, my voice dropping to a lethal, icy register. The naive, loving girl who had waited six years died in that exact second. "I cannot afford Miss Diaz's sisterhood."

I didn't wait for Damien's reaction. I turned my back on the Don—a blatant disrespect to his authority—and walked out of the parlor. My heart was a graveyard, but my mind was already calculating. I headed straight for the only place in this estate that truly belonged to me: my private study, the nerve center of the Moretti empire's wealth.