My Husband's Debt for His Principessa

I fought with my husband, Alessio, the Don of the Moretti family, over the mistress who'd given him twin sons.

The next day, he stormed into my bedroom and put a gun to my head.

"Did you take my sons?! You vicious bitch!"

While I was still in shock, he ordered his men to lock my eight-year-old daughter, Lucia, in the icehouse for three whole days of "training."

He gave me an ultimatum: Lucia would stay there until I brought him his sons.

Lucia froze to death in that icehouse.

I returned with her death certificate in my hand, my heart a hollow stone in my chest, only to find him moving his mistress and their sons into the home we once shared.

He was cheerful, dismissing the whole thing as a misunderstanding.

He even had the audacity to tell me to go get Lucia to meet her "new little brothers."

I just stared, tears tracking paths down my face, the life inside me extinguished.

It wasn't until that thin piece of paper—the death certificate—fluttered to the floor that the color drained from Alessio's face.

He finally realized Lucia was gone.

Killed by his own blind, cruel pride.

As the wife of the Don, I never imagined my husband would lock our own daughter in an icehouse and freeze her to death, all because he suspected I'd kidnapped his mistress's sons.

It started the day before.

I found out that my husband, Alessio Moretti, the boss of the Moretti family, had twin bastard sons.

Rage, pure and hot, blinded me.

I snatched the photos from the private investigator and stormed into his study.

"Your whore gave you twins?" I didn't bother knocking, just slammed the photos onto his desk.

In the photos, he held two baby boys.

The blonde, Cassandra, was draped over him like a cheap suit, her smile a brand on my soul.

Alessio didn't even look up. "I thought you'd knock, Isabella."

"Knock?" I sneered. "Do I need an appointment to see my own husband now?"

He stood up slowly, fixing his cuffs with a grace that was almost cruel. "What do you want?"

"I want you to admit you betrayed me!"

"Betrayal?" He walked toward me, each step like a predator circling its territory. "I need heirs. In seven years, all you've given me is a daughter."

His words were a poisoned knife straight to my heart. "Lucia is your blood, too!"

"A daughter can't lead the Moretti family," he said, his tone chillingly calm. "Marco and Mike are my heirs. My true heirs."

I stared at him. The man I'd loved for ten years was looking at me like I was a stranger.

"Then what am I to you?"

"You're my wife. The lady of the Moretti family. That position is always yours."

"A position?" My voice started to shake. "I'm not one of your business partners!"

He turned away, his back cold. "In the Moretti family, there's no difference."

A chill that had nothing to do with the room crept through me.

I spun on my heel and walked out, pausing at the door for one last word. "You'll regret this, Alessio."

The next morning, I woke up to a gunshot.

Alessio stood in my bedroom doorway, a black Beretta in his hand. The barrel was pointed at the floor, but the threat was clear.

"Get up. Marco and Mike are gone."

I shot up in bed. "What?"

"My heirs," he said, stalking toward me, his eyes like a hawk's. "They were in the safe house last night. This morning, they vanished."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"You threatened me yesterday. Today, my sons are missing." He slowly raised the gun, aiming it at my chest. "What a coincidence, my wife."

A chill shot up my spine, and fear choked my throat. The husband I knew was gone. In his place stood the Don of the Moretti family—a cold, ruthless stranger.

"I swear, I didn't—"

"Swear?" He laughed, a cold, sharp sound. "I only believe in action. Give me my sons, or you'll learn the price of betraying me."

"I really don't know where they are!"

He didn't answer. He just turned and stormed out.

Ten minutes later, Lucia's screams ripped through the entire estate.

I flew down the stairs like a madwoman to see two of his men dragging my eight-year-old daughter away.

Her little hands clawed at the air, her eyes filled with a terror I'd never seen before.

"Mama! Save me! Mama!"

"Let her go!" I lunged at them, but Alessio blocked me like a brick wall.

"It's a family tradition," he said, his voice so calm it was monstrous. "The Moretti crucible. Every true member of this family is forged in it."

"She's just a child!"

"She's Moretti blood." He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight I thought my bones would snap. "She needs to learn discipline."

I watched in horror as they dragged Lucia toward the cold-storage cellar—the same one we used as an icehouse for our finest wines, kept at a constant, freezing temperature.

"Alessio, please!" I fell to my knees, grabbing his pants leg like a beggar. "She's your daughter! She'll die!"

He shoved me away with his foot, his eyes merciless. "Find my sons," he repeated, "or she'll learn what a Moretti winter truly feels like."

The heavy iron door slammed shut in front of me. The sound of the lock clicking into place was like a death sentence.

I could hear Lucia's desperate cries from inside. "Mama! Mama! It's so cold! I'm so cold!"

Her voice was a thousand needles stabbing the softest part of my heart.

For the next two days, I searched for those boys like a woman possessed.

I called in every favor, contacted every informant, and didn't sleep for a second.

Nothing.

On the dawn of the third day, I knelt before the cold iron door, pounding on it with my bloody fists.

"Alessio! Please! I can't find them! She's going to die! She's really going to die!"

Finally, I heard heavy footsteps.

Two of his men walked over and emotionlessly unlocked the door.

The moment it opened, a blast of frigid air hit my face.

And then I saw her.

My Lucia. Lying on the frozen ground, her lips purple, her skin as pale as snow.

She was still breathing, but it was so faint I could barely feel it.

"Mama..." She tried to open her eyes, her voice a tiny thread of sound. "Am I... going to die?"

In that instant, my heart stopped beating.

"No, baby." I picked her up, my hands trembling. Her body was as cold as a block of ice. "Mama's here. Everything's going to be okay."

But I knew nothing would ever be okay again. I could feel her growing colder in my arms, lighter.

On the way to the hospital, I talked to her nonstop, trying to keep her awake.

"Lucia, look at Mama. Remember what we promised? We're going to the ballet next week, right?"

She tried to nod, but her eyes were losing focus.

"Mama... it hurts..."

"I know, baby. We're almost there." Tears blurred my vision. "Mama loves you. I'll always love you."

At the hospital, the doctor's words were a cold, clinical blur: "Severe hypothermia… cardiac arrest… I'm so sorry…" My world didn't just fall apart; it ceased to exist.

The time was 11:23 AM.

I held her cold body and cried without making a sound.

She looked so small, so fragile, like a sleeping angel.

But she would never open her eyes again.

Never spin for me in the princess dress I bought her.

Those eyes, so much like Alessio's, were closed forever.

My heart was torn to pieces.

I wept all night, until the morning sun cut through the sterile white of the hospital hallway.

"I'm sorry, baby," I whispered, kissing her cold forehead one last time. "Mama couldn't protect you."

My heart died with her.

I called my father and had my daughter's body taken to my family's cemetery to be buried.

Then, with her autopsy report in my hand, I went back to that place he called "home."

The people who killed my daughter were going to pay.

I ran into Alessio at the door. He'd been gone for three days.

He was in a great mood, even humming a little tune, like nothing had happened.

"Isabella? Good news." He walked into the living room and poured himself a whiskey. "I found Marco and Mike. It was a false alarm—Cassandra's parents took them to the country and forgot to tell anyone."

A false alarm.

My daughter was dead, and he called it a false alarm.

Rage burned through my veins, but I forced my hands to stop shaking and said nothing.

"But it wasn't all bad," he went on, completely oblivious to my state. "It proved how tough Lucia is. Three days in the icehouse. A true Moretti."

He pulled a beautiful jewelry box from his pocket.

"This is for her." He opened the box.

Inside was a brilliant diamond bracelet, her name spelled out in tiny, perfect stones. "A reward for her resilience. Where is she? Tell her to come down. I want to put it on her myself."

I slowly turned to face him, the hate in my eyes enough to burn the world down.

He didn't know.

He didn't know his "training" had killed his own daughter.

He didn't know our angel was never coming back.

I stared at the jewelry box, my heart feeling like it was being stabbed with an ice pick over and over.

My Lucia would never get to wear it.

With red-rimmed eyes and all the strength I had left, I snatched the expensive box and hurled it against the wall. The diamonds and metal shattered on impact.