The Ruthless Don Stole My Life To Save His Father—Then Caught Me In His Bed

For three weeks, Isa lived inside a gilded cage.

She wasn't allowed past the outer courtyard, but within the walls of the mansion, she was treated with a strange, confusing reverence by the armed guards. Matteo spent hours sitting on a wooden stool beside her island, teaching her old Sicilian pasta recipes and recounting stories of his youth. The old man looked healthier than he had in five years; his color had returned, and his laughter echoed through the vast corridors.

Yet, every night at 6:30 PM sharp, the heavy iron front doors would swing open, and Richi would appear.

He never missed dinner now. The ruthless head of the Valente syndicate, a man feared by international cartels, would sit silently at the head of the dining table, watching Isa's every movement as she served the plates. He barely touched his wine. His predatory eyes tracked the sway of her hips, the flush rising on her throat whenever his fork touched the food she prepared, and the defiant tilt of her chin whenever he issued a dry critique.

It was an exquisite torture of unspoken tension.

On a rainy Tuesday night, a storm battered the estate's floor-to-ceiling windows. Matteo had retired early with a slight chill, leaving Isa alone in the cavernous industrial kitchen, preparing a batch of chamomile tea and roasted pear tarts.

The kitchen door clicked open softly.

Isa didn't turn around, assuming it was one of the night guards checking the perimeter locks. ""The pastries will be ready in ten minutes, Leo. You can take two back to the gatehouse.""

""Leo is stationed at the perimeter,"" a harsh, familiar voice murmured.

Isa spun around, nearly dropping the wooden spatula.

It wasn't Leo. It was Salvatore Moretti—Richi’s second-in-command and the nephew of a rival boss whose syndicate had been forcibly merged with the Valentes two years prior. Salvatore had a slick smile, dead gray eyes, and an oily charm that had made Isa's skin crawl since her first week in the house.

""Mr. Moretti,"" Isa said coldly, backing up against the counter until the edge pressed into the small of her back. ""Staff quarters are in the east wing. You shouldn't be in here.""

""Relax, little baker,"" Salvatore sneered, stepping closer and running a manicured finger along the polished marble island. ""The boss is locked in his study dealing with a mutiny at the docks. He doesn't have time to worry about his precious little pet cook.""

""I am not his pet.""

""Oh, aren't you?"" Salvatore scoffed, pulling a small amber glass vial from his pocket and twirling it between his fingers. ""The whole city is laughing. The Iron Don, skipping sit-downs with the commission just so he can rush home and eat homemade gnocchi from the hands of Julian Hayes's daughter. It’s pathetic. He’s going soft. And in our world, soft men end up in ditches.""

Isa’s eyes locked onto the amber vial. ""What is that?""

""A little heart remedy for the old man,"" Salvatore whispered, his smile turning grotesque. ""Matteo’s heart has been ticking on borrowed time anyway. A few drops of this odorless digitalis extract in his nightly tea, and he slips away peacefully in his sleep. Richi will go blind with grief and wage an open war against the Greeks, leaving the throne wide open for someone with real ambition.""

Salvatore took another step, cornering Isa entirely against the stainless steel stove. He held out the vial toward her.

""Here’s your deal, Miss Hayes. You drop this into Matteo’s tea tonight. Tomorrow morning, when the house falls into chaos, I’ll smuggle you out in my trunk. I’ll wipe your father’s debt. I’ll give you five hundred thousand in cash and a passport to anywhere in South America. If you refuse... well, Julian's blood isn't the only blood that can spill in this house. I'll snap your pretty neck and tell Richi you poisoned the tea out of revenge for your father.""

Isa stared at the vial, her pulse roaring in her ears like a freight train. She looked at Salvatore's smug, murderous expression.

She reached out her trembling hand, curling her fingers around the glass vial.

""Sensible girl,"" Salvatore purred, reaching out to stroke her cheek.

Before his fingers could touch her skin, Isa grabbed the heavy, copper-bottomed saucepan off the prep table and swung it with all the strength in her body.

CLANG!

The heavy metal collided squarely against the side of Salvatore’s jaw. The impact sent him stumbling sideways into the rolling spice rack, jars of paprika and black pepper shattering across the tiles in a violent explosion of dust.

""You crazy bitch!"" Salvatore roared, spitting blood and clutching his split cheek, his hand instantly reaching under his jacket for the concealed Glock at his hip.