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Chapter 6: The Cage of Protection

The first death threat came with breakfast.

Isabella found the envelope on her plate. No stamp. No name. Just her name scrawled across the front in red ink. MRS. MORETTI.

Her hands shook as she opened it. One photo inside. Her, from last night, stepping out of Donatello’s car at the Romano estate. A red X drawn over her face. Sloppy. Furious.

On the back, three words: She dies next.

She dropped it. Coffee sloshed over the marble table.

Donatello was there before the cup hit the floor. He moved fast for a man who always looked bored. His hand caught her wrist, eyes scanning her face, then the table, then the photo.

His expression didn’t change. But the room did. Temperature dropped twenty degrees.

“Who gave you this?” His voice was quiet. That was worse than yelling.

“The maid,” Isabella whispered. “It was under my napkin.”

Donatello picked up the photo with two fingers like it was poison. He stared at the red X for exactly three seconds. Then he crumpled it in his fist and threw it across the room.

“Get out,” he said. Not to her. To the guards by the door. They vanished instantly.

When it was just them, he turned to her. His hands came up to frame her face. Not gentle this time. Desperate.

“Look at me,” he ordered. “Are you hurt? Did you touch it? Breathe it in? Talk to me, Isabella.”

“I’m fine,” she said, though her knees felt like water. “It’s just a photo. Just a threat. This is your world, right? People threaten each other.”

“This isn’t my world,” he snapped. Then stopped himself. Closed his eyes. When he opened them, the Don was gone. Just Donatello. Scared.

“It’s my world now,” he said softly. “Because you’re in it. And anyone who thinks they can touch you has to go through me first.”

He pulled her into his chest, hard. She could feel his heart hammering against her cheek. The most powerful man in the city, shaking because someone drew an X on paper.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured into her hair. “Before you, threats were business. Now they’re personal. And I don’t do personal well, Isabella. I do annihilation.”

She pushed against his chest. “So what now? You lock me in this mansion forever? Rule number eight?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “You don’t leave without me. You don’t talk to anyone without me. You don’t breathe without me knowing where the air is coming from.”

“That’s not protection. That’s a cage.”

“It’s the same thing,” he argued, pulling back to look at her. “My cage has guards. My cage has walls thick enough to stop bullets. My cage keeps you alive. The outside world wants you dead.”

Isabella hated that he was right. The photo proved it. But hating him was easier than admitting she was terrified.

“I won’t be your prisoner,” she said.

“You’re not,” he said. “You’re my wife. There’s a difference. A prisoner gets chains. A wife gets a kingdom.”

He stepped away, running a hand through his hair. For the first time she saw cracks in the Donatello Moretti mask. He looked tired. Haunted.

“I should’ve warned you,” he said quietly. “I should’ve told you that marrying me paints a target on your back. But I was selfish. I wanted you anyway.”

The honesty knocked the air out of her. This wasn’t the possessive Don from last night. This was a man admitting he’d dragged her into hell.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t make me feel sorry for you.”

“Why not?” He met her eyes. “You feel sorry for me, maybe you’ll stay when it gets worse.”

“Is it going to get worse?”

Donatello’s smile was sharp, broken. “Isabella, this is just the beginning. The Romanos were a warning shot. Now they know you matter to me. Now they’ll aim for your heart instead of my territory.”

He crossed to the window, back to her. His shoulders were rigid. “I can burn cities for you. I can kill a hundred men. But I can’t stop you from being afraid. And I hate that I can’t.”

Silence stretched between them. Heavy. Honest.

Isabella walked to him. Slow. She stopped just short of touching him. “Then don’t make me weak,” she said. “Teach me. If I’m going to live in your world, I need to know how to survive it. Not hide from it.”

He turned. Surprise flickered in his eyes. “You want to learn?”

“I want to live,” she said. “On my terms. Not locked in a tower waiting for you to fight my battles.”

Donatello studied her for a long moment. Then something shifted in his expression. Pride. Maybe. Respect, definitely.

“Alright,” he said. “Rule number eight changes. You don’t leave without me… unless I’m teaching you how to come back alive.”

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers. The ring felt warm now. Not like a brand. Like a promise.

“But there’s a new rule,” he added. Voice low. Dangerous. “Anyone who threatens you again… I won’t just kill them. I’ll make their whole family disappear. Slowly. So the next person thinks twice before writing your name on paper.”

Isabella shivered. Not from fear. From the realization that this man would raze the world for her.

And the worst part? Part of her wanted him to.

Later that night, she couldn’t sleep. The photo burned behind her eyelids. So she went to find him.

She found Donatello in his office, surrounded by maps and photos of Romano men. Red strings connecting faces. A war room.

He didn’t look up when she entered. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not with a target on my back,” she said.

He pushed a chair out with his foot. “Then sit. Lesson one: know your enemies.”

She sat. He started pointing at faces, names, weaknesses. His voice was steady, patient, like he was teaching a child to read. But his hand kept drifting to hers under the table. Thumb brushing her knuckles. Checking she was still there.

At 3 AM, she rested her head on his shoulder. Just for a second. Just because the weight of it all was too much.

Donatello went still. Then his arm came around her, pulling her closer. Not s****l. Protective. Fierce.

“Rule number nine,” he whispered against her hair. “You sleep where I can see you. Always.”

Isabella closed her eyes. For the first time since the gun was pressed to her temple, she felt safe.

Even if safety meant belonging to a monster.