Chapter 4: The Morning After the Sin
937 Words
Morning light cut through the heavy curtains like a blade.
Isabella woke up alone.
The sheets beside her were cold. The indentation on Donatello’s pillow was the only proof he’d been there at all. Her body ached in ways she didn’t want to think about. The red dress lay crumpled on the floor like a warning, like evidence of a crime.
Her first thought wasn’t about him. It was about the ring.
She held her hand up. Platinum. Cold. Permanent. It caught the sunlight and threw it back at her, mocking.
“You’re Mrs. Moretti now,” she whispered to the empty room. The words tasted like ash.
A soft knock at the door made her jerk upright, dragging the sheet to her chest. “Enter.”
A maid came in — older woman, eyes downcast, hands full of clothes. “Signora. Don Moretti left instructions.”
Of course he did. Instructions. Rules. Control.
The maid laid out a black dress. Simple. High neck. Long sleeves. The opposite of last night’s red sin. “He said you’re to wear this. And eat breakfast in the east garden. He’ll join you.”
Isabella stared at the dress. Armor again. “Where is he?”
“Business, signora. He said to tell you… never test him before coffee.”
The maid left. Isabella dressed slowly, fingers trembling as she buttoned the high collar. Hiding. Covering every inch of skin he’d seen last night. Like that would undo it.
The east garden was quiet. Marble statues, red roses, a long table set for two. Donatello was already there when she arrived. Black suit. Coffee in one hand. The other hand tapping his phone with barely restrained impatience.
He looked up when she approached. His eyes did that thing again — scanned her from head to toe like he owned every inch. Last night he’d touched her. This morning he was just looking. And somehow that was worse.
“Sit,” he said.
She sat. The chair was pulled out for her. No maid. No witnesses. Just them and the silence.
He pushed a plate toward her. Eggs. Fruit. Bread. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be.” His voice was flat. Dangerous. “Because you have a long day ahead. And my wife doesn’t faint from hunger.”
Isabella picked up a fork just to have something to do. “Did you sleep well, Donatello? After you claimed your property?”
His cup paused halfway to his lips. When he set it down, the sound was soft. Final.
“Careful,” he murmured. “That mouth of yours got you into this mess. It’ll get you killed if you don’t learn when to close it.”
She met his eyes. Defiance burned there. “You want me docile? Submissive? That’s not me.”
“No,” he agreed. “That’s why I chose you.”
The words hit harder than any threat. She dropped the fork. “Why me? There are hundreds of women who’d kill to be Mrs. Moretti. Why drag me into your world?”
Donatello leaned forward, elbows on the table. For the first time since she met him, he looked tired. Not the Don. Just a man.
“Because your father owed me twenty million,” he said quietly. “Because when I came to collect, you didn’t beg. You didn’t cry. You looked me in the eye and said ‘kill me or let me pay it’. No one does that, Isabella. No one looks at me like I’m just a man.”
Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t brave. I was desperate.”
“Same thing.” He reached across the table and took her hand. His thumb brushed over the ring. Over her knuckles. Possessive. Gentle. Contradictory. “Last night you chose me. This morning, you wear black like you’re in mourning. Mourning what, Isabella? The girl you were before me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Her. She’s dead.”
“Good,” Donatello said. No cruelty in it. Just fact. “Because Mrs. Moretti doesn’t die easy. She survives. She rules. She burns with me.”
Footsteps interrupted them. One of his men appeared at the garden entrance, phone in hand, face pale. “Don. We have a problem.”
Donatello didn’t let go of her hand. “Speak.”
“The Romano family. They heard about the marriage. They’re calling it an insult. They want a meeting. Tonight.”
Isabella saw it then — the mask dropping back over his face. The warmth gone. The Don returned. Cold. Calculating. Lethal.
He stood, pulling her up with him. His hand stayed locked around hers. “Then we give them a meeting. And we remind them what happens when anyone looks at what’s mine.”
She tried to pull away. “I’m not a trophy you parade around—”
“You’re not a trophy,” he cut her off, voice low, for her ears only. “You’re a weapon. And tonight, you’re going to war with me.”
His thumb pressed hard over her ring, like sealing a promise. “Rule number five, Isabella. When I say you’re mine, the whole world hears it. Especially my enemies.”
He started walking, dragging her behind him. She stumbled to keep up in heels, heart pounding.
Last night she’d surrendered her body. This morning she realized Donatello Moretti wanted something worse.
Her loyalty.
And he was going to take it, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of Isabella the debtor’s daughter.
Only Mrs. Moretti remained.
- Writer
