Divorcing the Don

ien

ared at me, her wrinkled face pale with a mixture of shock and rising indignation. She still clutched

, her voice trembling.

tween us in three long strides. Nonna shrank back, but I reached down and gripped Leo's upper arm, h

gaze pinning my grandmother to her chair, crushing whatever remn

turned on my heel, dragging my son

pace. I wasn't doing this to beg for my wife's forgiveness. I was the Don. I dictated the rules,

ifted, the faint scent of vanilla and old books clashing with the sharp, medicinal sting of burn

ale and drawn. Dr. Bianchi knelt before her, carefully apply

gratitude for my defense. There was only a glacial, h

y trembled, looking up at me

he word cracked like a

letting the lethal promise of my patience running out bleed

e word. I needed her to understand her place in this

Leo mumbled, sta

tilted in that aristocratic Rossi way. "Nonna was out of line,"

tead, Isabella slowly lowered her eyelashes, dismissing

e physician. "Please

blow. A dark, unfamiliar rage flare

rs stationed in the hall. "*Portalo ne

didn't move toward the exit. Leaving now would be a retreat, an admission that she ha

e devoid of a single drop of war

mal title was a weapon in her mouth,

ght beside her, towering over her seated form. I looked down at the ugly, blistering welt marring her flawless skin. T

trembling doctor. "How lo

ribs. Isabella closed her eyes, turning her face away, shutting me out com