When My Ex Became the Don

Isabella's POV

Drip, drip, drip. Damn ceiling was leaking again. I jerked awake from my nightmare, heart pounding, cold sweat soaking through my back. I instinctively grabbed my left wrist, fingertips brushing over the uneven scar hidden beneath my sleeve.

How many years has it been, Isabella? You still can't escape those memories.

Boston's early winter was particularly brutal, especially considering my apartment's heating system only produced metallic grinding noises without a hint of actual warmth. I dragged myself to the bathroom, grimacing at my reflection—hollow eyes, pale complexion, lifeless gaze.

"Shit," I muttered, shaking the orange prescription bottle with only two pills rattling inside. I swallowed one dry, wincing as it scraped down my throat. Ten more days until my new prescription.

Just then, the yellowish-brown water stain on the ceiling suddenly split open, dirty water cascading down onto my navy blue suit hanging nearby—my only decent work outfit.

"FUCK—" I cursed. This was my daily reality. Ever since my father went to prison five years ago and everything the Salvatore family owned was seized, my life had spiraled downward. From mansion to rat-infested apartment, from chauffeur service to trudging through snow—each day brought a new punch to the gut.

I took a deep breath and began cleaning up the soaked clothes, digging out a backup outfit of black leggings and a red turtleneck sweater. Not professional enough, but at least it was dry.

Get it together, Isabella. You've been living in hell for five years now, today is just another day.

In the lobby, Mrs. Rodriguez was pushing her squeaky shopping cart toward the exit.

"Morning, beautiful!" She waved at me, her face crinkling into a web of wrinkles. "Sleep well? I bet not—you look terrible, honey."

"Well enough," I forced a smile.

She suddenly leaned in, lowering her voice. "Did you hear those gunshots? Around two in the morning—BAM BAM BAM! Right by that abandoned supermarket on the corner. Those Genovese dogs causing trouble again."

That name pierced my spine like an ice pick. I fought back a shudder. "Didn't hear it. Took a sleeping pill."

"Those goddamn bastards," she spat. "But word is this neighborhood's getting a new owner. My cousin works down at the docks, says the Russo family is coming back to take over this territory!"

My heart skipped a beat, and the keys slipped from my hand, hitting the floor with a sharp clink. "Russo?" I crouched to retrieve them, hoping she hadn't noticed my suddenly pale face.

"Yeah, supposedly some young boss, real ruthless type," she shrugged. "Who cares, right? For small fry like us, one gang or another, what's the difference?"

I quickly glanced at my watch. "I need to go. I'm going to be late."

Outside, a thick layer of snow had accumulated. I pulled my scarf up to cover half my face and headed toward the community center, my mind fixated on that familiar surname.

Stop scaring yourself, Isabella. Boston's a big city. It couldn't possibly be that coincidental.

"Everyone moves at their own pace, Elaine. Don't rush yourself."

In the small conference room of the community center, I was facilitating our weekly trauma support group. Seven women sat in a circle, all survivors of domestic violence. Just as Maria began discussing her triggers, the door opened.

"Sorry to interrupt," Nancy, our supervisor, poked her head in. "Isabella, could I have a word?"

Her expression was tense, glasses sitting crookedly on her nose—usually a sign of trouble. I apologized to the group and followed Nancy into the hallway.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Russo Properties," she lowered her voice. "They've acquired the entire block, including our center."

Russo. That name hit me again.

"The new owner is coming to inspect the place this afternoon," Nancy continued, looking anxious. "This could mean staff reorganization, even mass layoffs."

I felt dizzy: two antidepressant pills to last until next week; overdue rent; soaked work clothes; and now potential unemployment? My hands began to tremble slightly. No job meant no money for medication, no medication meant I'd fall apart...

"Everyone needs to be sharp, dressed professionally," Nancy glanced disapprovingly at my red sweater. "Could you maybe borrow Mark's spare blazer?"

I nodded, my heart sinking.

Back in the support group, I tried to focus, but Maria's words resonated deeply with me.

"Certain smells," she said, her voice shaking. "Especially that specific cologne. Whenever I smell anything similar, I'm right back to that night..."

A sudden wave of dizziness hit me. The conference room lights suddenly seemed too bright, the air too thin, my lungs compressed.

Calm down, Isabella. Deep breath. One, two, three, four, exhale. You're a professional.

"Scent triggers are among the most common trauma responses," I managed, struggling to control my emotions. "The olfactory sense connects directly to the brain regions responsible for emotions. We'll discuss coping techniques in detail next week."

Maria tilted her head, her gaze penetrating. "You talk about this like you've experienced it firsthand."

My fingers unconsciously moved to the scar beneath my watch. "Just professional training."

At three o'clock, we stood in the lobby like prisoners awaiting execution. I'd borrowed Nancy's black blazer, which hung loose around the shoulders, but looked more formal than my red sweater.

Employees whispered nervously to each other, anxiety permeating the air. Outside, the snow had stopped, and the pale winter sunlight gleamed off three shiny black sedans, like some kind of ominous sign.

Relax, Isabella. It's just a new boss, not the end of the world.

The doors opened, cold air and snowflakes rushing in.

Then, my world stopped spinning. Holy shit! No, no, IMPOSSIBLE!

Anthony Russo strode in wearing a perfectly tailored dark gray suit. He looked more robust than five years ago, his jawline sharper, his gaze more intense. Time had barely left a mark on his handsome face, instead making him more intimidating.

Six bodyguards followed closely behind, their trained eyes scanning every corner, earpieces occasionally transmitting hushed messages. This entourage, this presence—I knew it all too well, having once witnessed the same with my father.

When Tony's gaze swept across the room and finally locked onto me, I felt like I'd been struck by lightning. His expression morphed from shock to confusion, finally settling into something cold and hard.

I instinctively stepped backward, my leg hitting a chair behind me with a jarring noise. Everyone turned to look at me, but I could only see Tony.

"Mr. Russo! Welcome to South Boston Community Center!" Nancy approached enthusiastically. "Let me introduce our team. This is Isabella, our trauma recovery specialist—"

"Salvatore," Tony interrupted coldly, his voice deep and dangerous. "Isabella Salvatore."

The room fell into dead silence. In Boston, what the Salvatore name meant was common knowledge, even if most believed the family had vanished into history.

"Mr. Russo," I barely managed to squeeze out the words.

Tony's lips curled into a detached smile. "Long time no see, Isabella. Fate is... interesting, isn't it?"

I stood there, feeling my blood freeze. Memories of that rainy night ten years ago crashed over me like a tidal wave. One thought echoed through my mind:

Jesus Christ, what kind of sick joke is this? My ex-boyfriend—the man I brutally dumped—is now my new BOSS?!