Page 6 of Venomous Throne

Donnie nodded. “We’ll be in touch.”

As they walked away, I clutched my champagne flute like a lifeline. My heart hammered against my ribs with such force I feared others might hear it.

Me. Donna Isabella Moretti. Not just a widow to the don, but the don herself.

That would mean owning the title I’d been given, having people whisper it was my plan all along to kill my husband. The Black Widow—a name whispered with fear and respect.

That could be me.

The notion unfurled inside me like a dark flower, its petals stretching toward something I’d never allowed myself to imagine. Power. Real power. Not the carefully curated influence I’d learned to wield from the shadows as Vincent’s wife, but the crown itself.

I could see it all with startling clarity—sitting at the head of the table where men like Marco would have to meet my eyes as equals. Making decisions that wouldn’t be questioned or second-guessed. Building something that wasn’t stained with Vincent’s cruelty. Helping the helpless, openly and without restraint.

My reign would begoodfor our people.

My hands trembled slightly as I set down my empty glass. The famiglia had always underestimated me. They saw a pretty little wife, who brought a striving empire of illegal booze to the marriage. I took a steadying breath. What would it be like to step out of the shadows? Dangerous, no doubt.

But the idea was too tempting to let go.

I took another flute of champagne and turned to face the room. All this could be mine. If only I was bold enough to seize it.

Chapter 3 – Isabella

The second glass made me dizzy. The third flute was a mistake. Folding myself into a cab, I hurried away from the festivities. The trickle of summer rain stained the windshield before the blades swiped it away.

“Please stop here,” I instructed the driver.

He flicked a glance into the rearview mirror but then nodded. “Yes, miss.”

I tucked my handbag under my arm, prepared to dash into the grocery store. It would be an easy walk to my house, and the rain would feel good. So I paid the cab and sent him on his way.

Wandering the aisles, I grabbed whatever sounded good. My skin crawled, and I kept looking over my shoulder. But for a Sunday afternoon, the place was dead. So I forced away the funny feeling, chalking it up to the alcohol. The alcohol that was giving me permission to make some pretty bad dietary choices. Sober Isabella would have a hissy fit with all the junk food, but tipsy Isabella had the munchies.

Gingersnap cookies from the bakery? Heck yes! A loaf of soft bread, and then the grass-fed butter to spread thick? Absolutely!And that was arguably not bad for me. The box of brownies—that I would eat as batter—wasn’t a great choice, but it was no worse than the bag of neon orange cheese puffs.

In the dairy section, the good butter was on the top shelf. Sadly, like so many things, the prizes I wanted were out of reach. Even with my designer shoes, my four-foot-eleven-and-a-half inches was too short. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there wasn’t a lip on the bottom where the shelf stuck out. Normally, I climbed for the things I needed. Looking between my cart and the shelf, my fuzzy brain tried to decide the best course of action.

Removing my four-inch heels was a start.

My bare feet wiggled in protest over the cold, industrial tile floor. I tried not to think of the dirt and germs I was standing on.

Delicately, I stepped on the ledge, in between the little signs that marked the prices. I swayed. My fingers grasped the edges as the lack of balance taunted me.

“Good grief,” I muttered.

Climbing back down, the back of my neck prickled again.

I rubbed it absently as I angled the cart, pushing it right alongside the refrigerated shelves. My skirt was too tight to clamber into the cart, so I pushed the metal back side up—the part that made it lock with other carts—and crawled inside.

Footsteps sounded.

I looked down the aisle, but the cart moved with me. Cursing, I bounced in the thing, trying to force it back to the edge. I leaned out, grasping for the shelf. When my fingertips grazed against the metal, I tugged myself back alongside the cold shelf. Then I held the metal as my shaky legs straightened.

The cart shot out from under me.

I hung in the air, feet trapped in a wheeled container of death and fingertips barely hanging on. My abs clenched as I stretched longer than usual, body suspended and likely to plummet at any moment.

“Fucking hell,” muttered a deep bass.