Loving You Was My Poision Chapter 08

Loving You Was My Poision Chapter 08

Isa’s POV 

Over the next month, the Russo family systematically dismantled the Castros. 

Luca wielded every connection, every favor owed, cutting off their business lifelines one by one. Shipping operations, casinos, underground networks–shut down, seized, demolished. 

People who’d once groveled before Vito now crossed the street to avoid him. 

I received daily updates. Castro assets had shrunk by seventy percent. Vito was selling off cars, jewelry, the mansion–anything to keep creditors at bay. 

Bankruptcy was inevitable. 

And I sat in the Russo estate, sipping wine on the terrace, watching his empire burn. 

“Isa.” Sophia approached with a folder. “Castro showed up at the gates again today. Security sent him away.” 

“How many times now?” 

“Thirteen.” Sophia sighed. “Every single time, he’s on his knees, begging to see you for just a minute.” 

I flipped open the folder–Castro family’s latest financials. Drowning in red ink. 

“Let him keep begging.” My voice was flat. “I spent three years on my knees for him. About time he returned the favor.” 

Sophia nodded, hesitating like she wanted to say more. 

“What?” 

“Nothing really.” She shook her head. “Just thinking… he brought this on himself.” 

I smiled faintly, turning back to the reports. Said nothing more. 

Six months later. 

Emma knocked while I stood at the floor–to–ceiling 

windows of my Paris office, watching the Seine flow past below. The Eiffel Tower gleamed in the distance. 

“Miss Russo, update on Castro.” She set a file on my desk, voice carefully neutral. 

I didn’t reach for it right away. Just kept watching the city. Paris at sunset never got old. 

Six months of intensive therapy. My psychologist said my PTSD symptoms were finally improving. Still had nightmares sometimes, but at least I didn’t wake up screaming anymore. 

My body was healing too. Doctors confirmed I’d never be able to conceive naturally again–damage from the miscarriage was too severe. But I’d made peace with it. Last week I visited an orphanage, met a three–year- old girl whose smile reminded me of my own childhood photos. Started the adoption paperwork yesterday. 

“Go ahead.” I turned from the window, walking to my desk. “What’s his status?” 

Emma opened the file. “Vito Castro tried to kill 

himself last month. Severe depression. Jumped from a third–story window.” 

She paused. “They saved him. But his legs… the damage was catastrophic. He’s in a wheelchair now- for real this time. Doctors say he’ll probably never walk again.” 

My fingers drummed once on the polished wood. I felt nothing. 

“Also, Elena.” Emma continued. “What’s left of the Castro family caught up with her three days ago. Car bomb. She was killed in the blast.” 

I nodded slowly. So she really did die in an explosion this time. The irony wasn’t lost on me. 

“And the family itself?” 

“Completely bankrupt. Every asset liquidated. The feds seized the docks, casinos are shuttered, territory‘ s been carved up by rivals. Vito’s living in some abandoned property on the outskirts of the city. Only Marco stayed loyal.” 

I closed my eyes, took a slow breath. Once upon a time, thought this news would bring satisfaction. 

Vindication. But now? Just… emptiness. 

I waved for Emma to leave, but she lingered. “Miss Russo, one more thing… your dinner with Mr. Moretti tonight. You’ve cancelled three times already, but he sent another message.” 

“What now?” 

Emma swallowed nervously. “He says if you don’t show tonight, by tomorrow morning all of Paris will hear that the Russo princess is scared of the Morettis.” She pulled out her phone, reading directly. “His exact words were: ‘Running doesn’t suit you, bella. Be there at eight or I’m coming to collect you myself.‘ 

Seven PM sharp. I strode into the Michelin three–star restaurant in six–inch heels, anger simmering beneath my calm exterior. 

Time to see what this so–called king of Paris’s underworld was really made of. 

The maître d‘ practically jumped when he saw me, nervousness and respect warring on his face. He led me to the private dining room at near–sprint. 

“Mr. Moretti has been waiting, Miss Russo.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “For twenty–three minutes.‘ 

I pushed open the door without knocking.” 

Threatening women into dates–that how your family does things, Moretti?” 

The man inside turned slowly.