Relief flooded my body the moment the doctor said that I wasn't pregnant. It was just simply a stomach bug. But that relief didn't last.
There was more. She had said something else I wasn't ready to hear. Her words blurring together as I sat there with my hands clasped tightly on my thighs, trying to keep my fingers from trembling too much. I wished, suddenly and fiercely, that I wasn't alone. That there was someone beside me. A best friend, or a mother. My mother.
Alex—no. Not him. He couldn't be here. He couldn't know about this. Not yet, anyway.
Fuck, I have to tell him.
"There are still chances for you to have a child of your own, Miss Ricci," the doctor said gently. "But it's highly unlikely it would happen through natural means. There are other options we could try. IVF, surrogacy—"
"No," I interrupted, my voice shaking despite my effort to steady it. I couldn't think about that. Not right now. "Thank you. I'm not trying to conceive."
She studied the file on her tablet, her brow furrowing slightly. "Your records don't indicate any trauma to the uterus. No injuries that would normally explain this difficulty."
My stomach tightened.
"But," she continued, "there's a note here about medical treatment in Italy a few years ago. That could account for it."
"Yes," I said quickly.
She looked up. "You're saying it wasn't an abortion?"
My breath caught.
"Abortion?" I repeated, disbelief creeping into my voice.
The doctor hesitated, as if she was weighing how much to say. Whether she should say it.
"There is a record," she said slowly, "of a terminated pregnancy approximately three years ago. The procedure notes indicate that the fetus was developing normally at the time. Strong cardiac activity. No immediate medical necessity for termination was listed."
The room seemed to tilt.
"That means..." My voice came out thin.
"It means," she continued gently, "that the pregnancy was viable. The termination appears to have been elective, carried out because the pregnancy was not wanted, rather than because it posed a medical risk to you."
I stared at her, my ears ringing.
"No," I said, shaking my head. "I had trauma in my head. But abortion's not possible."
She didn't argue. She never raised her voice. She only softened it.
"I'm mere explaining what's in your medical history, Miss Ricci," she said. "Sometimes procedures are documented under different justifications, especially when they're performed under...complicated circumstances. Different countries have different reporting standards."
I couldn't breathe
"I've never had an abortion," I said, the words sharp, instinctive. "I was told that my injury was too great. That it caused some trauma in my womb, and I had to be operated. That's all."
The doctor watched me carefully now, no longer reading from the file.
"Then," she said, "either this record is incorrect, or the procedure was explained to you as something else."
My hands curled into fists in my lap.
Shock spread through me, cold and nauseating, as something deep in my chest cracked open. Not fear. Grief. Betrayal.
The pain was still there, sharp and potent, even when I had slid into the backseat of the car, making our way out of the hospital. Sandro sat at the passenger's seat, with one of his men at the wheel while I forced every pain down into the deepest pit of my gut. Every scream clawing up my throat, I swallowed it all. For now.
"Where to, Signorina?" Sandro asked from the front seat.
"Office," I bit out. I couldn't imagine being anywhere else right now.
They had taken something from me. And they will pay.
I slid the partition up, sealing myself off, then pulled out my encrypted phone. The one I used only for Alex. A message was already waiting.
Tell me how it is, he'd written. Or I can simply find out through your medical records.
My stomach twisted.
Right. Did he already know? Of course he did. He had access to my medical records. That was how he confirmed who I was.
Everything's fine, I typed back. Just a stomach bug.
The reply came almost immediately.
That's not an answer.
I exhaled through my nose, thumb hovering over the screen.
It is, I typed. Just not the one you want.
Tell me, he sent. No pleasantries. No softness. Just command.
Later, I wrote instead. When I see you.
There was a pause this time, long enough to make my chest tighten.
You're avoiding me.
I'm tired, I replied. I'm on my way to the office, I'll tell you later. I promise.
Another pause.
Later, he echoed back. Tell me everything.
I locked the phone and leaned my head against the seat, staring at the darkened glass as the city slid past us in streaks of light. My pulse was still too fast, my thoughts too loud, but the car was steady and familiar. Safe.
At least I was alone. For now. I just had to focus on getting to the office.
The car slowed.
I frowned, looking out at the window.
"What—" I started.
The world detonated.
A violent flash of white swallowed everything, followed by a sound so loud it felt like my skull split open from the inside. The force threw me sideways, my body slamming hard against the door as heat and pressure tore through the cabin.
Glass exploded inward.
Metal screamed.
Then nothing except the ringing in my ears and the sickening sensation of weightlessness as the car spun, crumpled and finally slammed to a stop.
Smoke poured in thick and acrid, burning my lungs as I fought to stay conscious. Every breath tasted like metal and fire. I thanked my lucky stars that I wasn't pregnant, or this would be ugly.
Gunshots cracked through the air.
I ducked instinctively as bullets shredded the side of my car, glass exploding inward. My hand went to the gun hidden inside my jacket. I pulled it free and fired through the shattered window, aiming at the shapes I had caught between the smoke.
Men, dressed in casual attires, guns strapped to their chest, scattering along with the remaining pedestrians from the narrow street, trying to blend in.
"Stay down!" Sandro shouted.
I fired twice more before ducking again. The partition between us was half gone, torn apart by the collision. The driver slumped forward, unmoving. A jagged piece of metal embedded through his skull. One of our men, already gone.
My stomach twisted, but there was no time.
"Call for backup!" I yelled over the gunfire.
"Already did!" Sandro answered, shooting off with brutal precision.
Another impact slammed into the car, metal screaming as the chassis lurched sideways. My head snapped forward, vision blurring as smoke and dust flooded the cabin.
Someone wrenched at the door on my side.
Sandro twisted in his seat, blood pouring at the side of his head as he fired through what remained of the shattered partition. A sharp echoed, and then he went still.
"Sandro?" I shouted.
No response. Fuck!
My pulse roared in my ears. I tried firing my gun but it was empty. Useless. I dropped it without thinking and went for the knife strapped to my boot just as a hand punched through the broken window on my side.
I slashed at the man's neck, again and again. Blood spraying across my face, until I could hear a wet sound. Followed by a choked gasp, before the man stumbled back, collapsing out of sight.
The door on the opposite side of the car was kicked open with brutal forces, its hinges screaming as it tore free. Cold air rushed in, thick with smoke and shouting.
I twisted my head to find Sandro's head, lolled to the side. Blood trickled from his temple.
"No," I breathed. "No, no—"
Strong hands seized me from behind.
I twisted violently, driving my elbow back, but they were stronger, trained. My knife flashed up again, slicing air—
A sharp kick knocked it from my grip. It skidded across the pavement, out of reach.
I was hauled of the car, boots dragging against asphalt, smoke stinging my eyes. I struggled, feral and breathless, until something cold pressed to my forehead.
I froze.
Slowly, I lifted my head, hands raised.
Dante was standing in front of me, immaculate despite the chaos, his expression carved into something darkly amused. Smoke curling around him like a throne. His gun was steady, unwavering, aimed directly between my eyes.
A smile touched his lips.
My chest heaved as I stared at him.
He tilted his head, studying me with unsettling calm. Then his gaze flicked, briefly and knowingly, to my stomach.
Then back to my eyes.
"So," Dante said softly, voice deadly in its restraint, "tell me, Isolda—"
The barrel pressed harder against my skin.
"Who's the father of your child?"