The air was too thick. Too still. Like the room itself was waiting for something to break.
My boots struck the Persian rug again and again as I paced.
Back.
And forth.
Back.
And forth.
The pattern carved itself into my skull as much as it wore into the floor.
Every time I stopped—every time my thoughts dared to drift toward the lower levels—a sharp, suffocating pressure seized my chest.
And then—
Ciro would appear.
Always.
Like a shadow that refused to leave me alone.
“Boss,” he’d say, calm as ever. “The men are watching.”
I’d pause.
Every time.
“If you pull her out now, word will spread. They’ll say you spared a traitor. That you bent the family’s rules. And once that starts, everyone will think they can betray you without consequence.”
“But if you go through with this—even to your own wife—it sends a message. To everyone in Italy and beyond. That your power is absolute.”
His gaze would lock onto mine.
And every time I turned back.
Jaw clenched. Chest tight.
Forcing myself to believe him.
Forcing myself to believe Elena deserved it.
Forcing myself to believe the heirloom ring was proof, my chest would feel like it was being ripped apart by something savage.
I shouldn’t be doing this to her.
I know she betrayed the family, broke our code, and deserves punishment—but she was eight months pregnant, and that alone should have been enough to stop me.
But it hadn’t.
And now—
It haunted me, leaving me restless—torn between saving her and protecting my power in front of my men.
In truth, I no longer cared whose child she carried.
I didn’t care if the child she carried was Matteo’s or some nameless Spanish soldier’s. It didn’t matter.
