She knew but hadn’t told me.
“I’ve given instructions for her care to your house manager. Like I said, you should have an obstetrician see her. Dr. Donetta is someone you can trust.”
“Thank you.”
When Calendra leaves, I go upstairs, entering the bedroom. Isabella lies motionless in our bed, an IV dripping fluids into her arm.
I look at her with new eyes. Our child grows inside her. A child I didn't know existed when I turned my back on her, when I handed her over to the very people who starved and imprisoned her. Who might have killed our baby.
"Christ." I sink into the chair beside the bed.What kind of man am I to have done this? What kind of father will I be?
No wonder she looked so broken when I sent her away. It wasn't just about her innocence or my betrayal. It was about our child.
Was she planning to tell me about the pregnancy?
"Isabella.”
Her eyelids flutter, then open. For a moment, there's confusion, then recognition, then fear.
"Alessandro?" She tries to sit up.
"Don't. The doctor said you need to rest."
She relaxes, but the wariness doesn't leave her eyes. I think back to the moment I met her. The entertaining banter. The immediate attraction. The growing affection. The overwhelming desire to trust her.
I think about all she’s said and done. What she’s risked.
And just like that, clarity comes.
I love this woman. I probably have since the first day.
But she won’t believe me. Why would she?
I should start with an apology. I should beg her forgiveness for my rashness, for sending her back to people who harmed her and our child. Fucking hell, did they know she was pregnant?
A rage grows, but not toward her. Adriano was right. With clarity comes perspective. Right now, Isabella and this baby are my priority. And I’ll burn the fucking world down for them, starting with Enrico and her father.
I realize she hasn’t told me about the baby, so she might think I don’t know.
"The doctor told me about the baby."
Her hand moves instinctively to her stomach. "The baby is okay?"
"For now. But you're both at risk." I swallow hard, wondering what she’d been thinking when she learned she was pregnant. Wondering if she thought I’d be a terrible father. "Were you ever going to tell me?"
33
ISABELLA
For a moment, I thought I saw regret in his eyes, but his question feels more like an accusation.
My body aches everywhere. The doctor has cleaned my cuts, bandaged the gashes from the broken window, and hooked me to fluids that are slowly bringing me back from the edge. But no medicine can heal the wound inside me. The one that reopens every time I look at Alessandro and remember how quickly he believed the worst. How willing he was to send me to the people who tortured me.
“Yes, I was going to tell you. I just didn’t have a chance and then you forced me out.”
Does it matter now? He once told me he had no need for heirs. That his brothers and their children could continue the Dante legacy. Does he resent this child growing inside me? Does he think I planned it as some elaborate Vitale scheme to infiltrate his bloodline?
My hand rests protectively over my stomach. I'm done caring what he thinks. This child is mine to protect now, even from its own father if necessary.
