Contract with the Cold-Hearted Mafia Boss

Lena’s POV

"Time of death: 11:47 PM."

The doctor's voice echoed through the sterile room like a death knell. Salvatore stood at the foot of the hospital bed, his face carved from stone.

"It's over," his voice devoid of emotion.

Nico grew smaller and more distant on the white hospital bed. The machines that had kept him tethered to life fell silent, their screens going dark one by one.

"No!"

I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

It was just a nightmare. Slowly, my mind began to clear.

Seventeen days. It had been seventeen days since Nico was attacked while handling the family's art trade business. Seventeen days since the doctors delivered their verdict: T5 complete spinal cord injury.

Every night brought the same torment. Sometimes I dreamed of Nico weeping, begging me to let him die. Other nights, it was the steady beep of machines suddenly going flat, doctors shaking their heads in defeat.

I pushed myself from the bed, my bare feet finding the cool hardwood floor. In the dresser ornate silver frame, sat our wedding photograph—Nico's arm around my waist, both of us radiant with the kind of happiness that seemed almost foreign now.

Three weeks ago...

Nico had returned from the auction house that evening, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Lena, you won't believe it—we acquired an authentic Monet today. The bidding was fierce, but..."

He'd spun me around, both of us laughing like children. Later, as we lay entwined in these same sheets, he'd traced gentle patterns across my stomach with his fingertips.

"Maybe next month we'll have good news," he'd whispered against my hair. "I can already picture our son or daughter... they'll have your intelligence and my stubborn streak."

"God help us all if that's the case," I'd teased, but my heart had soared at the tenderness in his voice.

Three weeks. It might as well have been a lifetime.

A sudden realization struck me like ice water. My period was three days late.

I moved to my vanity and carefully moved aside bottles of expensive perfume and imported cosmetics. Hidden in the back was the pregnancy test I'd purchased two days ago. I'd been too terrified to use it, too afraid of another crushing disappointment.

But now...

My hands shook as I unwrapped the test, as I followed the instructions I'd memorized from countless previous attempts.

Please, I prayed to whatever deity might be listening to the desperate wife of a dying man. Please let this be different. Please give him a reason to fight.

Three minutes felt like three hours. I paced the marble floor, counting my heartbeats, bargaining with fate. If there was a God, surely He wouldn't be so cruel as to give me hope only to snatch it away when I needed it most.

When I finally looked down at the test, my world collapsed.

One line. One single, unforgiving line.

Negative.

I sank to the cold bathroom floor, the sob that tore from my throat was primal.

If I'd been pregnant—if I could have given Nico proof that our love had created something beautiful, something worth living for—maybe he would have found the strength to endure. Maybe those hollow, desperate eyes would have shown a flicker of hope.

"Let me die, Lena," he'd whispered just yesterday, his voice barely audible through the oxygen mask. "This is better for both of us. I can't... I won't be the burden that destroys your life."

I stumbled back into the bedroom, my gaze fell on the mahogany writing desk in the corner, a wedding gift from Salvatore two years ago.

The desk reminded me of yesterday's visit to the hospital. Salvatore had been there when I arrived, standing beside Nico's bed with that characteristic stillness that made others instinctively step back. From behind, I'd almost mistaken him for his brothe.

It was only when he'd turned that I'd seen the difference: where Nico's eyes held warmth even in his current state, Salvatore's were calculatingly cold.

Now, staring at that wedding gift desk, a thought began to form—desperate, impossible, morally bankrupt, but undeniably there.

Salvatore and Nico shared the same father, the same bloodline. In the right light, from the right angle...

No. I shook my head violently, trying to banish the impossible, immoral thought, yet unable to stop the progression of desperate logic.

If I could become pregnant with Salvatore's child and convince Nico it was his... if I could give my dying husband the hope of a legacy, of his bloodline continuing...

The very idea made me sick with self-loathing, yet I couldn't dismiss it entirely. What kind of woman was I becoming? What depths of deception was I willing to plumb to save the man I loved?

I made my way to the window seat that overlooked the city. In the distance, I could see the general direction of the private medical facility where Nico lay trapped in his unresponsive body.

I picked up my phone, my finger hovering over Salvatore's contact information. The screen seemed to  either save my marriage or damn my soul.

I typed: "Salvatore, I need to see you. It's about Nico."

Delete.

"Please, I need your help with something important."

Delete.

"Can we meet privately? There's something we need to discuss."

Delete.

My hands were shaking so violently now that I could barely hold the phone. Finally, with my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst, I typed the only words that felt true:

"Please help me..."

My finger hovered over the send button.