Chapter 3

The cold, thick needle pierced my vein.

Dark red blood flowed through the tube. Dripping into the bag.

My other hand instinctively went to my flat stomach.

Protecting the tiny life I had wanted for four years.

A full pint. I started to feel dizzy. I was terrified for my baby.

"Could you—" I started to ask the nurse to take a little less.

The door flew open. Alaric burst in without knocking.

He didn't look at the needle. He stared at the blood bag. At the life filling it.

"How much have you taken?"

"A pint," the nurse said. "Mr. Gallo, your wife has already given a pint. Another two draws could—"

Alaric's expression hardened.

“Come outside.”

The nurse followed him into the hallway. The door didn't quite close behind them.

“Two more draws,” he said, his voice cold and absolute. “If Bianca needs more, take it.”

“Sir, That's against protocol. We need at least a four-hour interval between draws—”

"Then make the interval longer. But she stays here."

The nurse glanced at me. I kept my eyes on the smiley-face stress ball in my hand.

"Mr. Gallo, your wife has already—"

"Whatever it takes."

A moment later, the door opened again.

The blood tech pressed her lips into a thin line.

She left to get me some juice. Alaric sat on the stool next to my chair. So close our knees touched.

I looked at his knee. His expensive suit pants. The brown, dried blood on his cuff.

"Alaric."

"What is it, baby. I'm right here."

"Was it real?"

"What?"

"The agreement. On Tuesday. Was it fake? Like you told me."

His knee jerked back half an inch. A fatal flinch.

I didn't look up. I watched the blood bag fill.

The plastic against my forearm felt warm, sticky. I focused on that tiny bit of heat.

Because if I looked at his face right now, with a needle in my arm, I would break.

"Alessia. This isn't—we shouldn't talk about this here."

"Was it real or not."

"She's dying in the next room."

"Was it."

Dead silence.

The machine on the IV stand beeped softly every two seconds. I counted four beeps before he answered.

"Alessia. Bianca's a good girl. She's in this mess because of me. The agreement... it's complicated. Our enemies are closing in. I had to make it look real. Trust me. I'll make it up to you when this is over."

A good girl. Make it look real.

The woman who was writhing in my bed hours ago was now an innocent "good girl."

A wave of nausea washed over me.

"Get out." I stared into his eyes.

He looked annoyed by my cold tone. But he needed my blood. He tugged at his tie, agitated.

"Calm down. I'm going to check on her."

He turned and hurried toward the next room.

In his haste, he didn't shut the door all the way. It was open an inch.

The draw room was silent. Their voices carried right to me.

"Alaric..." Bianca's voice, weak as a thread.

"I'm here, baby. I'm here." Alaric's voice. Suddenly so gentle it could melt steel.

"How's... how's our Marco..." the woman sobbed.

"Don't worry, Marco's fine." He was kissing her. So patient. So full of pity. "The nanny is with him. He's safe at the lake house in Geneva. The secure one. He was a good boy today. Ate a whole plate of pasta bolognese by himself for dinner. Went to sleep at eight. You need to get better. He'll want his mommy to hold him tomorrow."

A whole plate by himself.

A child old enough to eat pasta on his own. A secret son. Hidden away in a mansion in Geneva for years.

Named Marco.

A roar filled my ears. Like a flash flood.

I didn't realize my free hand was clamped over my mouth. My teeth bit into the soft flesh at the base of my thumb.

Because if I let out the scream lodged in my throat, the entire Chicago underworld would hear it.

Three? Or four years old?

So while I was jabbing my stomach with thick needles to give him an heir... while I was lying on a cold gynecologist's table, sweating and crying in despair... his son with another woman was already eating pasta.

My four years of pain. Of sacrifice. Of swallowing bitter medicine.

It was all a sick, twisted joke.

I looked down at the hand protecting my stomach.

Pathetic. So pathetic.

The last shred of love, of softness in my heart, shattered.

The nurse came back with a glass of orange juice.

I took it. My hand was shaking too much to hold it.

The glass hit the tile floor and exploded. Orange liquid splattered everywhere.

Pressing a cotton ball to the pinprick on my arm, I stumbled out of the room.

I went to the ER hallway.

I stood in front of a vending machine. I stared at the face in the reflection.

Pale. Numb. But the timid girl in those eyes—the dumb wife, Alessia Ricci—was dead.

I took out my phone.

I scrolled through my contacts. Past Alaric. Past Chiara. Past my mother's number, which I hadn't been able to delete in eleven years.

I stopped on a contact saved simply as "Father."

Five years ago, I cut ties with him. I refused the family's arranged marriage so I could marry Alaric.

The phone rang three times.

"You finally called." The man's voice on the other end was deep, commanding. He didn't even say hello.

Like the sleeping king of the underworld, just waiting for his heir to bow.

I took a deep breath. My voice was calm.

"That thing you mentioned before. About me coming home. Taking over the syndicate. The family's arms dealings. Everything."

Silence on the other end.

"I'm in."

He replied with a single word. "Good."