Chapter 3: The Coldest Winter

The handle turned. The lock, which had felt like a sturdy shield only moments ago, now felt as flimsy as a paper ribbon. Elena scrambled to the sink, splashing cold water on her face to wash away the tell-tale paleness of her skin.

Lorenzo entered, followed by Dr. Aris—a man who had been the Moretti family’s personal physician for thirty years. Aris wasn't just a doctor; he was a vault. He knew which scars came from knives and which came from bullets. He also knew the intimate medical history of every person in this house.

"You look peaked, Elena," Lorenzo said. He stepped toward her, his hand reaching out to touch her forehead. His touch was cool, stable, and filled with a genuine affection that made the bile rise in her throat again. "Dante mentioned you seemed unwell last night."

Elena’s heart skipped. Dante mentioned it? Was he trying to protect her, or was he playing a game she didn't understand?

"It’s just a virus, Lorenzo," she whispered. "I don’t want to trouble the doctor."

"It is no trouble," Aris said, setting his black leather bag on the vanity. His eyes were sharp behind his spectacles. He had seen Elena grow from a terrified girl into a guarded woman over the last year. "In this house, we do not take risks with health. Sit."

It was a command. Elena sat on the edge of the plush chair, her fingers digging into the velvet. As Aris took her pulse and checked her temperature, Lorenzo stood by the window, looking out at the sprawling estate.

"The world is changing, Elena," Lorenzo said, his back to her. "The Rossi family is pushing the borders in the north. Dante wants to respond with fire. I am tired of fire. I want to ensure that when I step down, this house is a place of peace. For you. For our future."

The word future felt like a noose.

Aris hummed a low, non-committal sound. He moved his stethoscope, then paused. He looked at Elena, his expression unreadable, but his eyes lingered on hers for a second too long. A silent communication passed between them—a flash of realization in the doctor's eyes that made Elena’s blood run cold.

"Is it the flu, Aris?" Lorenzo asked, turning around.

Aris began packing his bag, his movements slow and deliberate. "Her blood pressure is a bit low, and she is showing signs of exhaustion. I’d like to run a full panel of tests. I’ll send my assistant to draw blood this afternoon."

"Do what is necessary," Lorenzo said. He walked over and kissed the top of Elena's head. "Rest today. That is an order."

As the door closed behind them, Elena collapsed. She had hours—maybe a day—before the results came back. In the Moretti world, "full panels" didn't take a week; they took a phone call.

She found Dante in the gym, a brutal, windowless room in the basement. He was hitting a heavy bag with a rhythmic, violent intensity. Sweat soaked through his shirt, and his knuckles were raw.

"Lorenzo brought the doctor," she said, her voice trembling.

Dante didn't stop. The bag groaned under his fists. "I know. I told him you were sick."

"Why would you do that?" she hissed, stepping into his space. "The doctor knows, Dante. He didn't say it, but he knows. He’s coming back for blood tests."

Dante stopped mid-swing. The bag swayed between them. He turned his head, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and wild. "Good."

"Good?" Elena felt like she was losing her mind. "If your father finds out, he won't just kill me. He’ll destroy my mother. He’ll destroy you."

Dante stepped closer, the heat radiating off him in waves. He grabbed her arms, his grip firm but not painful. "Let him find out. I’m sick of the shadows, Elena. I’m sick of watching him touch your hand like you’re some holy relic. You’re mine. This child is mine. It’s the only thing in this blood-soaked house that actually belongs to me."

"You don't understand," she cried, tears finally breaking through. "He loves me in his own way. Betrayal is the one thing he doesn't forgive. He’s the Don, Dante. Not just your father."

"He’s an old man holding onto a ghost," Dante spat. He let go of her and walked over to a bench, picking up a towel. "If he tries to touch you, I’ll take the crown earlier than he planned. I’ve already got half the captains ready to flip. They want a leader who isn't afraid to bleed."

Elena looked at him in horror. This wasn't just an affair anymore. It was a coup. Dante wasn't just obsessed with her; he was using the pregnancy as the ultimate catalyst to overthrow his father.

"You’re using me," she whispered.

Dante froze. He turned back, his expression softening for a fraction of a second. He walked to her, cupping her face with his bruised hands. "I’m saving us. There is no world where we walk away from this clean, Elena. We either take the throne, or we end up in the dirt. Which do you choose?"

Before she could answer, the heavy steel door of the gym creaked open.

One of Lorenzo’s primary enforcers, a man named Marco who was as loyal as a bloodhound, stood in the doorway. He looked at Dante’s hands on Elena’s face. He looked at the tears on Elena’s cheeks.

Marco didn't say a word. He simply tapped his watch.

"The Don wants to see you both in the dining hall," Marco said, his voice flat. "Immediately. The doctor’s results came back early."

The color drained from Dante’s face. The arrogance vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. He reached behind his back, checking the small of his waist where he kept his piece.

"Go upstairs," Dante whispered to her. "Stay behind me."

The dining hall felt like a courtroom.

Lorenzo was sitting at the head of the table, but he wasn't eating. In front of him lay a single sheet of paper. Dr. Aris stood by the sideboard, looking at the floor. The room was lined with four guards—men Elena had known for a year, but who now felt like strangers.

The silence was absolute, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

Lorenzo looked up as they entered. His face was a mask of stone—the face he wore when he signed death warrants. He didn't look at Dante. He looked directly at Elena.

"Sit," Lorenzo said.

Elena sank into her chair, her legs feeling like lead. Dante remained standing, his hand hovering near the hem of his shirt.

"I have spent my life building a wall around this family," Lorenzo began, his voice low and vibrating with a hidden frequency. "I brought you in, Elena, because I thought you were the only pure thing left in my world. I gave you my name. I saved your mother."

He picked up the paper.

"Dr. Aris tells me you are six weeks pregnant."

Elena’s breath hitched. She waited for the explosion. She waited for the guards to move.

"He also reminded me," Lorenzo continued, his eyes finally shifting to his son, "of something I have hidden from the world for twenty years. Something even you didn't know, Dante."

Lorenzo leaned forward, the light catching the silver in his hair.

"I was injured in the war in '04. A shrapnel wound. I am sterile. I have been sterile since before you were born, Dante. You were the product of your mother’s indiscretion—a secret I kept to protect the lineage."

The room seemed to tilt. Dante’s hand dropped from his waist.

"So," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper as he looked between his wife and the man he called his son. "Since I am not the father... and I know for a fact no one else has entered this house... I have only one question."

He stood up, pulling a heavy revolver from beneath the table and laying it on the mahogany surface with a dull thud.

"Which one of you wants to tell me why I shouldn't kill you both right now?"