Chapter 3

Sandro was playing nurse for sick little Genny and baby mama Helga.

He had no clue I'd already booked a flight—three days and I was gone.

That night, just when I figured he'd crash next to Helga, my door creaked open.

The bed dipped.

He slid in, wrapped his arms around me.

"Genny's fever finally broke. Helga's asleep too," he said, hand settling on my stomach.

I flinched when he whispered, "Your belly feeling better?"

No answer from me, so of course he started rubbing my lower stomach like nothing had changed.

I shoved his hand off. "I'm fine.

"But I'm not."

He exhaled, then pulled my hand to his shoulder like some kid needing a hug. "It hurts here."

My fingers grazed the scar. I went still.

The memories slammed in.

Sandro—Vaitti golden boy—could've had any mafia heiress. Instead, he picked me. No title, no name, nothing.

Three years ago, he tried to walk away from it all—for me. His dad's punishment? Ninety-nine brutal lashes.

I bawled like my chest was being ripped open.

"Emilia, my father finally agreed to let me go. I just have to give him an heir. Wait for me," he'd whispered, half-dead in my arms, smiling like the welts weren't tearing his back apart.

How the hell did we end up here?

Back in the moment, he sighed, kissed my fingers. "You're the only one I've ever loved. Everything I've done... it was for you. Just wait a little longer, okay?"

My hand hovered. "What if I told you the person who hurt your daughter wasn't—"

"It doesn't matter anymore," he cut in, voice worn down. "My father's coming to see Genny tomorrow. For our future, Emilia... just be nice to Helga. Once he calms down, we can finally have our wedding."

My heart iced over. The fingers he kissed? Numb.

"Okay."

I shut my eyes. I was done hoping.

***

At dawn, Davide Vaitti showed up. Don of the Vaitti Family. Cold as ever.

He didn't even glance my way until Genny got a clean bill.

Then he handed me a contract, eyes sharp and freezing. "Sandro keeps nagging me about the wedding. Since he's so insistent, I'll allow it. But for my grandson's safety, sign this agreement. Then you get your marriage."

Sandro looked at me like this was great news, totally ignoring the fact I'd gone pale.

I stared at the Don, stunned. "You want me to sign something saying I'll never have kids?"

Davide didn't even blink. "My grandson's mother can only be Helga Cicili. If you stay childless, you're not a threat."

My stomach twisted. I turned to Sandro, voice cracking. "You knew? You agreed to this?"

He shifted, uncomfortable. "It's not like we have a kid. We could always get a dog or something."

Then he stepped closer, like that would help. "Just sign it. Father said once you do, we don't have to wait for Helga's baby. We can get married next week."

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. My eyes stung. "And if I don't?"

"Then you'll never marry Sandro," Davide snapped.

Sandro glanced at his dad, then turned on me, voice tight. "Emilia, everything we've done—everything—was for us to be together! He's only hesitating because of what happened to Genny. What are you trying to prove now?"

Davide scoffed and stormed off.

Sandro didn't even look back. Just chased after him to smooth things over.

And then came Helga, practically glowing with smugness.

"Emilia," she purred, "looks like locking you in that cold room wasn't enough of a wake-up call."

She scooped the contract off the floor, waving it. "See this? Only I'm fit to stand next to Sandro. You? You're just some nobody. And if I feel like it, I can make sure you not only lost that baby in the cold room—but never have another one again."

She knew.

She'd known all along.

Panic surged. My hands flew to my stomach as I turned and bolted for my room.

But as the front door creaked open, Helga's hand clamped onto my arm. Her voice went shrill, dramatic enough for the whole house to hear. "Emilia, what are you doing? Don't hurt my baby!"

Sandro burst in right on cue.

Helga staggered back, crashing into the shoe cabinet. "Ah! It hurts! Sandro—our baby!" she wailed, clutching her stomach.

The second he saw her crumpled and crying, he shoved me out of the way and scooped her up.

I hit the floor, pain slicing through my abdomen. Warm blood spread beneath me—again.

Somehow, I still managed to call the doctor before everything went dark.

Sandro never came back.

Three days later—the day I was supposed to leave—I tore the contract to pieces. Tossed it, along with my diary, into the trash. Then walked away without looking back.