Chapter 3

When I woke up back then, Vincent was keeping watch by my bedside. Those eyes of his, so accustomed to slaughter and plunder, were now webbed with fine, red streaks of exhaustion.

"The doctor said you're four months pregnant." He placed his hand gently over my lower abdomen, his voice carrying a tremor that bordered on the sacred. "This is the true heir to the Corleone family. How could you be so careless? You didn't even realize you were pregnant."

"It's a blessing you fainted right next to the hospital. The injuries weren't severe, otherwise... I don't know what I would have done." His eyes reddened slightly. "Don't worry. I'll be a good father. I'll take care of you both."

In that moment, I almost fell for the illusion: that this mafia tyrant had truly turned over a new leaf for the sake of this unborn life.

In the days that followed, he actually began a surreal transformation. He tossed all his Cuban cigars into the shredder and locked his sidearm and those shadow ledgers away. The number of servants at the estate doubled. He began personally reviewing the chef's daily prenatal menu and turned down every late-night family drinking session.

Every night, he would lean against the pillows and read stories to the baby in that deep voice of his, thick with a Sicilian accent.

"We're going to have a complete family, Isabella," he whispered, kissing my forehead. "I swear, I won't let you repeat your mother's fate."

His aunt came to visit, patting my hand with relief. "Vincent has truly settled down this time. In Sicily, a man isn't truly grown until he has roots. For the sake of the child, give him one more chance."

I watched his silhouette in the study as he picked out a crib for the baby, my heart a chaotic mess. I grew up in a single-parent home. The pain of being mocked as a "bastard with no father" was a nightmare I could never escape. I thought to myself, I should give this man one more chance, if only for the life inside me.

However, on the day of my check-up, the old servant who usually looked after me suddenly fell ill. I called Vincent ten times. Each call vanished into the void.

Enduring my physical discomfort, I took a taxi back to the Bel Air estate alone. The moment I pushed open the door, the silence I expected wasn't there. Giggles drifted from the kitchen, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of something hitting the counter.

My fingertips went cold as I moved toward the sound, step by step.

Through the ajar door, I saw the man who had promised me a "complete family" pressing a young kitchen assistant against the countertop. The woman was wearing nothing but a thin lace apron.

"Madam!" The woman spotted me and let out a sharp gasp.

Vincent finally turned his head. The intoxication on his face froze instantly, turning as white as a sheet. "Isabella!" He scrambled to push the girl away—his shirt buttons weren't even done up—as he stumbled toward me. "Let me explain, don't get upset..."

"Don't touch me." My voice was agonizingly raspy. I stared at the fresh, crimson bloom spreading on the floor beneath me, my body growing colder by the second.

"Calm down, just listen to me." He told the woman to leave first, then grabbed my shoulders, his voice frantic. "I'm sorry. I was drunk, I made a stupid mistake... I promise it will never happen again."

"This isn't the first time." I interrupted him, looking directly into his eyes. "Vincent, count them. Exactly how many times has it been?"

He fell silent. That silence chilled me more than any explanation could—not because he had nothing to say, but because he knew anything he said would be useless.

Sensing the dead, ashen resolve in my eyes, his expression shifted as a thought struck him. He took a deep breath and pierced my only weakness with surgical precision:

"Isabella, you come from a single-parent home. You know that hardship. The child isn't even born yet—can you really bear to let him walk that same path?"

On the day I received the notice that my mother was terminally ill, I had tearfully shared my past with him—the irresponsible father, the constant moving, the years of drifting between relatives' homes. That night, he held me and promised: he would give me a home that was forever whole.

Memory overlapped with reality. The secrets I had whispered in the middle of the night were now the weapons he used to control me.

I didn't say a word. He took my silence as a sign of submission, and his posture relaxed. "That's a good girl."

He reached out, intending to drape his arm around my shoulder as he usually did, his tone carrying a habitual sense of indulgence.

I stepped aside. His hand met empty air, freezing mid-motion.