His Baby My Burden: The Mafia Rider's Claim のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 111 - チャプター 120

The hospital air had a way of dulling everything. The white lights overhead buzzed with a monotonous hum, blending with the rhythmic beeping of heart monitors and the hushed tones of nurses moving through corridors. For weeks, we’d been living here this cold, sterile place had become a second home. But today… today was different.Sofia was prepped. The donor had arrived hours ago, flown in under emergency priority. Her surgery was scheduled at dawn.I stood by the window of her room, arms wrapped tightly around myself, watching the sky shift from charcoal to ash and then to a bruised shade of lavender. It felt like holding my breath. The whole world was waiting with me.Behind me, Matteo sat slouched in the chair beside Sofia’s bed, his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled together as if in silent prayer. He hadn’t said much since the doctors gave us the final confirmation that the donor heart was viable.“You should rest,” I whispered, not taking my eyes off the horizon. “You’ve bar

The walls of the private hospital suite were too white. Too sterile. Too silent.Even with the soft hum of the monitors and the muffled footsteps of nurses outside the door, everything felt like it was holding its breath—like the entire world paused just for her. Just for Sofia.She lay there, so small in the massive hospital bed, her chest rising and falling slowly beneath layers of sterile blankets. Her face had lost the sickly pallor, but the color hadn’t quite returned to her lips. Her dark hair was slicked back, sticking slightly to her forehead from the fever that had broken only hours ago. The oxygen tube nestled beneath her nose looked like it didn’t belong—like it didn’t deserve to mar her innocence. But it had saved her. That, and the heart beating carefully beneath her ribs.Our daughter now held a stranger’s heart in her chest. Someone else’s love. Someone else’s pain. Someone else’s sacrifice. And every beat that pushed blood through her fragile veins reminded me of every

It was a quiet kind of miracle.The machines beeped steadily in the background, the IV line hanging like a lifeline from the hook above her bed, and Sofia, our daughter, our warrior lay there with her tiny chest rising and falling under the pale blue sheets. It had only been four days since the transplant. Four days since I last remembered how to breathe without the taste of panic on my tongue. And even now, as I sat by her side and brushed my fingers through her curls, I still found myself waiting for something to go wrong.But for the first time in what felt like forever… nothing did.Matteo stood behind me, his arms crossed, leaning against the far wall of the hospital room, but I could feel his presence like gravity. He hadn’t left this room unless someone forced him to, not even to eat properly. His face was drawn and unshaven, eyes shadowed by the sleepless nights we both endured—but when his gaze landed on Sofia, there was a softness there that gutted me.“She’s warm,” I whispe

The room was dim, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains. The soft rhythm of Sofia’s breathing filled the quiet, delicate and even, like a lullaby we didn’t dare interrupt. She was curled on the far side of the bed, her tiny arm clutching the edge of her stuffed toy one that my parent's has bought her which now had a mismatched eye and all. She looked so peaceful, her chest rising and falling steadily, a small patch of gauze peeking from under her pajama sleeve.And for the first time in weeks, I allowed myself to exhale.I lay on the other side of the bed the hospital provided for watchers, half-propped against the headboard, legs drawn up to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. Matteo was sitting next to me, his shoulder brushing mine, the silence between us warm—not heavy.He turned his head slightly, his eyes studying Sofia the same way I had been. “She’s okay,” he whispered, as if saying it aloud might jinx it.“She’s sleeping,” I replied quiet

The drive was almost silent.Matteo kept one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear, eyes locked on the dark road ahead. The engine of the matte-black SUV hummed low and smooth, too quiet for the fury that boiled beneath our skin.My fingers trembled in my lap. Not from fear.From rage.From imagining Teresa's face in pain—her wrists bound, her mouth gagged, maybe her eyes bloodied from a slap she didn’t see coming.I could barely breathe.Matteo didn’t speak until we were nearly an hour from the cabin. “We’re not going in through the front.”“I didn’t think we were.” I glanced down at the blueprint he’d pulled up earlier. The abandoned vineyard outside Ravenna, once owned by a minor French family who imported Sicilian wine back in the 1800s. Sold off years ago. Empty. Private.Now a cage.He parked a full kilometer away in the woods, killing the engine and lights. Then he reached under the seat and pulled out a small velvet pouch. From it, he handed me a tiny silver ring.A blad