All Chapters of The Vitale Brothers Ruined Me, Then Made Me Their Queen: Chapter 211 - Chapter 220

The ultrasound room smells of cold gel and expensive healthcare.It is a private suite in the clinic Ciro bullied Dr. Rossi’s partner into opening early. The walls are painted a soothing, neutral beige that is supposed to calm anxious mothers. It doesn't work. The air is thick with the scent of high-octane testosterone and barely suppressed panic.I am lying on the exam table. My shirt is pulled up, exposing the slight curve of my stomach where the second miracle is taking root. My jeans are unbuttoned, the denim rough against my hips.The room is crowded.Aureliano stands by my head. He is gripping my left hand so hard I can feel his pulse thudding against my palm. He is wearing a suit, but he has taken off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves as if he is preparing for a brawl, not a sonogram. His grey eyes are fixed on the black screen of the monitor, intense and unblinking.Ciro looms at the foot of the bed. He is too big for the room. He radiates heat like a furnace, his massive arm

The nursery for the twins is chaos.It is a beautiful chaos—piles of diapers, boxes of unassembled furniture, and enough plush toys to populate a small zoo. But in the center of the storm, there is a singular point of calm organization.Maria.She is seven years old today. She is wearing her favorite dress—black velvet with a white collar, chosen because she says it makes her look "official"—and she is kneeling on the rug with a tactical backpack.It isn't a school bag with unicorns. It is a miniature version of Ciro’s go-bag, made of durable canvas with reinforced zippers.She is packing.I stand in the doorway, my hand resting on the massive curve of my stomach where the twins are currently staging a kickboxing match. My back aches, my feet are swollen, but the sight of my daughter working with such lethal focus makes me smile.She picks up a stuffed bear. She inspects it for defects. She places it in the main compartment.She picks up a packet of fruit snacks. She checks the expira

The garden is blooming.Jasmine, bougainvillea, and the heavy, sweet scent of orange blossoms fill the air. It is late afternoon, the sun casting long, golden shadows across the emerald lawn where Maria is currently teaching the bulldog to sit."Sit," she commands.Tank, who weighs more than she does, sits."Good boy," she praises, feeding him a piece of cheese.I watch them from the terrace. I am wearing a loose linen dress that floats around my six-month twin bump. My feet are bare against the warm stone.I am holding an envelope.It is white. Sealed. Inside is a piece of paper from Dr. Rossi’s partner that tells us the future.My wolves are pacing.Aureliano is leaning against the stone balustrade, a glass of iced tea in his hand. He looks relaxed, but his eyes keep darting to the envelope in my hand. He is a man who hates surprises. He wants the intel.Ciro is sitting on the steps, carving a piece of driftwood. He is making another mobile—this time with fish. He looks up every few

Pain is usually a signal that something is wrong. It is a siren screaming that the body is under attack, that tissue is tearing, that bones are breaking.But tonight, the pain is a signal that everything is right.I am lying in the center of the massive custom bed in the master suite. The room is not a sterile medical box. It is a sanctuary. The lights are dimmed to a warm amber glow. The air smells of beeswax candles and the soft, clean scent of linen.There are no guns on the nightstand. There are no guards at the door. The only people in the room are the doctor, the midwife, and my wolves."Breathe," Aureliano murmurs against my ear.He is behind me, propped up against the headboard, his chest a solid wall supporting my back. His arms are wrapped around my upper body, his hands resting on my ribs, feeling the expansion and contraction of my lungs. He is the anchor."I am breathing," I say, my voice steady.A contraction rolls over me.It is a massive, tightening wave that starts in

The Vitale mansion was designed by a minimalist architect who believed in clean lines, negative space, and the quiet dignity of stone.He clearly never met Dante and Leone.The negative space is now filled with a sprawling, multicolored obstacle course of plastic, plush, and wood. The clean lines are interrupted by sticky handprints at exactly knee-height on every glass surface. The quiet dignity has been strangled by a cacophony of shrieks, giggles, and the thud of small bodies hitting the floor.It is 8:00 AM on a Tuesday.The kitchen looks like a bomb went off inside a bakery.I lean against the granite island, clutching my coffee mug like a shield. I am wearing a silk robe that I managed to keep clean for exactly three minutes before a small, yogurt-covered hand grabbed the hem."Dante!" Ciro roars.It isn't a scary roar. It is the roar of a giant who is losing a wrestling match with a toddler.Dante, now eighteen months old and built like a tank, is sitting in his high chair. He