All Chapters of The Vitale Brothers Ruined Me, Then Made Me Their Queen: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The waiting room is a purgatory painted in beige.It smells of industrial pine cleaner and old magazines. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, a low, buzzing insect sound that drills into my temples. Bzzzz.I am sitting in a plastic chair. It is hard. Unforgiving.I am wearing a black hoodie, the hood pulled up. I am wearing oversized sunglasses that hide my eyes. I am wearing the persona of a girl named "Sofia Ricci."It is a cruel joke. To use her name. To use the name of the woman who tried to kill me as the name on the file that will end my pregnancy.But it feels appropriate. Sofia Greco wanted to erase me. Now, I am erasing the consequences of her fiancé.I look at the clipboard in my lap.The paper is white. The questions are standard.Medical History. Allergies. Reason for Visit.I stare at the blank line.Reason for Visit.How do I answer that?Because the father is a monster. Because the father is three monsters. Because a child born in a war zone is just a casualty waiting

The mansion looms against the night sky, a jagged silhouette of stone and secrets.It looks the same as it did the first night Aureliano brought me here. The same Brutalist angles. The same cliffs crashing into the sea.But I am different.I am not the girl in the wet coat. I am not the ghost.I am a mother.I step out of the car. The gravel crunches under my boots. Crunch. Crunch.The sound is loud in the silence. It sounds like bones breaking.I smooth my black dress. It is tight. It hides nothing, except the microscopic truth growing inside me.The front door opens before I reach it.Aureliano stands there.He is wearing a tuxedo. He always dresses for dinner, but tonight, he looks... regal. He looks like a King who has finally secured his borders.He sees me.His face softens. The hard lines of his jaw relax. The tension in his shoulders—the tension that has been there since the day he bought me—evaporates."You came," he says."I said I would."He reaches out. He takes my hand. H

The dining room is a theater of shadows and silver.The chandelier is dimmed, casting a golden, flickering light over the table. It catches on the crystal glasses, the polished silverware, the heavy gold signet rings on Aureliano’s fingers.We are eating roast duck with a cherry reduction. The smell is rich, savory, and slightly metallic.It makes my stomach roll.I cut a piece of meat. Scrape. Slice.I force myself to put it in my mouth. I chew. The texture is soft, fatty. I swallow it down with a sip of water, willing my throat not to close up.Stay down, I command my stomach. You are the Queen. Queens do not vomit at the dinner table.The brothers are relaxed. Or as relaxed as wolves get when they aren't hunting.Spadino is talking about a new club opening in the marina. He is animated, using his fork to punctuate his sentences."It’s going to be glass floors," he says, eyes shining. "Right over the water. You can see the fish while you dance."Ciro is listening, or pretending to.

The dinner is over. The lie has been told.But the interrogation isn't finished. It has just moved venues.I am in the West Wing suite. The door is locked. The curtains are drawn against the night.Ciro is here.He didn't ask. He didn't knock. He simply followed me from the dining room, a silent, brooding shadow that slipped through the door before I could close it.Now, we are in bed.The sheets are cool silk, a stark contrast to the heat radiating off his body. He is lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting heavily on his stomach. He is wearing only his boxer briefs. His chest, marked by the angry red scars of the bullet wounds, rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm.I am lying beside him. I am wearing a loose t-shirt and underwear. I am trying to breathe. I am trying to slow my heart rate, which has been galloping since the moment I refused the wine.The room is quiet. The only sound is the hum of the air conditioning and the distant crash of the waves

The plan is simple.Simple plans are the best. They have fewer moving parts. Fewer things to break.Step one: Dinner. Step two: Distraction. Step three: The Vault. Step four: Freedom.I am sitting at the vanity in the West Wing suite. I am applying lipstick. Red. War paint.I look at my reflection.The woman staring back isn't the scared girl who arrived in the rain. She isn't the ghost who hid in the crypt.She is a mother.I touch my stomach. It is still flat, but I can feel the weight of the future pressing against my ribs.I need money. Not a stipend. Not an allowance. I need sovereignty.Fifty thousand euros was a start. Three million is a life.Three million euros in bearer bonds and untraceable cash. It is sitting in the vault, waiting for me. I saw it the first time. I didn't take it then because I was focused on the intel.Now, I am focused on survival.I stand up. I smooth my black dress. It has deep pockets sewn into the lining—my own addition.I check the time.7:00 PM.Di