Chapter 3

I stitched the wound myself in the cramped silence of the emergency room bathroom.

I couldn't bear the thought of waiting for a doctor.

More importantly, I couldn't risk giving my name.

The laceration on my forehead was jagged, but the stinging pain was grounding.

It offered a welcome distraction from the hollow, twisting cramps in my abdomen.

I walked out into the sterile hallway, pressing a rough paper towel against my temple.

I turned the corner and collided straight into Dante.

He was pacing outside the operating theater, his pristine white shirt marred by dust and dried blood.

He halted the moment he saw me.

For a heartbeat, raw relief fractured his composure.

"You're here," he breathed.

Then, the double doors burst open.

A nurse sprinted out, her expression wild with panic.

"We're losing her!" she screamed. "She's hemorrhaging. We need O-negative. Now. The highway pile-up tapped the blood bank dry."

Dante went rigid.

He turned to me, his movement slow, predatory.

He knew my blood type.

It was in my file. It was the same rare type as his mother's.

"Elena," he said.

I stumbled back. "No."

"She is dying," he stated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "The baby is dying."

"I can't," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Dante, please. I'm... I'm anemic. I'm sick."

I couldn't tell him why.

I couldn't tell him that I had already lost half my blood volume on a cold clinic table this morning.

He didn't listen.

He closed the distance between us in two terrifying strides.

He seized my arm.

His grip was bruising, possessing the strength of a desperate man.

"It is a life, Elena. An innocent life. You will do this."

He dragged me toward the trauma bay.

I dug my heels into the linoleum, but I was a ragdoll against his overpowering force.

"Dante, stop! You're hurting me!"

"You are being selfish!" he snarled, shoving me forward. "It's just blood. You have plenty."

He threw me into the donor chair.

He nodded sharply to the nurse. "Take it. Take whatever she needs."

The nurse looked at my ashen face, then up at the menacing Don looming over me.

She didn't dare argue.

She prepped my arm with shaking hands.

The needle pierced my skin, a sharp bite of reality.

I watched the dark red liquid rush into the tube.

It was my life force.

Draining out of me to save the woman who had ruined me.

Dante stood guard by the door, his eyes fixed on the filling bag.

He didn't hold my hand.

He didn't offer me water.

He just watched the level rise, coldly calculating if it was enough to buy Sofia another hour.

My vision began to tunnel.

Black spots danced across my periphery.

"We've taken nearly six hundred ccs," the nurse stammered, checking the monitor. "Her pulse is bottoming out. We have to stop."

"Is Sofia stable?" Dante demanded.

"Not yet."

"Keep going," he ordered.

I slumped in the chair, my head lolling back.

I was too weak to protest.

I just looked at him.

I looked at the man who had vowed to cherish me.

He was killing me to save a lie.

Finally, the nurse ripped the needle out.

"That's it. Any more and she goes into hypovolemic shock."

Dante nodded once.

He didn't say thank you.

"Sofia is stabilizing," another nurse called out from the hallway.

Dante turned on his heel.

He walked out.

He left me there, dizzy and bleeding, with a piece of cotton taped to the crook of my arm.

A doctor entered the cubicle a few minutes later.

He checked my chart, then froze. He frowned deeply.

"Mrs. Moretti... I'm looking at your admission records. They indicate a surgical termination of pregnancy this morning."

I closed my eyes, the tears hot and fast.

"Yes."

"And you just donated a pint and a half of blood?" He looked at me with undisguised horror. "Does your husband know?"

"No," I whispered into the silence. "And he never will."

I recovered in the guest wing of the villa for a week.

I lay in the dark, staring at the ornate ceiling until the patterns blurred.

Dante didn't visit.

The maids whispered in the corridors that he was sleeping in Sofia's room, guarding her like a sentinel.

On the seventh day, the door clicked open.

Dante stood there, looking impeccable in a charcoal suit.

"Get dressed," he said.

"I'm not going anywhere," I replied, my voice thin and brittle.

"It's the christening of Capo Rossi's son. We have to make an appearance. Rumors are already spreading that you've left me."

"I have left you," I said, meeting his gaze. "In every way that matters."

He ignored me.

"Wear the blue dress. It matches my tie. The car leaves in twenty minutes."

He tossed the garment onto the bed.

It landed like a silk shroud.

I forced myself up.

My legs shook violently, but I stood.

I slipped into the dress.

I painted my face to hide the deathly pallor of my skin.

I was a Falcone.

And I would not let them see me bleed.