Chapter 53

Chapter 53
Vito's POV
I was just about to follow Isabella inside when my phone rang. Maria's name flashed on the screen.
"Vito?" Her voice was shaky, barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I... I couldn't calm down after you left."
I stepped away from the ballroom entrance, my hand gripping the phone tighter. "What's wrong? Are you having another episode?"
"I had the nightmare again last night," she said, and I could hear tears threatening in her voice. "The one about the shooting. About losing you in those tunnels. And then today, when you left for the wedding, I just... I kept thinking about how quickly everything can change. How easily we could be separated again."
The raw pain in her voice hit me like a physical blow. Twenty years, and she still carried the trauma of that day. Still feared losing the people she cared about.
"Maria, you're safe now. I'm not going anywhere."
"I know, I know you're not. But I couldn't stop crying, Vito. I couldn't stop thinking about how close we came to losing each other that day, and how that gunshot almost took you away from me forever." Her breath hitched. "I booked a flight to Paris. I'm already at the airport."
I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. "You didn't need to do that. This is just a family obligation—"
"I won't get in your way," she said quickly. "I promise I won't cause any trouble or make things awkward with Isabella. I just... I need to be near you right now. Please don't send me back."
What could I say to that? How could I deny comfort to someone who'd saved my life, who'd spent two decades in and out of psychiatric facilities because of the trauma she'd endured? The guilt that had been my constant companion since finding her again twisted sharper in my chest.
"Of course," I said finally. "I'll have Tony pick you up from Charles de Gaulle."
"Thank you," she whispered, relief evident in her voice. "I love you, Vito."
By the time Tony returned with Maria, the reception was in full swing. I wheeled myself back into the ballroom, scanning the crowd until I found Isabella. She was standing near the orchestra with David Rosenberg, her face animated as they talked. The sight of them together—her genuine smile, the way she leaned slightly toward him as he spoke—sent an unexpected spike of jealousy through my chest.
I'd never seen her look so relaxed, so completely herself. When she was with me, there was always an underlying tension, a careful guardedness that reminded me she was still playing a role. But with David, she looked... free.
The realization that she felt more comfortable with another man than with her own husband was more disturbing than I cared to admit.
Maria appeared beside my wheelchair, radiant in a flowing silver gown that made her look ethereal. Her color was better than it had been in weeks, and the flight seemed to have done her good.
"You look beautiful," I told her, and meant it. Despite everything she'd been through, Maria still possessed that fragile beauty that had first captured my attention all those years ago.
"Thank you." She smiled.
The orchestra began playing a waltz, and couples moved onto the dance floor. I watched Isabella hesitate when David offered his hand, then accept with a smile that made that jealousy flare again.
"Would you like to dance?" Maria asked, her hand coming to rest lightly on my shoulder.
I nodded, needing the distraction. As I guided Maria through the steps—our movements practiced from years of physical therapy sessions where dancing had been part of her treatment—I found my attention continually drifting to Isabella and David.
They moved well together, I noted with irritation. David was clearly smitten with her, his attention focused entirely on her face as they talked. And Isabella... she was laughing at something he'd said, her whole demeanor lighter than I'd seen it in weeks.
"She seems very comfortable with that man," Maria observed, following my gaze.
"Dr. Rosenberg is an old friend of hers."
"Just a friend?" There was something almost calculating in Maria's tone that made me look at her sharply.
"What do you mean?"
Maria's smile was innocent, but her eyes remained fixed on Isabella and David. "Nothing, really. It's just... they seem very close. Very familiar with each other. And she's wearing that dress—it's quite revealing, isn't it? For a married woman dancing with another man."
I felt my jaw tighten. "It's perfectly appropriate."
"Of course," Maria said quickly. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise. It's just that in the circles I grew up in, wives were usually more... careful about how they presented themselves. But maybe things are different now."
The subtle criticism nestled under my skin like a thorn. I found myself studying Isabella's dress—a deep blue gown that hugged her curves and showcased her décolletage. It was elegant, sophisticated, exactly the sort of thing I'd expect her to wear. But seeing it through Maria's eyes, I suddenly noticed how David's gaze occasionally dropped to her neckline, how intimate their conversation appeared.
"She's probably just being polite," I said, more to convince myself than Maria.
"I'm sure you're right," Maria agreed, but her voice carried just enough doubt to plant seeds of suspicion. "Though I have to admit, I'm curious about something. Didn't you say she studied art history?"
"Yes."
"It's just that I couldn't help overhearing part of their conversation when we first arrived. They were discussing medical procedures—something about pediatric cardiology research. Quite detailed medical terminology for an art student, don't you think?"
"What exactly did you hear?"
"Well, I didn't want to eavesdrop, but they were standing quite close to the entrance when we came in. Dr. Rosenberg was offering her some sort of position at the hospital—a research role, I think. And Isabella seemed very knowledgeable about the subject. She was using medical terms I recognized from my own treatments. Very sophisticated terminology."
My mind raced.
"Are you certain?" I asked, my voice carefully controlled despite the storm building in my chest.
"Quite certain. In fact, she seemed more comfortable discussing medical research than I would expect from someone who studied Renaissance painting." Maria's hand found mine, her touch gentle and concerned. "Vito, I hope I haven't overstepped by mentioning it. I just thought... well, as your wife, shouldn't she be honest with you about her background?"
Before I could respond, the song ended and I saw Isabella and David stepping off the dance floor. They were still talking, their heads bent close together in conversation that looked far too intimate for my liking.
"Excuse me," I said to Maria, my voice tight with barely controlled anger.
I wheeled myself across the ballroom, weaving between the other guests with single-minded purpose. When I reached Isabella and David, their conversation died abruptly.
"Isabella," I said, my tone carefully neutral despite the fury building inside me. "Come over."