Chapter 27

Chapter 27
Isabella's POV
Sigrid's face went white when she saw Marco approaching. Her designer heel lifted off my bleeding knuckles instantly.
"Marco!" she stammered. "I can explain what happened here!"
"What the hell is going on here?"
Marco's voice cracked across the dining room like a whip. The deadly calm in his tone made even the crystal glasses seem to shiver. This was the voice that had ordered men's deaths, that had built an empire on fear.
But he wasn't looking at Sigrid. His dark eyes were fixed on me—kneeling on cold marble surrounded by broken Hermès porcelain and my own blood.
"Isabella." My name fell from his lips like a prayer and a curse.
Without a word, he crossed the space between us in three measured strides. His expensive Italian leather shoes crunched softly on china fragments as he knelt beside me, his movements surprisingly gentle.
"Let me see your hand."
I tried to pull away, but his fingers closed around my wrist with careful authority. The contrast between his tender touch and the violence I knew those same hands were capable of made my stomach clench with unwanted recognition.
Marco examined my cut hand with clinical precision, blood having soaked through the makeshift bandage I'd tried to make from my servant's apron. I could see concern flicker across his features as he assessed the damage—real concern, not calculated manipulation.
From his pocket, he pulled out a silk handkerchief—pristine white with his initials embroidered in silver thread—and wrapped it around my palm with surprising gentleness.
"There," he murmured. "That should hold until we get you proper medical attention."
For a moment, I was transported back three years—to mornings when those same hands would trace patterns on my skin, when his voice would whisper Italian endearments against my throat.
Stop. Don't let him see how much his touch still affects you.
"Why didn't you fight back?" he asked quietly, real concern flickering in his expression. "Why did you let her hurt you like this?"
The question sparked something hot and bitter in my chest.
"Fight back?" I pulled my bandaged hand from his grip. "Against whom exactly, Marco? Your precious fiancée?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm just a servant here, remember?" My voice came out sharp with three years of rage. "How could I possibly dare to resist the future Salvatore donna? The woman you've chosen to warm your bed and bear your children?"
I gestured around the opulent dining room with its crystal chandeliers and priceless antiques.
"This is Villa Salvatore. She's going to be your wife. And I'm nothing more than hired help who scrubs your floors and serves your meals. So tell me, Marco—exactly what kind of fight did you expected me to put up?"
The sarcasm was razor-sharp, each word carefully chosen to wound. Marco's face went perfectly still—his tell when fury was building.
"Future wife?" he repeated, his voice dropping to that deadly whisper. "Is that what you think this is about?"
"Isn't it?" I laughed bitterly. "You made your choice crystal clear when you brought her here. When you let her move into your home, wear your ring, play the perfect mafia princess."
Marco's jaw clenched. A muscle jumped beneath his cheekbone.
"You think I chose her over you?"
"Didn't you?" The words tumbled out. "You sold me to hell, Marco. You threw me away like garbage. And now you parade your new woman around while I clean up her messes."
Something dangerous flashed in his dark eyes—possessive fury mixed with wounded pride.
"You want to know about choices, Isabella?" His voice was silk over steel. "Let me show you exactly what my choice looks like."
Without warning, he turned toward Sigrid. She'd been watching our exchange with barely concealed satisfaction.
"Sigrid." The way he said her name carried absolute command.
He crossed to her in three strides, hands tangling in her blonde hair, tilting her face up.
"Kiss me," he ordered.
Their mouths crashed together with brutal intensity. It wasn't gentle—it was raw, claiming, designed to mark territory. Marco's hands held her exactly where he wanted her, his body pressed against hers with deliberate intimacy.
The kiss went on and on, all heat and dominance. Everything our kisses used to be, now given to someone else. In front of me.
When they broke apart, Sigrid was breathless and flushed. Her lipstick was smeared, blue eyes bright with triumph.
"Ti amo, amore mio," she breathed against his lips. "I love you so much."
Marco's eyes found mine over her shoulder. The cold satisfaction burning there made my chest tight.
This was his punishment for my defiance. Watching him give another woman what he used to give me.
This is how Marco Salvatore breaks people who dare to challenge him.
I couldn't watch anymore. I turned and fled toward the powder room as nausea hit me like a freight train. My hand flew to my mouth as my stomach lurched violently.
I stumbled into the small powder room, barely making it to the silver sink before my body betrayed me completely.
The retching was violent and painful, bringing up nothing but stomach acid and desperation. My hands gripped the cool metal rim as wave after wave of sickness crashed over me, each one more intense than the last.
When it finally stopped, I slumped against the marble counter, my legs shaking. The taste of bile lingered, making me want to retch again.
"Isabella?"
Connor's voice made me jump. He stood in the doorway, blue eyes dark with concern.
"Are you alright?" He stepped inside, closing the door. "I heard you were sick."
"I'm fine," I lied, wiping my mouth with trembling hands.
"How long have you been feeling like this?" he asked gently.
"A few days. Maybe a week."
Connor's expression grew serious. "Isabella, when was your last cycle?"
The question hit me like ice water. My mind raced backward, trying to remember through the haze of trauma and constant fear.
"I don't know," I whispered, panic clawing at my throat. "I can't remember."
"Do you think you might be pregnant?"
The word hung between us like a loaded gun.
Pregnant.
Suddenly I was back in that basement, chained to cold metal while men used my body however they pleased. The drugs. The things they made me do.
"If I'm pregnant," I breathed, "this baby would be in terrible danger."
The implications crashed over me. A child conceived in hell. Marco's reaction if he discovered I was carrying another man's child.
"I can help you," Connor said firmly, stepping closer. "But we need to know for certain first."
I pulled back sharply, every instinct screaming warnings. "I don't need your help. You should leave before Marco finds you here."
Connor didn't seem angry at my harsh tone. Instead, he moved closer, his voice gentle but determined.
"I'm going to get you out of this hell," he said quietly, his blue eyes burning with resolve. "But until then, Marco absolutely cannot know about this."
The promise hung in the air between us—dangerous, desperate, and absolutely necessary. In a world where I had no choices, Connor was offering me the one thing I'd thought was impossible.
Hope.