Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Isabella's POV
Pain dragged me back to consciousness in waves, each one carrying fragments of memory that I wished would stay buried.
The black Cadillac SUV tearing through the cypress grove. Connor's scream echoing through the night. The sickening moment of impact. And then—a man stepping out of the wreckage, the Salvatore family crest tattooed on his right arm. Giuseppe.
I forced my eyes open to white ceiling tiles and the antiseptic smell of hospital disinfectant. Bandages covered my arms where gravel had torn flesh. My left leg hung in a cast, elevated and throbbing.
But I was breathing. Still alive.
The door opened with a soft click.
Marco Salvatore entered wearing his perfect charcoal Armani suit, settling into the leather chair beside my bed with predatory grace.
"Awake at last, principessa," he said, his voice carrying that deceptively calm tone. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd sleep through the entire performance."
"Where's Connor?"
"Straight to the point. I've always admired that about you, Isabella."
He reached into his jacket and withdrew several items, placing them on my hospital bed with deliberate precision.
A pregnancy test. Two bright pink lines.
A first-class ticket to Las Vegas.
An envelope of cash.
My breath caught as I stared at the evidence of my shattered plans spread across white hospital sheets like artifacts from a life I'd never have.
"You planned every detail so carefully," Marco said, his voice dropping to that deadly whisper that had once made me feel protected. Now it only promised retribution. "The sedative in my whiskey. The romantic midnight escape with my most trusted soldier. Even the touching farewell with dear Papa."
"How did you—"
"Know about it? Isabella, you've been planning this little adventure for weeks. Did you really think I wouldn't notice my own man making eyes at what belongs to me?"
"Every whispered conversation in the servants' corridors. Every stolen glance across the dining room. Every romantic promise of freedom." His voice was surgical in its precision. "I heard every single word."
All those moments when Connor and I thought we were being careful, when we believed we were planning in secret—Marco had been listening to everything. The violation of it made my skin crawl.
"The pregnancy test—"
"Sigrid retrieved it from your bathroom trash." The casual way he said it made my stomach lurch. "Three months along, according to Dr. Moretti's examination."
His dark eyes studied my face with dangerous intensity, something cold and calculating flickering in their depths. There was no warmth there anymore—only the promise of consequences I wasn't prepared to face.
"Tell me something, principessa. How does it feel to be betrayed by absolutely everyone you trusted?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Your dear friend Sigrid. Your loving father Leonardo. Should I start with which betrayal cut deeper?"
"Sigrid helped me escape—"
"Sigrid led you directly into my trap." He pulled out his phone. "Should I play you the recording of her calling my security team to report your exact escape route?"
The room seemed to tilt. "No. She wouldn't—"
"The woman who's been desperately in love with me since college? Who's spent years watching me obsess over you instead of noticing her?"
Understanding hit me like ice water. Sigrid's strange calm when she'd found me with the pregnancy test.
"She understood something you didn't. Letting you escape would hurt me far more than keeping you prisoner ever could. She wanted to break my obsession with you by making me lose you forever."
"And Papa?"
"Ah yes, dear Leonardo Romano." Marco's smile turned genuinely cruel. "Would you like to hear exactly how much it cost to purchase his betrayal?"
"Papa wouldn't sell me—"
"Wouldn't sell his own daughter for gambling debts?" Marco's phone appeared in his hand. "Let me refresh your memory."
The recording began to play, and my world crumbled.
"Ten thousand dollars, that's our agreed price," Papa's voice filled the room, slurred with alcohol. "My daughter will be at Grand Central Station waiting for that Irish boy. You just need to catch them there."
"And if she gets hurt in the process?"
"As long as I get paid, I don't give a shit what happens to her. The little bitch has caused me nothing but trouble anyway."
The phone went silent.
"Thirty pieces of silver," Marco said quietly. "Your father settled for ten thousand American dollars."
Tears began falling onto the hospital sheets, each drop carrying the weight of three years of misplaced trust. Everything—every plan, every hope, every person I'd believed loved me—had been a carefully orchestrated lie.
"Connor," I whispered desperately. "What about Connor?"
Marco's expression shifted. Something that might have been genuine regret flickered across his features.
"Connor O'Brien was the only one whose feelings were genuine. The only person whose love for you was real."
Was. Past tense.
"Where is he?"
"Connor died trying to protect you," Marco said, each word falling like a funeral bell. "The SUV hit him first. He threw himself in front of you at the last second."
No. No, no, no—
"His last words were your name. Even as he was dying, he was calling out for you. Isabella. Over and over until the words stopped coming."
I couldn't breathe. The one person who had shown me genuine kindness—dead because of me.
"The irony is quite perfect, isn't it? The only person who truly loved you is dead. And everyone else? They sold you for pocket change and revenge."
"No." I shoved the pregnancy test off the bed. "You're lying about Connor. He's not dead."
"Isabella—"
"He's not dead!" I pushed myself upright, my body screaming in protest. "Connor's alive. He has to be alive."
"Where do you think you're going?"
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my casted leg barely able to support weight. "To find him. To see him with my own eyes."
"He's gone, principessa. Accept it."
"No!" I stumbled toward the door, each step sending fire through my ribs. "I have to see him."
"Isabella, stop. You're going to hurt yourself."
But I was already pushing through the door, lurching into the bright hospital corridor. Nurses turned to stare as I limped past, dragging my casted leg.
"Connor!" I called out, my voice echoing off the sterile walls. "Connor O'Brien! Where are you?"
A nurse in scrubs hurried toward me. "Miss, you need to return to your room—"
"Where is he?" I grabbed her arm. "Connor O'Brien. I need to see Connor O'Brien."
"I don't know who you're talking about—"
"Connor!" I screamed, my voice breaking into something raw and desperate. "Connor!"
The corridor stretched ahead—white walls and fluorescent lights leading to operating rooms and places where hope went to die. But somewhere in this maze, I would find the truth.
"Connor!" I called again, desperation giving my voice strength. "Connor!"
He has to be alive. He has to be.