Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Isabella's POV
"The bastard in your belly will be the next to pay the price for your choices, principessa."
The words hit like ice water in my veins. Marco's threat to my unborn child shattered the last of my composure. Everything inside me—every protective instinct, every spark of defiance that three years in hell hadn't broken—exploded at once.
"You monster!"
My hand flew out before rational thought could stop it, connecting with Marco's cheek in a crack that echoed through the hospital corridor like a gunshot.
The slap was sharp, satisfying, and utterly reckless.
Marco's head snapped to the side, a red handprint blooming across his perfect cheekbone. For one heartbeat, he stood perfectly still, dark hair falling across his forehead. Then his eyes went completely black with a fury that made my blood freeze.
I've just hit Marco Salvatore. I've just struck a mafia don in public.
"You little bitch."
His hand shot out like a striking snake, fingers closing around my throat as he slammed me back against the cold hospital wall. My feet barely touched the ground as his grip tightened like a vise around my windpipe.
"Tell me," he hissed, his face inches from mine, breath hot against my skin. "Who is the father of that bastard growing inside you? Is it Connor?"
I couldn't breathe properly, couldn't speak. His fingers pressed against my throat with just enough force to make breathing difficult but not impossible. This was control—precise, calculated violence designed to break my resistance without killing me.
"I won't—" I gasped, clawing desperately at his wrist. "I'll never tell you!"
"Wrong answer."
He released me so suddenly I slumped against the wall, gasping for air. My throat burned where his fingers had pressed, and I could already feel bruises forming on my skin.
"Dr. Moretti," Marco called without taking his eyes off me, his voice carrying the absolute authority of a man accustomed to instant obedience.
The elderly physician stepped forward reluctantly, his weathered face pale with concern. I could see the conflict in his eyes—the Hippocratic oath warring with fear of the Salvatore family.
"Don Marco?"
"Terminate the pregnancy. Now."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Terminate. He wants to kill my baby.
"No!" I lunged forward, desperation giving me strength as I grabbed Marco's expensive suit jacket. The fabric wrinkled under my frantic grip. "Marco, please! I swear on my mother's grave I'll never try to escape again! Just don't hurt my child!"
"Then give me a name, Isabella," he said, his voice like ice cracking under pressure. "Tell me who put that bastard inside you."
I stared into those dark eyes that had once looked at me with love, now holding nothing but cold calculation and possessive rage. He meant every word. This wasn't an empty threat.
"I'm waiting."
"I can't—"
"Then you've made your choice." He turned back to Dr. Moretti. "Take her to the surgical wing. Immediately."
"Sir," a young female nurse stepped forward, her voice shaking but determined. "What you're asking is illegal. We can't perform that procedure without the patient's consent—"
"In this hospital, I AM the law!" Marco's voice cracked like thunder, making everyone in the corridor flinch. "This facility exists because of Salvatore money. Every machine, every bed, every fucking bandage is here because my family allows it."
The nurse went white as paper, stepping back instinctively from the raw power radiating from him.
"And when I say a procedure will be done, it gets done. No questions. No delays. No moral fucking lectures."
Dr. Moretti cleared his throat nervously. "Don Marco, perhaps we should discuss this privately—"
"There's nothing to discuss," Marco cut him off with surgical precision. "The bastard in her belly dies today. That's final."
Two male orderlies appeared as if from nowhere, moving toward me with the practiced efficiency of men who'd handled unwilling patients before. Their faces were professionally blank, but I could see the discomfort in their eyes.
This is really happening. They're going to drag me to an operating room and murder my child.
Terror flooded my system as they reached for my arms. The maternal instinct to protect my unborn baby overrode everything else—logic, pride, self-preservation. My hands instinctively moved to cover my stomach, as if I could shield the life growing inside me.
"Please," I whispered, but Marco's expression remained carved from stone.
"Take her."
I had one card left to play. The truth I'd been too angry and proud to tell him. The words felt like admitting defeat, but my baby's life was worth more than my pride.
"Marco, wait!" I screamed, my voice echoing off the sterile walls. "Stop! Please!"
He held up a hand, and the orderlies froze mid-reach. His dark eyes fixed on me with dangerous intensity, like a predator evaluating wounded prey.
"The baby..." I forced the words through my constricted throat, each syllable feeling like swallowing glass. "The baby is yours."
Silence fell like a funeral shroud. Marco's expression shifted from rage to confusion to something that might have been hope—or might have been an even more dangerous kind of obsession.
"What did you say?"
"I said the baby is yours, Marco." The truth burned my tongue, bitter with the knowledge of what it meant. "From that night at Villa Salvatore. Before I tried to leave with Connor."
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You're lying. You're trying to save your Irish bastard's spawn."
"I'm not lying!" Desperation made my voice crack. "It was that night when you... when we..." I couldn't finish the sentence, letting him fill in the blanks with his own memories.
"Prove it."
The challenge hung in the air between us like a loaded gun. But this time, I wasn't afraid of the truth.
Dr. Moretti cleared his throat delicately. "Don Marco, if I may... we can verify paternity through blood work. The test would confirm the biological father, though it takes time for accurate results."
Marco's attention snapped to the doctor. "How long?"
"Five to seven business days for reliable results. We could rush it to four days, but—"
"Four days. I want certainty."
"Do it," Marco said immediately, his voice still carrying traces of suspicion. "Draw blood from both of us. Now."
He stepped closer, studying my face with the intensity of a man trying to read the smallest tell, the slightest crack in my composure.
"But understand this, Isabella—if that child isn't mine, it doesn't survive. And neither do you."
I forced myself to meet his gaze without flinching, even as terror clawed at my chest. "And if it is yours?"
Something flickered in his dark eyes—possession, triumph, something that looked almost like tenderness before the mask slammed back into place.
"Then everything changes."
"Take her to a private room," he ordered the medical staff, his voice returning to its usual controlled authority. "Under guard. No one goes in or out without my permission."
He turned back to Dr. Moretti, and I caught the dangerous glitter in his eyes.
"Do the test," Marco said, his voice carrying absolute finality. "If the child isn't mine, it doesn't get to be born."