Chapter 177 Brewing Storm

Chapter 177 Brewing Storm
Cherry POV

In the morning, Nicholas hovers near the bed, his presence a quiet storm of restraint and concern. His dark eyes, usually so unreadable, betray a flicker of worry as he adjusts the pillows behind me.

"Better?" His voice is low, a rough edge beneath the calm.

I nod, though the ache in my legs doesn't ease. The scent of his cologne, once a comfort, now turns my stomach. I wince, pressing a hand to my mouth, and he notices immediately, stepping back as if I've burned him.

"I'll get the window," he mutters, moving to let in fresh air. Even the smallest things—perfume, food, the grass outside—make me recoil. I haven't touched a strawberry cream puff in days, a betrayal of my own cravings.

Before I can dwell on it, the door creaks open, and Kyle steps in, his broad frame filling the space with tension. His face is grim, lips pressed thin. "Boss, the hit on Russell didn't stick," he says, voice clipped. "Could be Theodus's boys playing guard dog. I can take another shot if you greenlight it."

Nicholas straightens, turning from the window to face Kyle. "No. They're on high alert now. Russell and Theodus aren't fools. Another attempt would be like waving a red flag—straight to war. And with Cherry like this…" His gaze flicks to me, heavy with unspoken weight. "We can't afford that kind of mess right now."

I shift uncomfortably, the bed creaking under me, as Kyle nods, waiting for orders. "Hold off," Nicholas continues. "Dig into Russell's camp. See what they're whispering about."

Kyle hesitates, then drops the next bomb. "He's already moving, sir. Word is, this morning he pushed for an early family banquet—five-year business summit, to discuss the family's future. He sent it straight to the elders, bypassing you. Half of them already agreed."

A shadow crosses Nicholas's face. "He's done playing coy," he growls, voice dangerously soft. "Getting shot at must've rattled him into action. He wants a head-on fight now."

I clear my throat, the sound fragile against their intensity, but I push through the nausea clawing at me. "Let him have it," I say, surprising even myself with the steadiness in my tone. "Use the banquet as cover. Draw them out—Russell, the elders, and whoever's itching to betray us. Clean house in one go. Avoid a war."

Nicholas's eyes narrow, pinning me with a look that's half admiration, half resistance. "I'll go. You're staying here. Your condition—"

"I'm coming," I cut in, sharper than I mean to. "We don't show up together, they'll smell weakness. They'll suspect. We can't risk that."

He steps closer, looming over me, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Cherry, you're nine months in. I'm not gambling with you or Christina."

My hands tighten on the sheets, a stubborn fire flaring despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones. "If we're not a united front, Russell might not even show. We need this, Nicholas. Together."

A long silence stretches, his gaze boring into mine, searching for a crack to exploit. Finally, he exhales, a curt nod sealing the plan. "Fine. We do it your way. Surface talks, real business is purging traitors."

The days blur into preparation, each one heavier than the last. My ankles are balloons, my stomach a churning mess. The nausea is relentless, a constant companion as I pore over seating charts and security details. Nicholas brings in a nutritionist to craft bland, odorless meals I can stomach, but even that feels like a chore. The doctor's orders—bed rest—echo in my mind, but I shove them aside. I can't afford to be weak.

In the quiet of our room, Nicholas kneels before me, a sight so absurd I almost laugh despite myself. The feared Don of the Salvatore family, sliding custom velvet flats onto my swollen feet. He holds out a black maternity gown that flows like ink, elegant yet unassuming, and drapes the family's sapphire necklace around my throat, the cold stone a grounding weight.

I tilt my head, forcing a smirk through the discomfort. "The mighty Don, playing footman to a pregnant woman. What would your men say?"

His lips quirk. "Serving my queen is my honor."

The words land deeper than I expect, stirring a warmth I cling to as I struggle to my feet. I'm checking the banquet arrangements when a wave of dizziness hits, my vision swimming. Nicholas is at my side in an instant, his hand steadying my elbow. "Enough," he says, voice firm but laced with worry. "Back to bed."

I shake my head, ignoring the pallor I know he sees in my face. "If I don't show, Russell will notice. He'll back out. I'm fine. We're this far."

His brow furrows, but he doesn't argue further. Instead, he calls Sonya over, her sharp eyes scanning me as she takes her place as my shadow. "You're on her," Nicholas tells her, then turns to Kyle. "Lock down the estate. And if Cherry feels even a twinge, I'm the first to know."

The Salvatore estate's grand hall is a masterpiece of deception tonight, glittering chandeliers casting golden light over polished marble, a veneer of civility hiding the knives beneath. Business magnates mingle, their smiles as false as the pleasantries they trade. I stand beside Nicholas, the black gown masking my discomfort, my arm looped through his for support more than show.

Then Theodus Rossi arrives, late as if to make a point. He's here under the guise of a "potential family business partner," a title we both know is pure fiction. The Salvatore and Rossi families stand on opposing sides of a silent war, and this charade of alliance fools no one. "Nicholas, a fine evening for family business," he drawls, his eyes sliding to me with a glint I don't trust. "And Mrs. Salvatore, quite the dutiful wife. Tending to men's games while carrying a child—admirable strain. But shouldn't you be resting on your bed?"

My smile is tight, but my words carry a bite I can't suppress. "The family's future is my child's future. I'd hardly call that a game. I'm exactly where I need to be."

His smirk widens, a predator sizing up prey, and I feel the air between us crackle with unspoken threats. "Of course," he says, voice dripping with mock respect. As he turns to join the crowd, he leans closer, his whisper a cold blade against my ear. "Watch yourself tonight, Mrs. Salvatore. And your husband. Things have a way of slipping tonight."

The words linger, a puzzle I can't solve as he melts into the sea of guests. What does he know? Is Russell planning something here, now, against us? Or is Theodus just stirring the pot, waiting for us to flinch?