My Failure

My Failure
Giovanni’s POV

I stared at the door she’d slammed behind her. The sound echoed in my skull like a gunshot, sharp and final. Her footsteps faded down the hall—running, always running from me now. From the monster I’d become in her eyes.

Should I follow?

The question burned in my chest, hot and insistent. What would I say if I did? Half-truths? Lies wrapped in silk to soften the blow? “Isabella, wait—it’s not what you think.” But it was. Every word I’d thrown at her like a dagger: arranged bride, know your place. I’d meant to push her away, to build the wall higher before she saw the rot beneath.

But reveal everything? No. God, no.

I sank back into my chair, the leather creaking under me like an accusation. The whiskey glass trembled in my hand. I set it down hard, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. My fingers itched to chase her—to grab her, pull her close, bury my face in her hair and beg forgiveness I didn’t deserve.

But what then? Spill the secrets I’d guarded like a grave? Tell her about Monalisa—the ghost who haunted my dreams, the woman who’d died because of me, because I couldn’t protect her from this life? Or worse—the real failure. The one that made me less than a man in my father’s eyes.

The envelope sat on my desk. White. Innocent. Sealed like a coffin.

I’d run another test at the hospital before we left. Just to be sure. After the transfusion, while Isabella sat vigil by the boy’s bed, I’d slipped away to the lab. Demanded privacy. Rizz—my discreet contact there—had brought the results this morning, slipping it into my hand like contraband.

“Confirmed,” he’d muttered. “Same as before.”

I hadn’t opened it then. Didn’t need to. But now, alone in the dim light of the study, I tore the seal with shaking fingers.

The paper unfolded like a judgment.

Infertile.

The word leaped out, black ink on sterile white. Numbers blurred—sperm count negligible, motility zero. Irreversible.

Proof of my failure.

I crumpled it in my fist, knuckles white. A low groan escaped me—raw, animal. How had it come to this? Me, Giovanni Donatelli, heir to the empire, reduced to this. A hollow shell. A man who couldn’t even sire a child.

Oh God, Father, what have I done?

The familia would crumble without an heir. Vincenzo’s voice echoed in my head—harsh, unrelenting. “You are the bloodline, boy. Without you, we are dust.” Years of training, of blood on my hands, of building this throne from bones. All for nothing.

I failed where it mattered most. In the one duty that defined me. Not the kills. Not the deals. The legacy. The child to carry the name.

Tears burned my eyes—hot, traitorous. I hadn’t cried since Monalisa. Since her body went cold in my arms, bullet-riddled because I’d loved her too openly. Too foolishly.

And now Isabella.

The greatest sin. The unforgivable betrayal.

I’d dragged her here against her will. Sold like chattel to pay her family’s debts. Forced into my bed, my life, all for an heir that would never come. She’d given me her body, her trust, her fragile heart. And I’d given her nothing but pain.

How could I tell her?

“Isabella,” I whispered to the empty room, voice breaking. “How do I say it? That I’m broken. Useless. That every night I’ve held you, every touch, was built on a lie.”

I stood, pacing the room like a caged beast. Shadows danced on the walls from the single lamp, mocking me. My reflection in the window—tall, strong, a lie. What was I without this? A king without a crown. A husband without purpose.

Father would disown me. Andriano—my scheming stepbrother—would pounce, claws out, ready to steal the throne. The familia would fracture. Rivals like Lorenzo would feast on the ruins.

Lorenzo.

His smirk flashed in my mind. His claim on her past. The boy—Ricardo—with eyes that haunted me. Dark curls. Sharp jaw. Rh-negative blood, like mine. Like his.

No.

I shoved the thought away. Coincidence. Fate’s cruel joke.

But the envelope laughed at me from the desk.

Infertile.

How, then? If not mine… whose?

I slammed my fist into the wall. Pain exploded up my arm, knuckles splitting. Blood trickled warm. Good. Feel something real.

“Isabella,” I groaned again, sliding down to the floor. Back against the wood. Head in hands. “You deserve better. A man who can give you everything. Children. Love without shadows.”

But I couldn’t let her go. The thought tore me—visceral, agonizing. She was mine. Etched into my soul. Her laughter in the quiet moments. Her strength when the world burned. Her body under mine, soft and yielding.

Yet I’d shattered her. With words I couldn’t take back.

Arranged bride. Know your place.

Cruel. Cowardly.

To protect her from this truth? Or myself from her pity?

The clock ticked on—merciless. Hours blurred. Whiskey burned my throat, but numbness wouldn’t come.

Reveal everything? No. She’d leave. Run to Lorenzo. Or worse—stay out of pity.

I couldn’t bear it.

Better she hate me. Better the lie stand.

But God, the pain. It clawed at my chest, exaggerated, overwhelming. A storm I couldn’t outrun.

Father, forgive me.

Isabella, forgive me.

I am nothing.