Chapter 42
Isabella's POV
Two days since Dr. Moretti drew our blood for the paternity test. The results would take four days total, and the waiting was driving me insane.
The guilt about Connor sat on my chest like a stone. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his blue eyes full of love. "I'll protect you and the baby, Isabella." But he couldn't protect us from Marco's reach.
I couldn't take another minute staring at these white walls. The crutches Dr. Moretti had provided leaned against the wall. My ribs protested as I stood, positioning them under my arms.
I made it three steps toward the door before it opened.
Marco stepped inside wearing a midnight blue Brioni suit. Even after everything, he looked immaculate.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Out. I need fresh air."
"You're not strong enough to walk alone yet."
"I'm fine."
"You have three broken ribs and a fractured leg." He moved closer. "You're not fine."
"Since when do you care?"
Marco's jaw tightened. "I'll come with you."
Before I could protest, he disappeared into the hallway. When he returned, he was pushing a wheelchair.
"I don't need—"
"Yes, you do." Marco positioned the chair beside my bed. "Don't be stubborn, Isabella."
When he held out his hand to help me into the wheelchair, I found myself taking it. His fingers were warm, surprisingly gentle.
"Better?"
I didn't answer, but Marco seemed to take my silence as consent.
The hospital's garden was tucked between concrete and steel. Italian cypress trees created walls around a courtyard filled with herbs. The afternoon sun warmed the stone pathways.
Marco pushed the wheelchair along a winding path in comfortable silence. We reached a small fountain where the sound of trickling water filled the air.
That's when I heard children laughing.
A little girl, maybe five years old, came running down the path with a stuffed rabbit. Her dark hair bounced in pigtails.
She stopped when she saw us. "Hello. Are you sick?"
"Just healing," I replied, smiling despite everything.
"That's good. My mama says healing takes time." She looked between Marco and me with serious consideration. "Are you married?"
The innocent question hit like a physical blow. I felt Marco stiffen behind me.
"No," I said quickly. "We're just—"
"You look like you should be married," the little girl continued. "You match. Like my mama and papa."
"Sofia!" A woman's voice called from across the garden. "Don't bother the nice people!"
The little girl grinned at us and skipped away.
The silence that followed felt heavier. Marco began pushing the wheelchair again, slower now.
"She's not wrong," he said finally. "We do match, don't we, principessa?"
"Do you know what I was thinking about when I saw you with that child?" His voice carried that dangerous softness. "I was thinking about our own children. About the little girl who might have your eyes and my stubbornness."
"Marco—"
"If the tests confirm what I already know—that the child you're carrying is mine—then everything changes, Isabella." His voice dropped to that whisper that could cut through steel. "You'll become my donna. My wife. The mother of the next Salvatore heir."
The future he painted felt like a death sentence. "I don't want that life."
"What you want stopped mattering the moment you let me touch you again." His hand settled on my shoulder. "Our child will inherit an empire, Isabella. Power, wealth, respect—everything I can give them."
"What about love? What about choice? What about freedom?"
"Love is a luxury. Choice is an illusion. And freedom..." Marco's laugh was bitter. "Freedom is what people tell themselves they have when they don't understand the chains that bind them."
I looked up at the sky, where clouds drifted across blue infinity. "I just want to be away from you, to be with Connor... but now even that wish can't come true."
Marco's hands on the wheelchair handles tightened slightly. "Connor is dead, principessa," he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that seemed to crush the air between us. "There's only us now. Us and our child. You'd better get used to that reality."
The words hit me like a physical blow—not because they were cruel, but because of the raw desperation underneath them. This wasn't just a threat. This was Marco trying to convince himself as much as me that this was how things were meant to be.
"He belonged to me! I chose him! I loved him!"
The wheelchair stopped moving entirely. Marco's grip on the handles became white-knuckled.
"You loved him?"
"Yes," I said, letting him hear the defiance in my voice. "I loved Connor O'Brien. He was kind and gentle and good—everything you'll never be."
"He was a dead man the moment he touched you." Marco's voice dropped to that deadly whisper. "And now he's exactly where he belongs—in the ground."
The cruelty of it broke something inside me. "You're a monster."
"I'm a man protecting what's mine." He leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. "And you, principessa, are mine. Completely and absolutely. The sooner you accept that reality, the easier this will be for both of us."
A gentle breeze stirred the garden. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear Sofia's laughter.
"When the test results come back," Marco continued, straightening, "when they confirm that you're carrying my heir, we'll be married within the month."
"What if I refuse?"
"You won't." His confidence was absolute. "Because you're smart enough to know what happens to people who refuse Marco Salvatore."
"Besides," Marco added, "you'll want to protect our child, won't you? Make sure they grow up with every advantage, every protection I can provide?"
"I just want to be free," I whispered.
"Freedom is overrated." Marco positioned himself in front of the wheelchair so I had to look at him. "What I'm offering you is security. Purpose. A place in something greater than yourself."
His dark eyes held mine. "You tried freedom once. How did that work out for you?"
The reminder of Connor's death hit like a physical blow. Marco watched the pain flicker across my face.
"Face reality, Isabella. There is no life for you without me. No future that doesn't include the Salvatore name." His voice carried absolute certainty. "You can accept your destiny and let me take care of you."
"And if the child isn't yours?"
Marco's expression went perfectly still.
"Then neither of you survives the next twenty-four hours."
The matter-of-fact way he said it made my blood freeze.
"You really would kill your own child?"
"I would protect my family from bastards and lies." His voice carried the weight of generations of Salvatore ruthlessness. "But that won't be necessary, will it? Because the child is mine."
The wheelchair began moving again, carrying me back toward the hospital's entrance.
"Two more days," Marco said as we reached the automatic doors. "Then we'll know for certain. Then we can begin our real life together."
As Marco pushed me back toward my room, I realized the garden's peace had been nothing but an illusion. Just like every promise of freedom I'd ever been given.