The Unborn Child.

The Unborn Child.
The marble floors still gleamed like glass. They always did. No matter how many years passed, it was all exactly the same. Cold, perfect and unforgiving, that's what it felt like here. My father stood in the grand entryway, framed by light spilling through the high windows. His suit was fresh, his tie knotted so precisely it might as well have been painted on. His greying hair was slicked back and the faint scent of his cologne was already making my stomach tighten. I don't think Bean likes him.
“Alina.” His tone was as sharp as his eyes swept over me, cataloguing everything on me, the jeans, the loose hair, the faint bruise on my jaw from Isla’s punch that I hadn’t bothered to cover.
I gave him a thin smile. “Hi, Dad.”
Then his gaze flicked to the woman beside me. He blinked once, slowly calculating. “And you would be…?”
Isla stepped forward before I could open my mouth, extending her hand with that confident, slightly dangerous glint in her eyes. “I’m Luciano Donatello’s daughter. Isla.”
My father’s posture straightened just slightly. There was that subtle shift of a man suddenly aware of the company he was in. He clasped her hand, his polite mask slipping into place. “Ah. A privilege. I didn’t realise my daughter was acquainted with the Donatello family on a personal level.”
Isla smirked, glancing at me. “We’re getting there. Working on it.”
I bit back a grin. She was already throwing him off his rhythm, and honestly, I was living for it.

“Please,” my father said, gesturing toward the formal sitting room. “Come in, ladies. We have tea and refreshments prepared.”
Isla’s tone was perfectly casual when she replied, “No, thank you. We just had breakfast.”
There was the faintest flicker of irritation behind his smile. “Right. Well… come in and sit down anyway. There’s much to discuss, Alina.”
The way he said my name again — clipped and impatient — made something old and bitter twist inside me. Isla caught my eye, gave me a little nod, and together we followed him down the hall lined with portraits of people who never smiled unless it was for power.
The sitting room was as sterile as I remembered. He gestured for us to sit, taking his place across from me like a judge about to begin sentencing.
“So.” His voice was calm, measured. “I received word you were fired from the shipping yard.”
Straight to business. No 'how have you been', no 'I missed you.' Just straight to what embarrassed him.
“Yeah,” I said simply. “I was.”
His jaw flexed once. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Of course it matters,” he said sharply. “That was a good contract for this family to maintain. Connections like that with the Donatellos—”
“—were my connections,” I cut in. “I was the one doing the work. I was the one getting paid.”
He gave a low, humourless chuckle. “Yes, I’m aware. But it never hurts to keep the right alliances strong. The Donatellos are powerful. Having them close is beneficial to all of us.”
There it was again, the reminder that in his eyes, that everything I did existed to serve his empire. Every choice I made was an extension of his legacy.
I leaned back, crossing my arms. “You mean beneficial to you.”
His gaze snapped to mine, sharp and cold. “Watch your tone, Alina.”
I met his stare evenly. “I’m not a child anymore.”
“No,” he said softly, his lips curling just slightly. “You’re not. But I did raise you better than to throw away opportunity because of some… emotional impulse.”

I felt Isla shift beside me, silent, but watching the scene unfold. My hands clenched into fists at my sides before I even realised it.
“It wasn’t an emotional impulse,” I bit out, heat crawling up my throat.
My father tilted his head, his tone patronizingly calm. “Oh? Then what was it, Alina? Please enlighten me. What did you do this time?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said, the words sharp and defensive. “Not really.”
He scoffed, waving a hand. “You always do something. You can’t help yourself. You can’t control yourself—”
“If you must know,” I snapped, cutting him off, “I got fired from the shipping dock because I’m pregnant.”
The room went dead silent. He didn’t even move. He stared at me like the words hadn’t registered. Then, suddenly, he was on his feet, his chair scraping hard against the marble floor as his hands shot into the air.
“You’re what?” His voice boomed, echoing off the high ceilings. “You’re pregnant? How could you be so reckless?”
I flinched, but only slightly. Isla’s head whipped toward me, her eyes wide, but she said nothing.
“I had plans for you!” my father continued, pacing now, his voice rising with every word. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? I was arranging a marriage, a union with a respectable family! A Don! Someone worthy of you, someone who could strengthen our name. And now—” He gestured wildly at me, his face red with fury. “Now you’ve gone and thrown it all away because you couldn’t control yourself!”
“Control myself?” I laughed, low and bitter. “You think this is about control? You think everything in life is about your damn chessboard?”
He slammed his palm against the table, hard enough to rattle the teacups. “Of course it is! Everything is about control. You were raised better than this—raised to be better than this!”
“Raised to be what?” I shot back, standing now, my chair toppling behind me. “Your puppet? Your weapon? Your perfect, quiet daughter who smiles on cue while you parade her around like she’s another one of your trophies?”
“You’ve embarrassed this family!” he barked.
“I’ve freed myself from it!”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of his heavy breathing, the faint ticking of the clock in the hall. His eyes burned into mine, full of disappointment so sharp it almost cut through my soul. And then, quietly, almost like an afterthought, he said, “Of course you did. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Just like your mother.”
That one hit harder than I wanted it to. My throat tightened, but before I could say anything, before I could even move, Isla stood up. Her chair barely made a sound.
“I would watch how you’re talking to my sister-in-law,” she said, her voice calm but laced with danger. “If I were you.”
My father turned to her, startled.
“Excuse me?” he said.
"Oh, you heard me, Mr Orlov. The unborn child belongs to my brothers. You know them, right?"