“Why?” he rasped, his voice raw. “Seven years, Elena. I mourned my child while you… you hid him in the shadows?”
“I didn’t hide him to hurt you, Marello! I hid him to keep him breathing!” I snapped, the dam finally breaking. “Isabella told me the baby died. She showed me the fake medical reports, the funeral bills, the empty casket. But the night I was ‘recovering,’ I heard her talking to a doctor. She wanted the heir gone because she knew if you had a son, she would lose her grip on your soul. I ran because I knew if I stayed, she wouldn’t stop at the baby. She would have finished us both.”
Marello’s face turned an ashen, lethal shade of pale. His eyes, usually cold and unreadable, were now burning with a singular, terrifying purpose. He turned toward the door as my phone buzzed again. This time, I read the text aloud: ‘We know where the boy is. Don’t try to run, Marello. The wedding will happen, with or without your presence.’