Page 45

My hands tremble as I grip the windowsill, staring at the blood-red roses in the garden. They mock me, blooming while I’munraveling. I’m Serafina Rossi, the woman who stands tall, who plays the game better than most in a male-dominated field. But this? This could break me, and it’s all because of him. Enzo.
His name burns in my chest, a mix of resentment and hunger. I miss him—his dark eyes, that jagged scar over his brow, the way his touch sets my skin ablaze even when I want to carve his heart out. Our texts are sparse, perfunctory. He asks about Father; I send curt replies. Pride keeps me silent, but God, I yearn for him. His hands, his mouth, the way he fucks me like he’s claiming my soul.
Why did he let Luis go?
Days ago, Papa had called me to his bedside, his voice weak but eyes sharp. We'd talked at length about the money laundering business that I handle with Aida. It surprised me. Before, I reported to him through written reports. As if that wasn't surprising enough, he apologized—fucking apologized—for marrying me off to Enzo without consulting me first.
“It was for peace, Fina,” he said, his hand gripping mine. “The Rossis, the Mancinis—we’d bleed each other dry. I had to do something to make the war cease. So you have to understand what I did. This marriage will work. It has to.”
I was reeling from his apology, his explanation, my mouth agape when he asked if Enzo and I were warming up to each other. Finding my voice, I nodded in the affirmative, lying. I said yes,but didn’t tell him how I surrender to Enzo’s touch, how it haunts me.
The world is going to shit. Papa is apologizing. My period is late, and I might be falling in love with Enzo fucking Mancini.
Father’s words replay in my head, unsettling me. “You’ll both work in the end,” he'd said, like he knows something I don’t.
I shake my head, trying to shove it away. My breasts ache. They've been doing that a lot. At first, I thought they ached for Enzo's touch. They're heavy, tender in a way that’s new. I know what this means… might mean, but I can’t face it. Not yet. Enzo and I, we’ve been reckless, fucking like we’re trying to destroy each other. Every time, I swear it’s just physical, a way to survive this lie of a marriage. But it’s more. I feel him in my bones, and I hate it.
I stop pacing, my fingers digging into the sill. The villa’s too quiet, the maids’ footsteps faint. Riccardo’s been skulking. His guilt over the ruthless words he'd said to me must be eating him alive from the inside out, but I don’t care. My mind’s on Enzo, on the fear pooling in my stomach.
I slip into Papa's room when he calls, my face a perfect mask of serenity, when my mind is anything but. He’s propped up and his gaze is sharp as he focuses on me. I take in his gray hair thinning. He's almost bald now. He used to have a full head of hair.
I sit on a chair by his bed. “You called for me, Papa.”
He's looking at me, his gaze sharp as if he's trying to dissect my insides. I fight the urge to look away. “You’re distracted, Fina,” he says finally. “What’s wrong?”
I force a smile, the kind he taught me to wear. “Just worried about you.” A half-truth. He grunts, but it's skeptical, as if he doesn't believe my words, but doesn’t push.
We talk about the accounts of his money laundering business. We move on to talk about what a rival is doing to get back at us, then on to his legacy. God forbid Domenico Rossi stops thinking about business even when he's bedridden. He speaks and I listen, but I’m barely there.
My mind’s on the pharmacy bag hidden in my room. In it is the test I’m too scared to touch. I'd bought it on a whim when I'd excused myself from the villa to see some sights. On my way back, I went to a pharmacy to get it. I'd been discreet, making sure Aida and the guard trailing me didn't get a whiff. If my suspicion is true, I want it confirmed and digested first before it airs.
Suddenly not able to delay the inevitable anymore, I excuse myself from Papa, my heart slamming, and head for my bedroom. I lock myself there. The silence is suffocating, the weight of what’s coming crushing me. The bag’s under my pillow, its contents a ticking bomb. I pull it out, hands shaking, and stare at the pregnancy test. A small white stick that could shatter everything.
Me, pregnant? With Enzo Mancini’s child? The thought is a like a huge fist to my chest, stealing my air. I’m not ready—not for a baby, not for him. But my body’s screaming truths I can’t ignore. I sit on the bed, the test in my lap, and try to breathe. Enzo’s face flashes—his self-assured smirk, his anger, the way he kisses me like he’s starving. I want to scream, to run. I think of him, of his cold texts, his pride as thick as mine.
Does he feel this pull? Or is he fucking that blonde whore I'd seen with him before the wedding—Alanna or Elena—laughing while I’m here breaking? White-hot anger sears my insides. I clutch the test tight, my knuckles white. I need to know. I can’t keep hiding. The bathroom’s cold tiles chill my feet as I head there, the test heavy in my hand. My reflection in the mirror is a stranger—green eyes wide, cheeks flushed with fear.
I pee on the stick, set it on the counter, and wait. The seconds crawl, each one a nail in my chest. I pace the small space, my bare feet slapping the floor. Enzo’s there in my mind—his low growl, his body pinning mine. I hate him. I need him. And now, maybe, I’m carrying his child. The thought is too much, too heavy. I stop, staring at the test, begging it to stay blank. But it doesn't.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Two lines stare up from the test, stark against the white plastic, and my world splits open. Positive. I’m pregnant with Enzo Mancini’s child.
The truth slams into me like a vicious blade, relentless, cutting through every wall I’ve built. I sink to the bathroom floor, the tiles biting my skin, my breath jagged. This can’t be happening. I’m Serafina Rossi, the woman who moves money in shadows, who outsmarts men like my father. Not a mother, not a wife in any real way. But my body doesn’t give a fuck about my plans. It’s chosen, and I’m terrified, my heart pounding like a war drum.
I clutch the test, its edges digging into my palm. Enzo can't know. How can he? I can barely face it myself. Our marriage was a deal, a cold strategy to stop a war. But every time we fucked, it was more—raw, desperate, like we were tearing into each other’s souls. Now this. A baby. His baby. The thought of him, all dark charm and lethal smile, as a father makes my stomach lurch.
Will he want this? Or will he see it as a chain, a weakness?
Perhaps, he'll think this is a ploy I've cooked up to chain him down in this marriage. To make it more real. The thought of him thinking that is like a cold slap to my face.
I stand on unsteady legs, and splash water on my face. The mirror shows a woman I don’t know—cheeks flushed, eyes wild with panic. I want to call Enzo, scream at him, make him feel this chaos. But my pride’s a fortress, and his is worse. Besides, if I call him, what will I say? ‘I’m pregnant with your child’ or maybe something less direct like ‘can we talk’? Either way I look at it, this is one fucking huge mess.
It's laughable. I'm laughable. Holding up my head in pride but letting him fuck me senseless. Rage at my recklessness spikes through me. Even now, I can envision Enzo with that blonde bitch. Is he bending her over backwards and doing the same thing he does with me? Dammit! I shove the test into my purse, hiding it like a shameful secret.
Papa's voice rings in my head—legacy, peace. He’d see this child as a victory, a Rossi-Mancini heir to seal the alliance. But I’m not his pawn, not anymore. This baby changes everything, and I’m not ready to be a mother, to let Enzo in. I’ve guarded my heart for years, my strength, my armor. Now, it’s cracking, and I hate how exposed I feel. Days ago, Father’s apology rattled me, his belief that Enzo and I would “work.” What did he mean? Does he see something in us I can’t?
The villa’s silence presses in, heavy as the test in my purse. I need to tell Enzo, but how? He’s all strategy, all control, his heart buried under layers of ice. Will he see this as a complication, or will that primal side—the one that fucked me like he’d die without it—take over?