Chapter 6
776words
I clutch my lower abdomen as waves of cramping pain radiate outward. Something's felt wrong since leaving the hospital, and now the pain is intensifying—like something's trying to tear itself free from inside me.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" The bodyguard in the front seat turns, his face etched with concern.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. Speaking might shatter what little composure I have left.
Suddenly, tires screech ahead of us.
"Look out!" the driver shouts.
A black SUV barrels out from a side street, slamming into our vehicle. The impact throws me against the door, my head cracking against the window.
Immediately, gunfire erupts from all directions.
"Torelli Family!" The bodyguard draws his weapon. "Ma'am, get down!"
I try to duck down, but the searing pain in my abdomen makes movement nearly impossible. Through the window, I count at least six armed men closing in.
"Go, go, go!" The driver floors the accelerator, and the sedan lurches forward through the hail of bullets.
But there's no avoiding the roadblock ahead.
A deafening crash, and the airbags explode outward, slamming against my abdomen. In that moment, I feel warm liquid trickling down my thighs.
No. God, please no.
"Ma'am! Ma'am!" The bodyguard kicks out the window and drags me from the crumpled vehicle.
I look down at myself—a horrifying crimson stain spreading across my white dress. Blood, bright red blood, flowing steadily from between my legs.
"My baby," I whisper, trembling as I touch my stomach. "My baby—"
"Ma'am, we need to move now!" The bodyguard hoists me onto his back and sprints toward the backup car, bullets whizzing past us.
The moment I'm inside the car, I pull out my phone and dial Alessandro with shaking fingers.
He'll come save me. He must. No matter where he is or what he's doing, when he learns his child and wife are in danger, he'll surely—
The phone connects.
But instead of Alessandro's urgent voice, I hear waves crashing on a beach and Jessica's silvery laughter.
"Alex, didn't you promise today was just for me? Why is someone calling?"
I hear Alessandro's irritated voice: "Who is it?"
"Irina," someone nearby says.
"Probably just harassment from a rival family," Alessandro sounds completely relaxed, even cheerful. "We've been getting these calls lately. Hang up—don't let this trash ruin our getaway."
"Wait, Alessandro, it's me—" I scream desperately.
But the line goes dead.
I stare at my phone screen as tears stream down my face. Outside, gunfire continues and the bodyguards frantically coordinate with Ethan, but I can't hear anything through the roaring in my ears.
A tearing pain radiates from my abdomen as more blood gushes out. I know I'm losing this child. And its father is on some sun-drenched beach, embracing another woman, dismissing my desperate call as a prank.
Twenty minutes later, I'm rushed into a hidden underground clinic.
On a makeshift operating table, a white-haired doctor removes his gloves and shakes his head.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Moretti," his voice is gentle. "We couldn't save the baby."
I close my eyes, my tears long dried. Strangely, I feel a calm that borders on relief. Perhaps this is better. At least my child won't grow up in this world of lies and betrayal.
"Irina," Ethan approaches the bedside. "What now?"
"According to the original plan," my voice is surprisingly steady. "Take me to Paris. Anna's waiting."
"But your condition—"
"I'm fine," I push myself upright. "Never been better."
Three hours later, I sit in Ethan's car with a laptop. My fingers fly across the keyboard, composing an encrypted email.
The email contains all my pregnancy records, the miscarriage certificate, and a photo of Alessandro and Jessica kissing on the beach—Ethan's people work fast.
"Schedule it to send," I tell Ethan, "on his birthday."
"Irina, are you sure about this?"
I don't answer. Instead, I walk to the fireplace. Into the flames go the blue diamond ring, our marriage certificate, and everything bearing the Moretti family crest.
Then I write on a piece of paper: The daughter of Petrova shall have no further connection with the Moretti Family.
At five in the morning, I board a flight to Paris. Through the cabin window, I take one last look at Chicago. Down there lies my youth, my dreams, and my dead child.
"Goodbye, Alessandro," I whisper. "Enjoy your fucking vacation."
As the plane climbs into the dawn sky, I close my eyes, finally surrendering to the darkness.
