Chapter 25 #2
Her gaze flicked toward me, pointed.
I swallowed hard, forcing a steady nod. “Then I’ll rest,” I said softly. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
For the first time, Giovanni’s expression softened. “Good,” he said quietly. “Then maybe all this wasn’t for nothing.”
But as I looked at the black-and-white image on the screen—the small, fluttering heartbeat that shouldn’t have survived—I couldn’t help but wonder if this miracle would only paint a bigger target on my back.
Hope floods me so fast my chest hurts. “What about the risks?” I ask. “They told me I could die carrying this.”
Dr. Irina’s tone is matter-of-fact, not cruel. “The subchorionic hematoma and your severe asthma make this high-risk. But with aggressive, targeted management, the fetus can survive. You’ll need strict monitoring and medication.”
Dr. Mikhail taps the tablet. “We’ll give one in-office injection now to bolster the lining and reduce clot expansion.
You’ll leave with a regimen: daily vaginal progesterone to support the pregnancy, a bronchodilator inhaler and spacer for asthma control, and a short course of anti-inflammatories to stabilize the hematoma. Follow every instruction exactly.”
I stare at the tiny list like it’s a map out of a burning house.
Giovanni stepped closer, his voice low but razor-sharp. “This injection... the medications you plan for her afterward—these are experimental, correct? They haven’t been approved by the World Health Organization?”
“Correct. They aren’t on the WHO list.” Dr. Irina meets him without blinking. “But our protocol shows an eighty to ninety percent success rate in similar cases. We only proceed if the potential benefit outweighs the risk.”
They produce the vial.
As Mikhail draws the syringe, Giovanni lunges. His hand clamps over Irina’s wrist with the raw, animal force of a man who has seen too much and now refuses to lose someone else.
“No,” he says hoarsely, eyes wild. “Penelope... we’re leaving. Now. I won’t let you take these untested drugs—I won’t let you risk yourself like this!”
I feel the old fury snap awake — the part of me that will not be made small again. I yank my voice into a blade. “Giovanni. Step back.”
The order leaves my throat easier than I expect.
Giovanni’s grip tightens for a heartbeat then loosens. He glances at Irina, then at me, torn open between guilt and terror.
Irina’s voice is the steady keel that keeps the room from tipping.
“Mr. Giovanni, I understand your concern, but we’ve had success with women facing similar complications.
Simply resting, avoiding stress, isn’t always enough for her to carry this pregnancy to term.
She needs these—what you call ‘untested’—medications.
Everything is being monitored carefully. Nothing should go wrong, Mr. Giovanni.”
Giovanni’s jaw works.
His hands tremble, not entirely with anger now. “If anything goes wrong,” he mutters, low enough that only I hear the menace, “I’ll find you both and I will not forgive you.”
“Giovanni!” I snapped.
The older doctor’s expression never changes; he’s done this dance with frightened men before. “We can begin now,” Mikhail says. “It’s better not to delay.”
I press my hand flat to the warm skin of my belly, feeling the impossible smallness of the life there and the full weight of what I’m about to risk. “Do it,” I say, and the word is steadier than I feel. “If this fails, at least I’ll fail for something real.”
Irina swabs my arm with antiseptic; the liquid is cold and bracing.
The needle slips in — a dull pressure, the squeeze of a hand on the other end.
Giovanni watches as the solution vanishes into my vein, rage and fear warbling across his face.
When it’s done, Dr. Mikhail prints a list — progesterone dosing, inhaler schedule, emergency signs to watch for — and hands it to me with clinical kindness. “No heavy lifting. No travel until we’ve done a follow-up ultrasound in five days. If bleeding increases, contact us immediately.”
She handed me a small packet of pills, her tone brisk and professional. “One progesterone tablet each morning. Bronchodilator as needed for asthma. Anti-inflammatory, twice daily. We’ll monitor you remotely.”
Irina gives me one last professional smile. “We’ll arrange a follow-up. Rest, and do not stress.”
I nodded, clutching the packet as if it were salvation and curse all at once. My heart thrummed with something fragile—hope wrapped in fear.
This child—Dmitri’s child—was all I had left of the life I’d built and the man who had destroyed it.
Giovanni led me out, neither of us speaking.
In the car, silence swallowed us whole. Lake Como shimmered behind us, its beauty fading into mist as the road curved toward the airport. I watched it vanish through the glass, one chapter dissolving into another.
I wasn’t escaping as a broken prisoner anymore. I was walking away as a woman who had chosen her own survival—her child’s future—over his empire, his betrayal, his cage.
Whatever Dmitri planned—Seraphina, divorce, the ruin of my name—it didn’t matter. He’d taken my freedom once. He wouldn’t take my will again.