Chapter 28 #3
Monitors beeped steadily.
Violet’s eyes found mine the moment I stepped in.
Relief flooded her face.
“Vincenzo...” she whispered, her voice fragile. “I’ve been waiting for you...”
Her grip on the sheets tightened as a wave of pain hit her—her body tensing, breath hitching.
“Please—stay with me,” she gasped. “I’m about to deliver...”
One of the nurses stepped forward immediately, her posture straight, voice calm in that practiced, clinical way that came from years of seeing chaos and knowing how to survive it.
“Mr. Orsini,” she began carefully, “she’s been in active labor for over an hour. She’s progressing well.”
Her eyes flicked—briefly—to Violet, then back to me.
“The presence of the partner often accelerates dilation and reduces perceived pain. Studies show laboring mothers with emotional support progress up to thirty percent faster in the second stage.”
A pause.
“You being here could make all the difference.”
Violet reached out toward me, her hand trembling.
“Vincenzo...” Her voice broke. “Please...”
Something inside me tightened.
My chest. My throat. My pulse.
Images of Elena, frozen and still in that cold room, slammed into me—and the tiny body cradled against my chest, so small, so lifeless, so fragile that even now, thinking about it made my grip instinctively tighten.
My mind wasn’t in this room.
It was back there. In that frozen hell.
With her. With the baby.
With the consequences of what I’d done.
I turned on my heel and walked out.
No explanation. No hesitation.
Just—
Gone.
Behind me, I heard Violet’s voice falter.
“Vincenzo—!”
But I didn’t stop.
In the corridor, I moved fast.
My shoulder clipped someone as I turned a corner—hard enough that both of us staggered.
A doctor in green scrubs.
“Watch—!” he started.
I didn’t let him finish.
I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the wall.
Hard.
The impact echoed.
His head hit once.
His breath left him in a sharp, choked sound.
“Where the fuck is my wife?” I snarled, dragging him closer. “Elena Orsini.”
The doctor’s eyes went wide with fear.
“I—Boss—she was brought in minutes ago—VVIP Ward 1—across—”
That was all I needed.
I released him immediately.
Didn’t wait. Didn’t look back.
I crossed the hall in three strides and shoved the door open.
It slammed against the wall.
Empty.
The bed was made.
Sheets pristine.
No monitors. No staff.
No Elena.
For a heartbeat, nothing registered. Just emptiness. Then—rage exploded.
My vision tunneled as I stared at the empty bed like it had personally betrayed me.
“Where is she—?” I breathed.
No answer.
My chest tightened.
My pulse surged.
I spun back into the corridor just as Ciro and Renzo approached from the far end, their steps quick but controlled.
“What ward is she in?” I barked, voice echoing down the hall. “Thirty seconds—and I’ll burn this hospital down if she’s not in my sight!”
Ciro stopped a few feet away.
His face—carefully blank.
“Boss...” he said, and something in his tone made my stomach drop. “She was taken again.”
Silence.
The words didn’t process at first.
“She was what?”
Ciro didn’t look away.
“Taken,” he repeated. “By the Spanish.”
For a moment—
The world went still.
Then it shattered.
My knees buckled slightly.
I caught myself against the wall before I could go down.
“No,” I said, the word torn straight from my chest. “No.”
My head shook once.
Violent. Denial. Refusal.
“I chased those ambulances myself,” I snapped. “I watched them leave. How—how the fuck did the Spanish get her out of here?”
My voice rose.
“This place is locked down tighter than a vault.”
I stepped forward, aggressive and deliberate.
“Since when do the Spanish have access to a hospital we control?”
Ciro met my gaze without flinching.
“The only explanation I can see is that one of the soldiers here is secretly working with them and helped take Elena.”
The words hit like a bullet.
I froze.
Renzo, silent and blank, stood slightly behind him.
“We’re already sweeping CCTV and pulling access logs. We’ll trace exactly how they got in,” Ciro chirped, calm but precise.
I dragged a hand over my face, breathing hard.
Thinking.
Too fast.
Too many things colliding at once.
“Is the baby alive?” I demanded suddenly, my voice tight. “The baby—was the baby taken too?”
Ciro answered without hesitation.
“No.”
A pause.
“The baby’s in the ICU.”
Another pause.
“Stable. But critical.”
Relief and grief crashed into me simultaneously, so violently that I staggered.
For a second—I thought I might be sick.
My hand pressed to the wall again.
Steadying myself.
Only one man would dare touch Elena again: Matteo.
Months ago, I’d taken both his legs after he kidnapped her.
I could have ended him then, but spared him for Violet.
Now, there would be no mercy.
I exhaled sharply and pulled out my phone, already dialing as I jerked my chin toward Ciro.
“Take me to the ICU. Now.”
Ciro turned without argument, leading the way.
Renzo followed behind us, silent.
The phone rang.
Once. Twice.
Then—
“Orsini.”
Matteo’s voice came through on the third ring.
Calm. Measuring. Wary.
“You are really bold—and damn near stupid—to come for my wife again,” I snarled, not bothering with pleasantries.
“At a time when she should have been under hospital care, you kidnapped her!”
“What?” Matteo’s voice came through the phone, sharp with genuine confusion.
“I didn’t kidnap anyone. I wouldn’t dare.”
A pause—measuring, careful.
“You spared my life last time,” he added. “I’m not stupid enough to throw that away.”
My grip tightened around the phone until the edges creaked under my fingers.
“I swear on everything I am,” I growled, every word threaded with lethal intent, “if you’re lying—”
“I’m not,” he cut in immediately. “And while we’re on the subject—listen carefully.”
Silence.
“I never touched Elena—let alone violated her,” Matteo continued. “Not during the kidnapping. Not ever.”
My jaw flexed.
“Vincenzo,” he said, quieter now, “she was kept in a locked room the entire time. She used her father as leverage—kept him alive so we couldn’t hurt her without losing our bargaining chip.”
A beat.
“If she’s pregnant, it’s not ours. Not mine. Not any of my men’s.”
The words landed like stones thrown into still water.
Heavy.
Disruptive.
Unavoidable.
And somewhere in the back of my mind—
A memory surfaced.
Elena.
Standing in front of me.
Saying the same thing.
Over.
And over.
“I was never violated.”
“I’ve only ever had sex with one person—and that person is you.”
“Vincenzo, listen to me, please... I’m not lying.”
And I had looked at her—
And called her a liar.
I exhaled sharply, my thoughts colliding.
But Elena had done twenty-one DNA tests, and they all came back negative—yet Matteo’s words didn’t feel like a lie.
The Spanish rarely lie; they tend to take responsibility.
I ended the call without another word.
My hand dropped to my side as we reached the ICU doors.
Double glass panels.
Frosted for privacy.
Inside—
Low lighting.
Soft beeping.
The quiet, mechanical rhythm of machines keeping something alive.
I stepped closer.
And froze.
In the center of the room stood a single incubator.
Glowing.
Surrounded by wires and tubes.
Inside—
My son.
So small.
So fragile it made my chest tighten just looking at him.
His skin was still faintly blue under the warming lights, but there was color now.
Not much. Just enough to suggest that something had shifted.
A knit cap covered his head.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven movements.
Mechanical.
Supported.
Not yet his own.
A CPAP mask rested over his tiny face, soft plastic and tubing helping him breathe when his body couldn’t do it alone.
An IV line ran into his arm—so small, so delicate it looked like it shouldn’t even exist.
But it did.
And it mattered.
It meant he was alive.
A nurse stepped out just as we reached the glass doors, holding a chart.
I moved before she could pass.
Blocked her path.
“Tell me the baby will live.” I said, my voice lower now—strained in a way that felt unfamiliar
She stopped immediately.
Met my eyes.
Calm. Steady.
“He’s stable,” she said. “Premature, but strong.”
My breath hitched slightly.
“We’ll keep him here a few more days—monitor his lungs, regulate his temperature, feed him through the tube until he’s ready.”
A pause.
“But yes,” she added, softer now, “he’ll be healthy.”
Something in my chest loosened.
Just a fraction.
But enough.
Enough to let me breathe.
She started to move past.
Renzo stepped forward, touching my arm lightly—just enough to ground me.
“Excuse me, boss.”
I didn’t look at him.
But I didn’t stop him either.
He stepped aside and spoke quietly to the nurse, their voices low—too low for me to hear.
I caught only fragments, nothing clear.
Then he returned.
Ciro stood nearby, watching me closely now.
“It’s not Matteo who has Elena,” I said to Ciro, my eyes studying him with the suspicion that had been building based on his actions all this time.
“And Ciro...” I added, narrowing my eyes, “how did you know she was taken by the Spanish?”
Ciro didn’t respond immediately, and that alone made my pulse spike.
Ciro opened his mouth—
Paused.
Then closed it again.
“I just...” he said slowly, choosing each word with care, “suspected.”
Renzo let out a quiet, humorless breath from beside me.
“‘Suspected’?” he echoed, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
“You sounded awfully sure for something you call a suspicion.”
The tension tightened instantly.
I shifted my gaze to Renzo.
He stood a step apart from us, posture rigid but controlled.
His face was hard, carved from something deeper than anger—something heavier.
His eyes, shadowed and tired, held a quiet storm I hadn’t seen before.
He hadn’t forgiven me.
For the execution order.
For sending him toward death.
I couldn’t blame him.
“Renzo,” Ciro snapped, stepping forward, “What are you implying? And for the record, the boss wasn’t asking you.”
I raised a hand.
“Enough.”
My voice cut through both of them like a command and a warning.
They both stilled.
I looked between them—two men who had stood beside me for years.
Blood brothers in everything but name.
Men I trusted with my life.
Or thought I did.
“Can I still trust either of you?” I asked quietly.
The question landed like a weight between us.
Ciro reacted first.
His expression softened instantly—almost too quickly.
The perfect image of loyalty.
Wounded.
Devoted.
“Boss,” he said, voice low, almost pleading, “you know my loyalty has never wavered.”
A pause.
“I can’t speak for Renzo, though I think it’s clear where he stands.”
“He stole what matters to you most—your heirloom ring—and handed it to Elena so she could sell it to the Spanish for whatever they’re offering,” he added carefully.
“I have pictures of Renzo entering Elena’s room multiple times... I wouldn’t be surprised if their relationship runs deeper than it appears on the surface.”
Renzo didn’t react to Ciro’s heavy accusation—not even a flicker of concern crossed his face.
His gaze stayed fixed on the polished floor, jaw tight, hands loose but tense at his sides.
When he spoke, his voice was stripped of rank, loyalty, and pretense.
Flat.
Dangerous in its own way.
“Vincenzo, you don’t ask questions like that after setting my execution for forty-eight hours from now.”
Silence.
“You have no trust left in me—so what loyalty are we even talking about?”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I stepped closer.
Slowly.
Then reached out and clamped a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Renzo,” I said, quieter now. “Forget titles. Forget ranks.”
My grip tightened slightly.
“You and Ciro—you’re my brothers.”
His jaw flexed.
“I told him to bring you because I never truly believed you helped Elena steal that ring.”
A beat.
“Not for a second.”
Renzo’s head lifted slightly.
But his expression didn’t soften.
If anything, it hardened.
He shrugged my hand off with a sharp, deliberate motion.
“As long as you still think Elena planted it in her own bra,” he said coldly, “we have nothing to discuss.”
My eyes narrowed.
The room seemed to tighten around us.
“Why are you so certain it wasn’t her?” I asked.
Before Renzo could answer—
Ciro moved.
Smooth. Effortless.
Positioning himself slightly closer to me, voice dripping with concern.
“Boss,” he said cautiously, “should I lock him up again? I don’t like how he speaks to you, and the other soldiers shouldn’t see such open defiance.”
Renzo’s eyes flicked to him—sharp.
Ciro continued, undeterred.
“Ever since you ranked us and made me second-in-command—and him third—Renzo has always been bitter. He’s hated taking orders from me and may well have been scheming against you in secret.”
A small pause.
“He hates you, boss. A man like that... deserves death.”
Renzo didn’t react.
Didn’t defend himself.
Just stood there.
Silent. Unmoving.
Watching.
Before I could speak—
A nurse approached.
The same one Renzo had spoken to earlier.
She held a crisp sheet of paper in her hands.
“Here you go, Mr. Renzo,” she said, offering it to him.
He took it without a word.
Looked at it.
Then extended it toward me.
“Have a look.”
I hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then accepted it.
Careful.
As if the paper itself could burn me.
My eyes scanned the header first.
Paternity Analysis Report – Short Tandem Repeat (STR)
DNA Profiling
My pulse slowed.
Then spiked.
My gaze dropped lower.
The conclusion sat there.
Clean. Unambiguous. Undeniable.
The alleged father, Vincenzo Orsini, cannot be excluded as the biological father of the child.
A pause.
My breath caught.
The world seemed to tilt.
Then the final line.
Probability of paternity: 99.9999998%.
The numbers blurred for a moment.
Then sharpened.
Seared into my brain.
My grip tightened on the paper.
Not in disbelief.
In realization.
In something closer to shock than anger.
Matteo had just confirmed Elena had never been touched during those four weeks of captivity, and now a DNA test had swiftly backed it up.
Pain ripped through me, raw and relentless, as memories of every time I had rejected her, every time I had doubted her and her pregnancy, surged through me.
My chest tightened, my fists clenched—rage at myself mingling with a grief so sharp it felt like knives biting into my heart.
Renzo’s voice cut through the silence, steady and controlled.
“Someone in this hospital has been forging every one of Elena’s prenatal DNA results.”
I looked up slowly.
He didn’t flinch.
“Twenty-one falsified reports.”
A pause.
“This,” he said, nodding at the paper in my hand, “is the real one.”
Another beat.
“Pulled directly from the lab server before it could be altered.”