30. Chiara
30
CHIARA
I ’m dazed, completely overwhelmed. That was one of the best orgasms I've ever had, and it was just from Dante using his fingers. God, I love this man so much. I can hardly catch my breath, but the look in his eyes, darkened with lust, tells me he’s far from done.
He presses me back against the tree, the rough bark biting into my skin, but the discomfort only heightens the anticipation. Before I can fully process what’s happening, he thrusts into me, and I cry out, clutching at his shoulders. The intensity of the sensation is almost too much, but it’s exactly what I need.
Being with Dante is the only thing that, without a doubt, eases the impossible ache in my chest. When we’re making love, the relief is so intense, I never want to stop. His rhythm is relentless, each thrust deeper than the last, driving me closer to the edge once more.
“Chiara,” he groans, his voice raw with passion. “You feel so good. So perfect.”
I can only moan in response, my body arching into his, craving more. Every movement, every touch, sends waves of pleasure through me. I wrap my legs around his waist, needing him even closer, needing all of him.
“Dante,” I gasp, my hands tangling in his hair. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t ever stop.”
He growls, a primal sound that reverberates through my entire being. “I won’t,” he promises, his pace quickening. “I’ll never stop. You’re mine, Chiara. Always.”
His words ignite something deep within me, and I feel the familiar pressure building once more. The world around us fades, leaving only the two of us, connected in this perfect, all-consuming moment. He thrusts into me over and over again, going deeper and deeper, until I’m lost in the sensation, lost in him.
"I love you, Dante," I moan, my voice filled with emotion.
For the first time, he pauses. His movements slow inside me, and I can see a flicker of something in his eyes, something beyond lust. It’s as if my words have struck a chord deep within him. He hasn’t found his release yet, but he’s already made me come once, leaving me breathless and trembling and yearning for more.
“Dante?” I ask softly, searching his face. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes locked onto mine. The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver down my spine.
Dante’s voice is strained when he responds, “Have you thought any more about what you’re going to do?”
My heart leaps into my throat. This is it. The moment of truth. I take a deep breath, gathering all my courage.
“I can’t bring myself to break the engagement, Dante. I can’t break my father’s heart, not when he's so ill.” I see the pain flash across his face, but I press on. “But… if you’ll run away with me, I’m ready to leave tonight.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I can see they’re not what Dante wanted to hear. His expression hardens, and he pulls out of me abruptly, leaving me gasping and feeling empty. Then, with a movement that’s almost rough, he puts me back on my feet, creating distance between us.
The sudden loss of his warmth is jarring. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling vulnerable and exposed.
“Dante?” I whisper, my voice trembling.
He doesn’t look at me, his jaw clenched tight. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words and disappointment.
I want to reach out to him, to bridge this sudden chasm, but I’m frozen in place. The fear that I’ve just made a terrible mistake, that I’ve pushed him too far, threatens to overwhelm me.
I watch helplessly as Dante starts to dress, my heart sinking with each passing second. I smooth down my skirt, feeling suddenly self-conscious and vulnerable.
“Dante, please talk to me,” I plead, my voice barely above a whisper.
He doesn’t look at me as he responds, his voice cold. “Go home, Chiara.”
“Why?” I ask, distraught, feeling nausea swirl in my stomach as my mouth grows dry. “What’s wrong?”
Dante turns to me then, his eyes blazing with a mixture of hurt and anger. “What’s wrong ?” he hisses. “What’s wrong is that you’ve strung me along for weeks, pretending like you were going to do something about this situation. You won’t let me do anything about it, but you don’t mind obliterating the last shred of honor I possess so you don’t have to watch when you break your father’s heart.”
His words hit me like a physical blow. I struggle to find my voice. “Dante, that’s not?—”
But he cuts me off, his voice rising and his chest heaving. “Is it so hard to believe that your father would be pleased to know that we love each other? Am I so repugnant that your family could never accept me?”
Tears spring to my eyes and I grasp at any thread to try and gain control of this spinning out of control situation. “No, of course not! It’s not like that at all.”
“Then what is it like, Chiara?” he demands. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re too scared to make a real choice. You want to run away instead of facing the truth. And you expect me to be okay with that?”
I feel like I’m drowning, struggling to find the right words to make him understand. “I’m just trying to find a way for us to be together without hurting anyone.”
“But you are hurting someone, Chiara," Dante yells, tugging at his hair in frustration. “You’re hurting me . Every day you don’t choose, every time you suggest running away instead of standing up for us, it chips away at me.”
His words leave me speechless and I feel like I can’t breathe. I’ve been so focused on not hurting my family that I didn’t realize how much I was hurting the man I love.
“I–I didn’t realize,” I whisper pathetically.
Dante snorts, looking up at the sky. “Of course,” he mutters bitterly. Then he turns back to me, his eyes hard. “Maybe we weren’t meant to be together, after all. Maybe this has all been a fantasy I only now recognize for what it is.”
His words hit me like a physical blow. “No!” I cry out, reaching for him desperately. “That’s not true!”
But Dante easily sidesteps my attempt to touch him. His face is a mask of cold indifference as he says, “I hope you have a nice life with Pyotr, Miss Marino.”
The formal use of my name is like a knife twisting in my heart. Before I can respond, he turns and storms off, leaving me alone in the forest.
I stand there for a moment, stunned and heartbroken. Then, as the reality of what just happened sinks in, I start to make my way home. Tears blur my vision as I stumble through the darkening woods. The nausea that’s been plaguing me for days intensifies with each step.
Suddenly, I can’t hold it back anymore. I barely make it to a nearby tree before I’m violently ill, heaving until there’s nothing left in my stomach. The physical pain almost matches the emotional agony I’m feeling.
After what feels like hours, I manage to pull myself together enough to continue my journey. I’m trembling, weak, and utterly devastated. By the time I reach the house, I’m on the verge of collapse.
I somehow make it to my room without being seen, but as soon as I close the door, another wave of nausea hits me. I rush to my ensuite bathroom, barely making it in time before I’m sick again.
As I kneel on the cold tile floor, retching and sobbing, I wonder how everything went so terribly wrong. How did I manage to lose the man I love while trying to keep everyone else happy?
The taste of bile in my mouth matches the bitterness in my heart. I’ve never felt more alone, more lost, than I do in this moment. And I have no idea how to fix any of it.
I curl up on the cold bathroom floor, my body trembling as I wait for another wave of nausea to hit. Is this what dying of a broken heart feels like? The pain in my chest is so intense, I wonder if it might actually kill me.
The worst part is, I have no one to blame but myself. I’ve been too much of a coward to fight for what I truly want. Instead, I’ve tried to have it both ways—to keep Dante while going through with this sham of a marriage to Pyotr, all to keep Papa happy.
I’ve never been good at standing up for myself, at doing what I want. That’s always been Bianca’s role. I’ve never excelled at being the perfect Mafia princess, commanding respect and authority like Sofia does. I’ve just been… Chiara. Plain, indecisive Chiara.
And now, my inability to make a choice has cost me the love of my life.
Another wave of nausea hits, and I lurch toward the toilet. The sound of my retching echoes off the tiled walls of the bathroom, filling the cavernous space. As I heave, tears streaming down my face, I’m struck by how pathetic I must look.
I’ve always been the quiet one, the peacekeeper. But maybe that’s been my problem all along. I’ve been so focused on not rocking the boat, on keeping everyone else happy, that I’ve lost sight of my own happiness.
As I slump back against the cool porcelain, exhausted and empty, I realize something has to change. I can’t keep living like this, torn between duty and desire, too afraid to make a real choice.
But even as I think this, fear grips me. What if it’s too late? What if I’ve already lost Dante for good? The thought sends another wave of nausea through me, and I lean over the toilet once more.
In between bouts of sickness, I wonder how I’m going to face tomorrow. How can I go on pretending everything’s fine when my world has just fallen apart? How can I marry Pyotr when my heart belongs to Dante?
I shakily pull myself up from the floor, using the sink for support as I face the mirror. The reflection that greets me makes me grimace. My face is a blotchy mess of red and white patches, my skin splotchy and irritated from crying and vomiting. Broken blood vessels speckle my cheeks and the whites of my eyes, stark evidence of how violently ill I’ve been.
“This won’t do,” I mutter to myself, my voice hoarse.
I bend down, rummaging under the sink for my makeup bag. I need to cover this up, to erase any sign of my breakdown before anyone sees me. My hand moves past various toiletries, searching for the familiar shape of my cosmetics case.
Suddenly, my fingers brush against a box of tampons, and my heart lurches. Time seems to slow down as a thought hits me like a bolt of lightning.
Wait… when was the last time I had my period?
I freeze, my hand still touching the box, as I frantically try to remember. Days, weeks pass through my mind in a blur. With everything that’s been happening—the engagement, the stress with Dante, Papa’s illness—I realize I’ve completely lost track.
My heart starts to race, pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. Could it be? Is it possible that…?
No. No, it can’t be. I shake my head, trying to dismiss the thought. It’s just stress , I tell myself. That’s why I’ve been feeling so sick. That’s why I’m late. It has to be.
But even as I try to convince myself, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers the possibility I’m too afraid to consider. What if it’s not just stress? What if there’s another reason for my nausea, my missed period?
I slowly straighten up, meeting my own wide-eyed gaze in the mirror. The possibility I’ve been avoiding crashes over me like a tidal wave.
What if I’m pregnant?
The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me, but this time, it’s not from morning sickness. It’s from sheer, unadulterated panic.
I lean heavily against the sink, my mind racing. Dante and I have always been careful. We’ve always used protection… haven’t we? But condoms aren’t foolproof, I know that. And with a sinking feeling, I realize I can’t even remember if we used protection the last few times we had sex. We certainly didn’t today. And certainly not in the linen closet during the engagement party.
Could I really be pregnant?
The possibility seems to grow more real with each passing second. The constant nausea, the missed period, the emotional volatility—it all starts to make a terrifying kind of sense.
I try to count back the weeks, but the days blur together in my stressed and panicked state. How long has it been since my last period? Four weeks? Six? More?
“Oh, God,” I whisper, my voice trembling. The room seems to spin around me as the full implications start to sink in.
If I am pregnant, it changes everything. The engagement to Pyotr, my father’s plans, the family’s expectations—all of it would be thrown into chaos.
And Dante… oh, Dante.
The memory of our fight, of the hurt and anger in his eyes, makes my chest constrict painfully. How could I tell him something like this after what just happened between us?
I grip the edge of the sink tightly, trying to steady myself. I need to know for sure. I need a test. But how can I get one without anyone finding out? The idea of anyone in the family discovering this before I’m certain is unthinkable.
As I stand there, staring at my pale reflection in the mirror, I realize that I’m at a crossroads. Whatever the result of a test might be, I know that my life is about to change irrevocably. The days of indecision, of trying to please everyone, are over.
With shaking hands, I begin to clean myself up, my mind already formulating a plan to get a pregnancy test without being noticed.
And as I finish making myself presentable, I steel myself for what might be the most important errand of my life.