What kind of twisted joke was it that I ended up bound to a man who saw me as a resource? A tool? Something to be used and discarded when convenient?
And yet—he wanted more.
He always wanted more.
I couldn’t decide what terrified me more: the possibility that he might discover my pregnancy… or the possibility that he already knew and simply didn’t care.
Cold metal slammed into my spine.
The next thing I knew, I was strapped into a reinforced medical chair inside the famiglia’s private infirmary. Steel restraints bit into my wrists. I lifted my head just enough to see Don Zachary Moretti standing across from me, arms folded, expression distant—like I wasn’t worth the effort of emotion.
“So this is it?” I let out a hollow laugh. “You drag me back to bleed me like contraband?”
He didn’t even flinch.
“Stop being dramatic,” he said coldly. “You’re contributing. Make yourself useful.”
Something inside my chest cracked clean in half.
“Useful?” I scoffed. “Is that what I was? A walking blood bank with a marriage contract?”
“You’re emotional,” he replied instantly. “You always were. You confuse hysteria with loyalty.”