“Stay with me, tesoro,” Dante murmured, his voice dropping into a register reserved only for her, rough with unsphed tears. He caught her cold, trembling hand in his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I’ve got you. Nothing is going to hurt you ever again. I swear it.”
Dr. Harrison moved swiftly, adjusting the ultrasound probe and applying the warm gel to Emily’s taut, heavily rounded stomach. The grainy black-and-white monitor above the bed flickered to life, casting an eerie bluish glow across the room. Two distinct, rhythmic fluttering pulses echoed through the small speakers—rapid, fragile, and fiercely alive.
“The contractions are being triggered by severe physical exhaustion and high-stress trauma,” Dr. Harrison said, his eyes darting between the monitor and Emily’s pale face. He pressed a few buttons on the machine, his expression grim. “At thirty-four weeks with twins, Mr. Russo, her body is under immense strain. We need to stabilize her immediately, or we risk sending her into premature labor.”
Dante’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his rugged cheek. He tore his gaze away from the monitor for a split second, looking down at Emily’s swollen belly trapped beneath the degrading white apron and black uniform. The humiliation she had endured under his very roof—while he had been sitting in high-rise boardrooms and conducting mafia business oblivious to her nightmare—turned his stomach into a pit of burning acid.
“Do whatever it takes,” Dante commanded, his voice dark and absolute. “Bring in the best specialists in Chicago. Clear out this entire floor. I want armed guards at every elevator, every stairwell, and every exit. Nobody enters, nobody leaves, without my explicit permission.”
“Understood, Mr. Russo,” Dr. Harrison nodded, quickly administering an IV line into Emily’s trembling arm. The cool saline began to flow, and slowly, the frantic hitch in Emily’s breathing began to ease.
Emily turned her head slightly on the pillow, her expressive brown eyes locking onto Dante’s fierce, rugged face. A stray lock of chestnut-brown hair clung to her damp forehead, escaping her messy braided updo.
“Dante… she threatened them,” Emily whispered, her voice cracking as fresh tears spilled over her lashes. “Vanessa… she said if I ever told you the truth, she would ensure my babies never saw the light of day. She made me clean the floors with my bare hands while I couldn’t even stand straight. She laughed at me every time you left the mansion.”
Hearing those words was like pouring gasoline on an already raging fire. Dante leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against hers, ignoring the sterile environment, ignoring the blood on his hands from a life built on violence and control.
“She will never touch you again,” Dante breathed against her skin, his voice laced with a lethal promise. “She won’t even breathe the same air as you by the time the sun rises. Rest, Emily. Let me handle it.”
Outside the glass partition of the examination room, Vanessa Laurent was still standing in the corridor. Through the thick glass, she watched Dante lean down to kiss Emily’s forehead. Her manicured fingernails dug so hard into her own palms that tiny crescents of blood began to form. The realization that her meticulously planned coup—years of manipulating Dante’s inner circle, slowly chipping away at his defenses, and finally banishing Emily to the servants’ quarters under a fake identity—was completely collapsing sent a wave of genuine panic through her veins.
Vanessa reached into her designer handbag, her fingers frantically searching for her encrypted phone. She needed to call her contacts, liquidate her accounts, and run before Dante’s wrath consumed her. She pulled the phone out, her thumb trembling over the screen as she dialed.
The heavy oak doors at the end of the private corridor clicked open with a chilling finality. Two towering, broad-shouldered men in identical black suits stepped out of the elevators, blocking the only exit. They didn’t shout; they didn’t draw weapons. They simply stood there, blocking the path like twin monoliths carved from stone, their dark glasses reflecting the warm golden sconces on the wall.
Vanessa froze, the phone slipping from her trembling fingers and clattering loudly against the polished marble floor.
Inside the examination room, Dante heard the faint clatter through the heavy door. He slowly straightened up, releasing Emily’s hand just enough to step toward the glass partition. Through the tinted glass, he stared directly at Vanessa, who was now trapped in the hallway like an insect pinned beneath a glass slide. Dante didn’t smile. He simply reached out, sliding the heavy glass door shut, locking her in the purgatory she had so carefully built for someone else.
