He didn't ask why. He didn't question my voice.
He only asked where I was.
I broke down the moment I heard him.
Fifteen minutes later, the sound of helicopter blades cut through the air. A private chopper landed on the hospital roof, doors opening before it fully touched down. Doctors moved with precision, calm and fast, the kind of men who worked for Don Ferrante and never asked questions they didn't need answered.
They lifted me inside.
The helicopter was a flying medical unit, fully equipped, lights bright and steady. The Ferrante crest was nowhere visible on the exterior. My father understood discretion the way other men understood breathing.
For the first time since marrying into the Valenti family, I felt like I might survive.
The doctors worked fast, moving like they knew every second mattered, scalpels cutting across my swollen belly, pain stabbing through me even with the anesthesia. Somewhere below us the city turned, the Valenti territory shrinking into a grid of lights that meant nothing to me anymore.
Time blurred.
Finally, someone exhaled. "She's out."
I waited for a cry, any sound from my baby, but there was nothing.
My chest tightened like someone had stabbed me. I could barely whisper through tears, "Is… is my baby okay?"
One of the doctors pressed me gently back against the bed. "It's not looking good. We need to get her to the compound for proper treatment."
I nodded, too numb to argue, my body trembling from everything I'd endured.
As the helicopter lifted off, I reached for my father's aide. "What about… Marcello? He'll come looking, right?"
He squeezed my hand, calm. "Don't worry. Your father's got it all covered."
I wished I could believe him. Don Ferrante could make a man disappear in the time it took to fold his reading glasses and put them away. But Marcello Valenti was not a man. He was a machine that ran on spite, and machines don't stop looking until someone pulls the power.
I saw him then, Marcello, standing outside the operating room like a shadow over everything, eyes scanning like a hawk. He barely blinked when the doors opened, first words sharp and mocking.
"And Vittoria… she's okay, right? Can't have anything happen to my little golden girl."
He stepped inside, scooped her up, and held her close, smiling like a proud father. "Look at you, sweet pea. Pretty, huh? Just like your mama. Too bad someone else's kid can't compete."
He paused, then laughed low, cruel. "Wonder who Serafina's kid will even look like? Probably like her, huh? Poor thing, stuck with a mother who can't even survive a heater."
The silver lighter sat motionless in his jacket pocket. He hadn't touched it once. Every decision tonight had already been made, each one worse than the last, and he hadn't needed to think about any of them.
After rocking the baby to sleep, he straightened and started leaving, already thinking ahead. Tomorrow, he'd go back to fetch me.
Then he saw his secretary waiting, white-knuckled and stiff. He tossed him the car keys without a word.
"Go," he said. "Bring her in. The wife and the kid. No excuses."
The secretary didn't move. Fear made him rooted to the spot. In this family, the wrong sentence could put you in the ground, and he was standing on the edge of one.
Marcello's patience snapped. "What, too scared to move? You're not gonna piss me off, are you?"
Finally, the secretary stammered, voice trembling like a scared kid. "Mr… Mrs. Valenti… and the baby… they're… gone."
Marcello laughed, low and dark, like he was mocking a rival Boss at a sit-down. "Gone? Really? You sound like you're telling me a bad joke. Guess even my wife can't get her act together, huh?"
But his secretary cried, "Boss, here's the report. They really died."
