Alessia POV:
I woke to the smell of antiseptic and the sharp, rhythmic beep of a machine.
My shoulder ached with a dull, throbbing pain, a physical reminder that the nightmare had been real.
The wedding music was gone.
In its place was the cold, sterile silence of a hospital room, broken only by that relentless beeping.
That sound. It was the new rhythm of my life, the only thing left.
Dante's cold face. My father's body on the pristine white runner.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me.
I expected to see him.
Hoped, in some broken, stupid part of my heart, that he would be here.
That he would explain.
That he would hold me.
The door opened, but it wasn't Dante.
A woman stood in the doorway, her posture ramrod straight, her dress a sharp, impeccable black that seemed to absorb all the light in the room.
Her heels clicked softly on the linoleum as she approached my bed.
"Alessia Gallo," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I am Isabella Moretti."
Her eyes, the color of dark, polished wood, scanned me from head to toe, lingering for a moment on the bandage covering my shoulder. There was no pity in her gaze. Only assessment.
"I have some questions for you," she began, her voice as crisp and starched as her collar. "About your father's operations. Specifically, any hidden ledgers or accounts. Anything related to a product codenamed 'Crimson Thorn'."
My head was spinning. I couldn't process her words.
All I could think of was him.
"Is he... is Dante okay?" I whispered, my voice hoarse.
A smile pulled at her lips, but it was a cold, cutting motion that didn't reach her eyes.
"The Don is fine," she said, and the title landed like a deliberate sting, a reminder of the chasm that had just opened between us.
"He is... occupied. With his duties."
She let the words hang in the air, a silent, cruel implication.
Dante had moved on.
Our engagement, our love-it was all just a means to an end. An operation that was now complete.
He had other commitments.
A new alliance.
A new future.
The question clawed its way out of my throat, raw and desperate. "Is there someone else?"
Isabella Moretti didn't have to answer.
Her triumphant gaze, the slight, satisfied tilt of her head, said it all.
