When the Principessa Forgets Your Name

On the night before our wedding, my fiancé Dante—the Underboss of the Moretti family—was diagnosed with severe post-traumatic stress disorder after a gunfight, and he had supposedly lost all memory of me.

Around the same time, I discovered I was pregnant.

"Perhaps a child," the doctor suggested, "could awaken the part of him that still loves you deep down."

I clung to that hope until I overheard their conversation at the boxing gym.

"Faking PTSD to dump the Principessa? Damn, Dante, that's cold," one of his men laughed.

"Shut up," he said impatiently, but there was no anger in his voice. He was enjoying it.

"I'll marry her. But not now," he said. "First, I'm going to have some fun."

Another voice sneered. "You mean, by fucking her cousin and those whores? Dante, that's bold, even for you."

Dante just chuckled. "You don't get it. Those women... I can't resist the thrill. It's fucking addictive."

Without a word, I turned and walked away.

That night, I scheduled an abortion at a private clinic.

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1

My fiancé, Dante—the man who’d sworn to love me forever—was at his club, wallowing in the debauchery of the VIP room.

He was surrounded by a gaggle of women barely out of their teens, their shrill laughter echoing off the walls.

"Harder, come on! Oh, boss..."

"Ah! Rougher... I don't think I can take any more!"

Over the phone, I heard the familiar voice of my cousin, Carina—panting and moaning shamelessly.

In his stupor, Dante hadn't even realized he had butt-dialed me.

I couldn't fucking believe it. My fiancé. My own cousin. Wallowing in their own filthy world.

A wave of nausea burned its way up my throat.

I hung up and drove straight to the clinic.

That night, I returned to the Falcone Estate.

It was the home that had once been mine, a place I hadn't set foot in since Dante and I started “courting.”

As the Principessa of the Falcone family, I had been willing to sacrifice everything for Dante—my status, my pride.

But now, I finally saw how blind I had been.

When the Falcone family doctor learned of my decision, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Isabella, this child represents the union of the Falcone and Moretti families. You know the stakes. Are you sure about this? If Dante finds out, the shock might cause him to relapse."

A bitter smile twisted my lips as my gaze fell to my flat stomach.

"If he found out, he'd probably fake a goddamn heart attack."

After all, he was still tangled up with the fresh-faced girls at his club.

How was this possible? The man who had wept when he proposed to me was now faking an illness just to cheat.

Unable to sway me, the doctor drew up the surgical papers with a heavy sigh.

But he still insisted on calling Dante.

"Isabella, this child isn't just yours. Dante has a right to be here, illness or not. He should be signing these papers with you. What if this is all just a terrible misunderstanding?"

I didn't stop him.

Deep down, I knew this child had been the strongest bond between us—a bond I cherished, because I knew how difficult it was for me to conceive.

When I was diagnosed with endometriosis, Dante had been my rock. He’d claimed he loved me enough to defy his own parents, fighting them tooth and nail to marry me.

Now, as I chose to give up our child, the least he could do was be here to say goodbye.

But when the call connected, cold, dismissive laughter crackled through the receiver.

"Isabella's pregnant? Impossible. How much did my dear Principessa pay you to spin this little fairy tale? If she thinks a child will force my hand, tell her to dream on. Who the fuck knows if that kid is even mine?"

The line went dead, his laughter echoing like a curse in the sterile operating room.

I signed the papers myself, closing my eyes as the ink dried.

When I woke up after the surgery, my phone was filled with a dozen messages from Dante.

Dante: Isabella, I can't believe how little you care about me. I'm sick, and you're still pressuring me to get married? You, the Falcone Principessa, stooping to a fake pregnancy to trap me? As of now, we're done. Move out. I don't want to see you again.

The bitter thought hit me like a slap—he had the fucking audacity to kick me out of the penthouse I’d bought with my own dowry. The Morettis had muscle, but they never had that kind of cash.

I glanced at the bloody gauze, the only trace of the child that would never be, and calmly replied, "Okay."

He didn't deserve to be a father.

In the three days I spent recovering in the hospital, he never once showed up.

But his social media became a highlight reel of parties, alcohol, and fawning women—a clear message that he was making up for lost time.

I knew he was posting it all for me, so I gave him what he wanted and liked every single post.

On the day of my discharge, as I was handling the paperwork, I glanced up to an unbelievable sight: Dante and the Falcone family doctor in the hallway, rushing a gurney toward the emergency room.

What the hell was the Moretti Underboss doing in a hospital on Falcone turf? It made no sense.

Dante's eyes met mine for less than a second before he quickly looked away, pretending not to know me.

However, the ER doctor's urgent shouts reached me clearly.

"Prep OR one! We need Rh-negative blood, stat! Patient's got a ruptured ovarian cyst from the crash, massive internal bleeding—she needs a transfusion now!"

"What? The blood bank is empty?"

After a quick call, the doctor rushed over to Dante and whispered something in his ear.

Dante stopped in his tracks.

The next moment, he turned and strode toward me, a flicker of desperation on his face.

"Isabella, donate blood to Carina, and I'll forget I ever saw you stalking me," he said, his voice urgent yet dripping with sickening entitlement.

I froze, a harsh laugh escaping my lips.

"I wasn't stalking you."

"Stop making excuses! A life is on the line!"

He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the doctor.

"She's Rh-negative. Take as much as you need, just keep Carina alive!"

I struggled against his grip, but his hand tightened like a vice, forcing me forward.

My voice was ice. "You wanted to cut all ties, remember? So how the hell would you know my blood type?"

I stared at him, waiting for an answer.