Elena’s hands trembled as she reached out to touch Isabella’s shoulder. The grand foyer of the DeSantis mansion—usually a grand showcase of marble, polished mahogany, and cold opulence—suddenly felt like a burial vault.

Three days later.

The private medical suite inside a secure, hidden compound outside Santa Fe was silent except for the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.

Lorenzo lay on the hospital bed, bandages wrapped tightly around his torso where a high-caliber bullet had passed through his abdomen, barely missing his vital organs.

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the soft overhead light.

Sitting in a comfortable armchair beside his bed was Isabella. She was holding a warm cup of water, staring quietly out the window at the desert hills.

Lorenzo tried to speak, his throat dry and scratchy. “Bella...”

Isabella turned her head immediately. She set the cup down and walked to the side of his bed. She didn't touch him, but her presence was steady.

“The doctor said the bullet passed clean through,” Isabella said, her voice soft and emotionless. “You lost a lot of blood, but you’ll survive.”

Lorenzo reached out his hand, his fingers trembling as he touched the edge of her sleeve. “Victor’s men... the Moretti family... are they—”

“Marco arrived with fifty men six hours after the shooting,” Isabella explained quietly. “The Moretti syndicate in New York was dismantled overnight. Marco made sure of it. The threat to us... and the baby... is gone.”

Lorenzo closed his eyes, taking a deep, painful breath. “I’m sorry, Bella. I brought the mob war to your doorstep. I almost got you killed.”

“You saved my life,” Isabella corrected him gently. “You took a bullet for us.”

Lorenzo looked at her, his dark eyes filled with a desperate, lingering hope. “Does this mean... can you ever forgive me? Can we go home?”

Isabella looked down at his hand touching her sleeve. She reached out and gently lifted his hand, placing it firmly against her stomach.

Lorenzo’s breath caught in his throat as he felt a strong, sudden kick against his palm—his unborn child moving beneath her skin.

Tears sprang to Lorenzo’s eyes again. He pressed his forehead against her bump, weeping silently.

“I forgive you for what happened in Manhattan, Lorenzo,” Isabella said softly, her voice filled with a painful honesty. “I see the remorse in your eyes. I know you love this baby.”

Lorenzo looked up, hope lighting up his broken face. “Then come back to New York with me. I’ll change everything. I’ll leave the syndicate. I’ll burn the business to the ground. Just come home!”

Isabella gently pulled his hand away from her stomach and stepped back.

The hope in Lorenzo’s eyes instantly vanished, replaced by a cold terror.

“No, Lorenzo,” Isabella said firmly. “I forgive you, but I will not return to being your wife.”

“Why?” Lorenzo begged, trying to sit up, groaning in pain as his stitches pulled. “Why, Bella? I’ll give you anything! I’ll give you the world!”

“Because I spent two years learning to live in your shadow,” Isabella said, her eyes clear and unshakeable. “I spent two years believing that staying quiet and grateful was the price of loving you. I lost myself in your world, Lorenzo. And when I heard you laugh that morning with Vanessa, I realized that the woman you married didn't exist to you—she was just an accessory to your power.”

She touched her pregnant belly tenderly.

“I won't bring a child up in that environment,” she continued. “I won't let our daughter grow up thinking a woman’s duty is to stay quiet while her husband plays god.”