Page 49 of Ivory Crown

“Listen to me,” he said, locking eyes with mine. “From now on, anything you want—food, company, whatever—you go through me. Clear?”

I glared up at him, my mind racing. “You can’t keep me prisoner here.”

“Your safety is my responsibility. You stay put,” Luca commanded before turning and closing the door behind him with a soft click that resounded like a gunshot in the silence.

Alone now, the enormity of my situation settled upon me, heavy and suffocating. My knees buckled, and I sank to the cold floor, the tears I’d been holding back now streaming silently down my cheeks. I was in the living room, surrounded by opulent furniture and artwork that felt more like a mausoleum than a home.

Trapped. Alone. Pregnant.

A pawn in a game I never wanted to play.

The weight of defeat pressed down on me, and there, amidst the shadows and the echoes of my lost dreams, I curled into myself and wept.

Chapter Twenty-One: Dante

Ibarely recognized the face that stared back at me in the reflection of the sterile, gleaming metal doors. My suit was splattered with blood.

The clatter and beep of machines beyond them were an alien world where Marco fought for his life. My mind reeled, heart thrumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Then he was there—The Don, Enzo Moretti—my father, cutting through the sea of white coats like a dark ship amidst the foam.

His entrance didn’t fit here, among the antiseptic smells and hushed tones of urgent care—but then, when did Enzo Moretti ever belong anywhere but at the head of a table or the front of a war? And yet, he moved with a subtlety that belied his nature, his usual commanding aura tempered by this clinical backdrop. Heads turned; some out of recognition, others sensing the shift in the air—the way birds go silent before a storm.

“Dante. Marco?” His voice reached me, steady as ever, but something in it sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the hospital’s chill.

“Dad,” I managed, my voice a stranger to my ears. I leaned back against the nurses’ station, pretending for all I was worth that my hands weren’t trembling, that the fear gnawing at my insides wasn’t threatening to claw its way out.

He stopped before me, and I saw it in his eyes—the anger mingling with a hint of fear. It was rare, that fear, and it shook me more than any show of rage could have. Those eyes, usually sharp as a hawk’s, now searched mine for answers I didn’t want to give.

“Where is he?” Dad’s jaw clenched, as if bracing for a blow.

“Still in—“ I caught myself. He didn’t need the details. Not yet. “They’re doing everything they can.”

“Damn it, Dante.” He ran a hand over his face, the lines there deeper than I remembered. For a fleeting moment, I saw not the iron-fisted ruler of our criminal empire but a man, a father scared for his son.

“Should’ve been me,” I muttered, more to myself than him. But he heard, he always heard.

“What do you mean?” His tone sharpened, eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. “Explain. All you said when you called was that I needed to get down. I’m here, Dante. And I need to know everything.”

“He got shot,” I blurted out, the words tumbling from me like coins from a busted slot machine. The reality of it felt surreal, like a scene from one of those over-dramatized crime shows Marco loved to mock. “It was supposed to be a simple meet. Just talk.”

“You had a meet without me there?” His eyes widened slightly, a rare show of surprise mixed with the brewing storm of outrage. Memories of his unpredictable temper flashed through my mind, the old fear gnawing at my insides.

“Things got out of hand,” I continued, my throat tightening with each word. “None of it was supposed to go down like this.” I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until it came out in a rush, clouding the air between us.

“Out of hand,” he repeated, voice flat, but his eyes... they drilled into me, demanding the truth I had yet to fully confront myself. He always did this when he was angry, just repeated everything I said until I was stumbling over myself with explanations, until I was incriminating myself.

I nodded, swallowing hard against the lump that had formed there. “Yeah, things got—heated. A disagreement. I thought we had it under control, and then—“ The memory of gunshots echoed in my head, a symphony of chaos I wished I could forget.

“Then what, Dante?” Dad pushed, his patience waning like a candle at the end of its wick.

“Shots were fired.” I felt like a fucking fool, standing there on the verge of falling apart. I knew better than to show weakness, especially in front of him. Especially now.

For a second, his expression turned furious, a storm ready to break. But then, unexpectedly, his hand landed on my shoulder—a touch that held the weight of the world. “Marco is resilient. He always has been,” he said, and for a moment, just a moment, the storm in his eyes eased into something resembling assurance—or maybe hope.

But that quickly turned. “Do they know when he’ll be out?”

“They said it could take a few hours.”

“Okay. Come.” Enzo’s voice was a quiet command, the kind that had shaped my life with its unspoken power. He tilted his head toward the cafe down the hall, not waiting for a response. I followed, each step echoing in the empty corridor, heavy with the weight of the impending confrontation.

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