DAMIEN POV
I smash my fist into the bathroom mirror.
Blood drips from my knuckles, mixing with water in the sink. The reflection staring back at me is fractured now—broken into a dozen pieces like the man I've become.
*What did I do last night?*
The whiskey fog is lifting, and with it comes memory. Her face. Her tears. The way she begged me to leave the light on.
I said no.
My stomach lurches. I grip the sink, breathing hard, trying to push it all back down where it belongs. This is business. This is necessary. This is what Father would have done. What Uncle Salvatore said must be done.
*Then why do I feel like I need to scrub my skin off?*
My phone buzzes. A text from Salvatore: *Is it done?*
I stare at those three words. Cold. Clinical. Like we're discussing a contract signing instead of—
Instead of what I did to that girl.
*She's not a girl. She's your wife. She signed the papers.*
But even I don't believe that lie anymore.
I force myself to leave the bathroom. My bedroom—the master suite that used to belong to my father—feels too large, too empty. Across the hall, Aria's door is closed. Locked from the outside, just like I ordered.
*I locked her in. Like a prisoner.*
There's a control panel hidden in the hallway wall. Security system. My father had cameras installed throughout the estate after the first assassination attempt. I've never used them to spy on anyone.
Until now.
My finger hovers over the button for Aria's room. I shouldn't look. I don't want to see—
I press it anyway.
The screen flickers to life.
She's on the bathroom floor. Curled into herself. Her whole body shaking with sobs so violent I can see them even through the grainy feed. There's a towel wrapped around her, and even from here I can see the red marks on her arms where I—
I shut it off. Fast. But the image burns behind my eyelids.
*This is what you've become. This is what Father's legacy turned you into.*
"Mr. Moretti?" Mrs. Laurent's voice crackles through the intercom. "The doctor has arrived for Mrs. Moretti's examination."
"Tell him to wait." My voice sounds wrong. Hollow. "Give her... give her thirty minutes."
"Sir, the schedule—"
"Thirty minutes!" I snap, then force myself to breathe. "Please."
Silence. Then: "Of course, sir."
I should go downstairs. Should eat breakfast. Should review the contracts waiting on my desk. Should do anything except stand here feeling like my skin doesn't fit right anymore.
Instead, I find myself in my study, pulling out the PROJECT BLOODLINE folder.
Uncle Salvatore designed this. Spent two years researching, planning, finding the perfect candidate. Aria Chen wasn't random. She was selected specifically because she had no one. No family to ask questions. No resources to fight back. Just desperate enough to agree.
*And you let him. You signed off on everything.*
I flip through her file. School records showing a brilliant mind that had to drop out when her parents died. Social worker reports about how hard she worked to keep her foster siblings together. Photographs from the charity event where we first met—she's smiling in one, talking to a child in a wheelchair, and the smile reaches her eyes.
I don't remember her smiling last night.
"Damien." Uncle Salvatore's voice makes me jump. He's standing in the doorway, gray suit perfectly pressed, silver hair immaculate. "I heard it went well."
"You heard wrong."
His eyebrow lifts. "The conception process was successful, wasn't it? That's all that matters."
"She was terrified." The words escape before I can stop them. "She cried."
"So?" Salvatore closes the door behind him, moves to my desk like he owns it. Like he owns everything. "She's a means to an end, Damien. The Moretti bloodline needs an heir untainted by our enemies' reach. This girl provides that."
"She's not a girl. She's a person."
"She's a womb." His voice turns sharp. "And you're the Don of this family. Start acting like it."
I stand, anger flooding hot through my veins. "Father wouldn't have—"
"Your father did worse." Salvatore leans forward. "Your father killed seventeen people to maintain power. Your father married your mother as part of a territorial agreement. Your father built this empire on blood and bones. Don't pretend he was a saint."
"He loved Mother."
"Eventually. After years. After she gave him you." Salvatore's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Sentiment comes later, Damien. First comes duty. First comes survival."
My phone buzzes. A message from Dr. Morrison, the family physician: *Patient ready for examination. Proceeding as scheduled.*
"See?" Salvatore gestures to the phone. "Everything's moving forward. In nine months, you'll have an heir. The bloodline continues. The family stays strong."
"And her?" I ask quietly. "What happens to Aria after?"
"That's already outlined in the contract. Section 7, Subsection C."
I pull up the digital copy on my laptop. Scroll to that section. Start reading the fine print I never paid attention to before.
The blood drains from my face.
"You're going to kill her."
"We're going to handle the situation appropriately." Salvatore's voice is ice. "She knows too much. She's seen too much. And we can't risk her running to authorities or rivals with information about the family."
"This is murder."
"This is protection." He stands, straightens his tie. "Your father understood this. When you became Don, you accepted these responsibilities. The girl serves her purpose, gives you an heir, and then... complications during childbirth. Very tragic. Very common. No questions asked."
My hands shake. "I won't do it."
"You won't have to. I'll handle the arrangements personally." Salvatore moves toward the door. "Concentrate on running the business. Let me handle the dirty work, like always."
He leaves.
I sit in my study, staring at Section 7, Subsection C, reading the clinical language that describes how they'll make Aria's death look natural. Accidental. Unavoidable.
*I brought her here to die.*
The realization hits like a bullet.
She didn't just sign a marriage contract. She signed her own death warrant. And I handed her the pen.
My phone rings. Marco, my head of security. "Boss, we have a situation."
"Not now."
"It's about your wife." His voice carries an edge I've never heard before. "The doctor just finished the examination. Damien... there's something you need to know."
"What?"
"The pregnancy test they ran. It came back positive."
Impossible. "It's only been one night. That's not how—"
"That's what I said. But the doctor insists. He's saying she was already pregnant when she arrived. Two weeks along."
The floor drops out from under me.
"That's impossible. The genetic screening said she was a virgin. The medical exam—"
"Was three months ago," Marco interrupts. "Boss, if she was already pregnant when she got here, that means the baby isn't yours."
I can't breathe. Can't think.
If the baby isn't mine, then the entire contract is void. Salvatore will consider her worthless. Disposable.
He won't wait nine months.
He'll kill her today.
"Marco, lock down the estate. No one in or out. Especially not Uncle Salvatore."
"Why? What's going on?"
My mind races. This doesn't make sense. The virgin confirmation. The genetic screening. Unless—
Unless someone lied. Someone wanted me to bring her here. Someone set this up.
But why?
"Just do it!" I'm already running for the door. "And get Aria out of that medical room. Now!"
I sprint down the hallway. Take the stairs three at a time. Burst into the medical wing where Mrs. Laurent stands guard outside the examination room.
"Where is she?"
Mrs. Laurent's face is pale. "The doctor... he said there were complications. He took her to the secure room for additional testing."
"What secure room?"
"The one Mr. Salvatore uses. In the basement."
My heart stops.
I run.
The basement door is locked. I punch in the override code. Throw it open. Race down the concrete steps.
At the bottom, I hear it: Aria's voice, desperate and terrified.
"Please, I don't understand what you're saying. What baby? I'm not pregnant!"
Dr. Morrison's reply is cold: "Mr. Salvatore's orders are clear. If the genetics don't match, we dispose of the mistake."
I round the corner.
Dr. Morrison has a syringe in his hand.
Aria is strapped to a medical table, struggling against the restraints.
"Stop!" My voice echoes off the concrete walls.
Dr. Morrison turns. His expression doesn't change. "Mr. Moretti. Your uncle said you might interfere. That's why he asked me to handle this quickly."
"Step away from her."
"The test results are clear. She's pregnant with someone else's child. The contract is void. We're simply cleaning up the mess."
Aria's eyes find mine. Wide. Terrified. Pleading.
And I realize with absolute, crushing certainty: I've been played.
We've both been played.
This was never about an heir.
This was about something far worse.