Chapter Five

After that day, I moved out of the Armstrong estate and back to my apartment.

No one called anymore. All that fake concern vanished, and with it, the need to explain where I was going.

That afternoon—the day of the abortion procedure—I drove out alone. The car headed south, to a clinic Uncle Jirei had arranged, tucked deep in an old neighborhood where no one looked twice.

I parked and walked toward the quiet back alley where the clinic was. I had just stepped out and locked the door when hurried footsteps sounded behind me.

A thick cloth clamped over my mouth and nose.

“Mmph—!” I fought, scratching behind me, kicking, but the sharp, burning fumes I inhaled drained my strength in seconds. My vision spun and dimmed.

“Quit it!” a coarse man's voice snarled right beside my ear. “Boss said to give you and your Armstrong family a little *‘souvenir'!*”

Enemies. Leftovers from the West Coast Gang, or some other rival?

Half-conscious, I was dragged deeper into the alley and tossed onto cold, damp concrete. Two hooded men—faces blurred—stalked up and stopped in front of me.

One of them, his voice rasping, squatted down. Malice glittered in his muddy eyes. “The Armstrong family's little widow. Pregnant with a posthumous child, right?”

Fear doused me like ice water, but I couldn't even force out a proper sound.

“N… no…”

“No?” The coarse-voiced man gave a nasty snort. “That's not up to you.”

Before the words were even done, a heavy boot slammed into the side of my belly.

Pain detonated. I screamed and curled in on myself.

“Heard you're real precious about this kid.” The rasping one yanked my hair, forcing my head up. “Too bad. It shouldn't be here.”

Fists and boots rained down, focused on my abdomen, my waist. I tried—uselessly—to shield my stomach with my arms. Every blow was a dull, organ-shifting shock, and with it, deeper terror.

“Don't… please… don't… I'm begging you…” I sobbed in broken pieces, as warm liquid poured uncontrollably between my legs, spreading beneath me in a dark, ominous stain.

The pain turned into something tearing, unbearable. I could almost feel something being ripped away—an awful hollow opening inside me.

In the end, they stripped everything valuable off me and vanished fast.

I lay on the freezing ground. The agony in my belly and the hot, steady loss flooding out of me brought a terror so complete it swallowed the world. Before the dark could take me, I used the last of my strength to fumble my shattered-screen phone from my pocket and dial.

—“Dominic.”

It rang for a long time. No one picked up.

I forced myself to stay awake. The cramps were worse now—violent. My mind seemed a little clearer, but my exhaustion was sinking heavier and heavier, and I could feel warm liquid sliding down my inner thighs.

No. No. Please—

I called again. This time it rang a few times and then—he hung up.

The abrupt dead tone hit my blurring consciousness like a slap.

Then my screen lit up. A text popped in.

“Dominic”: *[Annabella, enough. Stop making a scene. Apologize to Lillian first for how rude you were at dinner, and then we'll talk.]*

I stared at it. Every word was an ice pick, punching through my last shred of hope. He thought I was doing this to get his attention? That I was “making a scene”?

The strength left me completely. I stared up at the pale sky. The last thing I heard was someone shouting, “What happened? Ma'am!” and, far off, the muffled wail of sirens.

When I woke, the ceiling above me was hospital white. The stench of disinfectant stuffed my nose. My body felt like it had been run over—especially my lower abdomen, where there was a heavy, hollow dullness. Slowly, I lifted a hand and touched my belly.

Flat. Only the rough feel of gauze.

That tiny life that had once existed inside me was gone—stolen in the crudest, most humiliating way.

Tears slid down soundlessly.

The door burst open. Eleanor rushed in, face deathly pale.

“Annabella! Oh my God!” She threw herself to my bedside, grabbed my icy hand, and broke into tears. “How could this happen? Those animals—those goddamn animals! I told you, I told you it isn't safe out there right now. Why wouldn't you listen?”

Arthur followed close behind and stopped at the foot of the bed, his face dark, his voice severe. “This time you were too careless, Annabella. An Armstrong doesn't put themselves in this kind of danger. This isn't just your own business.”

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to answer. Their concern always came wrapped around blades.

The door opened again. Silvio—wearing “Dominic's” perfectly pressed dark suit—walked in.

He looked like he'd come in a rush, his breathing a little too quick. He stepped to my bedside. When his eyes fell on the gauze over my abdomen, his pupils tightened, almost imperceptibly. His expression was hard to read, but when he spoke, his voice was dry and flat.

“The doctor said you lost too much blood. You need to rest. From now on… don't go out alone.”

Not a word about the call. Not a word about the text. As if none of it had ever happened. My disaster, my loss, reduced in his mouth to a simple “careless.”

Right then, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He turned almost eagerly and walked to the window, pulling it out. He kept his voice low on purpose—low enough that it carried perfectly.

“Hello, Lillian? Yeah, I'm here. She's awake. Stable… The baby didn't make it. Don't get worked up—it's bad for you. I'll come back as soon as I'm done here. It's fine. I'm here.”

He was reassuring Lillian in that gentle, soothing tone.

And I lay in the bed, newly gutted, my flesh and blood gone—reduced to “stable.”

I lay still, staring at the blank ceiling. All the pain, the fury, the despair churned in my chest, cooled, and finally congealed into a single, unbreakable slab of ice.

The anniversary was getting closer.

Silvio Como—starting now, there was only one last thing left between us.

A clean end.