Chapter 4

Seraphina POV:

Dante showed up at the hospital the next day. He didn't come out of concern. He came for damage control, to protect the pristine public image of his legitimate businesses.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice devoid of any real warmth. He stood by the door, as if afraid to get too close.

My silence seemed to irritate him. It was a challenge to his authority. His eyes fell on the Florence travel brochure on my bedside table. A flicker of suspicion crossed his face. He probably thought I was plotting some kind of revenge.

"Isabella suggested I come," he said coldly. "She was worried you might file a lawsuit. It would be bad for the family's reputation."

The sheer audacity of it almost made me laugh. "I don't want anything from you," I said, turning my head to look out the window.

He stepped closer, his presence filling the small room. He reached out as if to adjust my pillow, a gesture of condescending charity. His fingers brushed against my hair, and I flinched, the contact feeling like a violation.

Just then, Isabella swept into the room, her eyes zeroing in on his hand near my head. She immediately looped her arm through his, a possessive anchor. Dante straightened instantly, moving away from my bed as if I were contagious.

"Darling," Isabella said, her voice sweet as poison. "We shouldn't impose. After all," she looked directly at me, "it wouldn't be right for my fiancé to be paying so much attention to another woman."

She was publicly branding me as a homewrecker, a threat.

A nurse came in and suggested I get some fresh air in the hospital's sunroom. Isabella insisted they accompany me, a perfectly crafted performance of concern for the benefit of anyone watching.

As a young orderly pushed my wheelchair through the grand lobby, past a large, ornate fountain, Isabella suddenly stumbled. She let out a dramatic cry and fell sideways into the shallow water.

Dante pulled her out, his face a mask of fury. He turned on me, his eyes blazing. In front of a dozen onlookers-family associates and civilians alike-he pointed a trembling finger at me.

"What the hell did you do?" he roared. "You pushed her! You're a jealous, insane bitch!"

Before I could even process the accusation, he grabbed the handles of my wheelchair. With a violent shove, he sent me careening into the icy water of the fountain.

The impact sent a fresh wave of agony through my collarbone. I felt the stitches tear. The cold water stung the open wound, and I saw the water around me turn pink, then red.

Dante loomed over me, his face twisted with disgust. "Stay the hell away from us," he snarled, his voice a low, brutal promise. The ultimate payment of a blood debt, delivered in public and sealed with my own blood.