His Forbidden Heir

Chapter 4

DANTE

She was on time today.

I watched her cross the park, wearing sunglasses again, trying to hide. But I saw the fear in the tight set of her shoulders.

He hurt her. Marco put his hands on her, and every instinct I had screamed to paint Chicago red with his blood.

"You came," I said when she reached me.

"I shouldn't have." She was shaking. "Marco knows. About yesterday. He has people following me."

"I know. I had them handled an hour ago."

Her eyes widened. "What does that mean?"

"It means they won't be reporting back to Marco anymore. You're clear."

"You—" She swallowed hard. "You killed them?"

"Killing is messy. I convinced them that their loyalty was… misplaced." I took her elbow, guiding her to a more secluded spot under the trees. "What did Marco do to you?"

"Nothing. He just—" She stopped, wrapped her arms around herself. "He threatened my father. Made it very clear what happens if I step out of line."

Rage, white-hot and barely controlled. "Did he touch you?"

"Not like you're thinking."

"But he touched you." I stepped closer, my hand coming to rest where I knew Marco's had been—her throat. My touch was gentle, reverent. "Here?"

She nodded, barely.

"I'll kill him." The words were a promise. "Slowly."

"No." Her hand covered mine. "That's not why I came. I came to tell you…" She took a breath. "I can't leave him. But I also can't lie to you about the baby. So here's what I'm proposing."

I waited, though patience had never been my virtue.

"I marry Marco. For now. It keeps my father safe and maintains the truce your families need. But…" Her voice dropped. "The baby is yours. After it's born, we can arrange custody. Secretly. Marco never has to know."

"Absolutely not."

"It's the only way—"

"The only way is you coming home with me right now. Tonight." I pulled her closer. "You think I'm going to let you marry him? Let him put his hands on you? Let you carry my child under his roof, pretending it's his?"

"You don't have a choice."

"I always have a choice. So do you." My hand slid to her stomach. "This baby deserves better than a life built on lies. You deserve better."

"Better?" She laughed, brittle. "You don't know me, Dante. That night? I was running from my life, from everything. You were an escape. A beautiful, reckless escape. But that's all it was."

"You're lying again."

"I'm being realistic. You live in a world where people die for looking at you wrong. Where loyalty is blood and betrayal is a death sentence. I can't bring a baby into that."

"And Marco's world is different?" I challenged. "He's in the same business, Aria. The same violence. The only difference is, I would never threaten you. Never use your family as leverage. Never make you feel like you're anything less than—"

"Than what?" Her voice broke. "What am I to you, really? The woman you slept with once? The vessel carrying your heir? Another acquisition?"

The question hit harder than expected.

What was she to me?

Six weeks earlier, I would've said a mistake. A moment of weakness when I let my guard down with a stranger in a hotel bar. She'd been drinking wine alone, looking lost, and something in me had recognized that lostness. We'd talked—really talked—for hours before I'd even touched her.

She'd told me about her father's illness (a lie, I now knew—it was debt, not illness), about feeling trapped, about wanting one night where she wasn't responsible for everything.

And I'd given her that night. Given her myself in a way I hadn't given anyone since.

"You want the truth?" I said roughly. "I don't know what you are to me. But I know I haven't been able to think about anything else for six weeks. I know that seeing you with Marco made me want to burn the world down. And I know that baby you're carrying? It's mine. Not through some legal contract or arranged marriage, but because you let me in. You chose me that night."

"One night of choice doesn't erase everything else."

"So choose again." I cupped her face in both hands. "Choose me. Choose this. I know it's insane. I know we barely know each other. But tell me you don't feel this." I leaned in, my forehead against hers. "Tell me you don't feel the way everything aligns when we're close. Tell me, and I'll walk away."

Her breath came short, fast. "I can't."

"Can't what? Tell me or walk away?"

"Both. Neither. I don't—" She pulled back suddenly, eyes wide with panic. "Someone's watching."

I turned, scanning the area. There—black sedan, tinted windows, parked too long in a no-parking zone.

"Marco's men?"

"No." Her voice went cold. "Yours."

I followed her gaze and spotted the silver SUV. My family's signature vehicle. And standing beside it, watching us with calculating eyes, was my uncle—Salvatore Caruso, consigliere to my father.

"Merda," I cursed.

"Who is that?"

"My uncle. He's—" I am cut off as Salvatore approached, his expression unreadable.

"Dante." He stopped ten feet away, respectful of the distance. "Your father wants to see you. Immediately."

"I'm busy."

"It's not a request." His eyes flicked to Aria, dismissive. "Send your… friend home. Family business."

"She is family business."

Salvatore's eyebrows raised. "Is she now? And does Marco Valenti know you're claiming his fiancée as family?"

Aria went rigid beside me.

"She's not his—"

"Yet." Salvatore smiled coldly. "But she will be. In three months. Unless you plan to violate the truce we just brokered and start a war over a woman."

"She's pregnant. With my child."

The words hung in the air like a bomb.

Salvatore's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened. "Is this true?"

Aria swallowed hard. "I don't have to answer to—"

"Yes," I cut in. "It's mine."

"And does Valenti know?"

Silence.

"Interesting." Salvatore pulled out his phone, typed something. "Your father will want to hear this personally. Both of you. Come."

"She's not going anywhere near—"

"It wasn't a request, Dante." His tone hardened. "You've just complicated an already delicate situation. The Don will decide how to proceed. Now, let's go before Marco's surveillance spots us and this gets even messier."

Aria looked at me, terror in her eyes. "Dante—"

"It'll be okay." I took her hand, squeezing. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"You can't promise that."

She was right. In my world, promises meant nothing. Only power mattered.

And right now, my father held all of it.

---

Twenty minutes later, we were in my family's estate—a fortress disguised as a mansion in Lincoln Park. Salvatore led us through marble halls hung with Renaissance paintings worth millions, past soldiers who straightened at my approach, into my father's study.

Don Antonio Caruso sat behind his desk like a king on a throne—silver hair, sharp suit, eyes that had seen five decades of violence and betrayal. My mother had died when I was ten. He never remarried. Never needed to. Power was his only mistress.

"Dante." He didn't stand. Didn't smile. "And this must be Marco Valenti's fiancée."

"Aria Romano," she said, voice steadier than I expected. "Sir."

"Sit." He gestured to the chairs opposite his desk. We sat. "Salvatore tells me you're carrying my grandson."

Aria's hand went to her stomach. "I—yes."

"And that Marco Valenti believes he's the father?"

"He doesn't know. Yet."

"Yet." My father steepled his fingers. "An interesting situation. My son impregnates my enemy's bride-to-be, and we're supposed to maintain peace." His eyes cut to me. "Explain."

"It was before the engagement," I said. "Before the truce was even discussed. We didn't know who each other were."

"But you know now."

"Yes."

"And yet you continue to meet. To plan. To complicate what should be a simple political arrangement." He leaned forward. "Tell me, Dante—what exactly were you thinking?"

"That she's mine. The baby is mine. I'm not letting Valenti—"

"What you want is irrelevant." His voice cut like a blade. "What matters is the family. The business. The peace we desperately need after three years of bloodshed." He turned to Aria. "How much does your silence cost, Miss Romano?"

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Name your price. Money, property, relocation. What will it take for you to marry Valenti, keep quiet about my grandson's paternity, and disappear from Dante's life?"

My blood turned to ice. "Father—"

"Silence." He didn't look away from Aria. "Well?"

She sat there, shell-shocked, and I saw the moment she broke. Tears spilled over, and she stood abruptly.

"I'm not for sale." Her voice shook. "Not anymore. Not to Marco, not to you, not to anyone." She looked at me, and in her eyes, I saw goodbye. "I'm done. With all of this. Figure out your war without me."

She turned to leave.

"Sit down," my father commanded.

"No." She kept walking.

"If you leave this room, I'll have Salvatore call Marco personally. Tell him everything. And we both know what he'll do to your father."

Aria stopped at the door, her hand on the handle.

"Aria." I stood. "Don't."

"He's right," she whispered. "Whatever choice I make, people die. My father, your family, innocent people caught in the crossfire." She turned, and her expression destroyed me—resigned, broken. "So here's what's going to happen. I'm going to marry Marco. I'm going to have this baby. And when it's born, I'm going to tell him the truth."

"He'll kill you," I said flatly.

"Maybe. But at least the war stays ended. At least my father gets to live." She met my father's eyes. "That's my price, Don Caruso. Let my father live, no matter what happens to me. Can you promise that?"

My father studied her for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he nodded. "You have my word."

"Good." She looked at me one last time. "I'm sorry. For all of it."

Then she was gone, the door closing behind her with terrifying finality.

I moved to follow, but my father's voice stopped me.

"Let her go."

"She's carrying my child—"

"And she just sacrificed herself to save her father and maintain peace. Honorable." He poured whiskey, slid a glass toward me. "But foolish. Marco will never accept another man's child. The moment he learns the truth, he'll kill her."

"Which is why I'm not letting her go through with this wedding."

"You don't have a choice."

"The hell I don't." I downed the whiskey in one burn. "She's mine. That baby is mine. And I will burn the whole f*****g city before I let Marco Valenti have either of them."

My father smiled—cold, calculating. "Good. That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

I froze. "What?"

"The truce was always temporary. Convenient. But Valenti has been expanding into our territory, making moves, building alliances. We need a reason to strike first." He stood, moving to the window. "A stolen bride carrying a Caruso heir? That's worth a war."

Horror dawned. "You're using her."

"I'm using the situation. Just like you should be." He turned. "Take her. Tonight. Before the wedding. Make Marco come for her. When he does, we'll be ready."

"And if she dies in the crossfire?"

"Then make sure she doesn't." His smile widened. "You claim to want her, Dante. Prove it. Take what's yours and damn the consequences."

I stared at my father—at the Don who raised me, taught me, shaped me into his weapon.

And I realized Aria was right about me.

About all of us.

We were monsters.

The only question was: which monster would she choose?