Leonardo Moretti had been in mid-conversation with a prominent industrialist when Isabella Rossi, a vision of desperate elegance, approached him. Her face was pale, but her eyes held a defiant glint. He knew, instinctively, that she was about to play her final, desperate card.
He inclined his head, leading her to a secluded alcove, his expression one of polite, almost bored, curiosity. He knew Isabella; she was a creature of predictable desperation.
"I'm pregnant," she announced, her voice barely a whisper, yet designed to carry the weight of a bombshell.
She watched his face for a reaction, expecting shock, perhaps even a flicker of panic.
Leonardo, however, merely stared at her, a slow, utterly contemptuous laugh bubbling up from deep within his chest. It was not a boisterous laugh,
