The Revenge He Regretted

Chapter 3

POV: Isabella Moretti

The clinic called before my shift ended, and by the time I heard the doctor say my mother needed more help, I already knew where I would have to go.

I stood beside a stack of cargo manifests, one hand gripping my phone while the noise of the terminal continued around me. Engines rumbled beyond the loading bay. Metal containers scraped against concrete, and somewhere behind me, a colleague shouted instructions over the machinery.

I heard none of it clearly.

My attention was fixed on the voice coming through the phone.

“Ms. Moretti, your mother’s condition requires closer monitoring. We have reviewed her latest results, and we are concerned about the strain on her heart.”

I pressed my free hand against the edge of the table.

“How much worse is it?”

There was a brief pause.

“Her condition has become more difficult to manage with the current arrangements. The medical team recommends proceeding with the next stage of treatment rather than continuing to delay it.”

“Then proceed.”

The words came out before I had properly considered them.

“Please, just do whatever she needs.”

“I understand your concern, Ms. Moretti, but there is an outstanding balance that must be addressed before we can proceed with the planned treatment.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

“How much?”

The amount she gave me seemed to drain the strength from my legs.

I had expected it to be expensive. My mother had been ill long enough for me to understand that medical bills did not become smaller simply because I was frightened of them.

But hearing the figure aloud was different.

It was not a number I could recover by skipping a few meals or putting aside whatever remained of my salary at the end of the month. It was more than I could reasonably save in the time available.

“Is there any payment arrangement we can make?” I asked. “I can pay something now and continue paying in instalments. I just need you to begin her treatment.”

“I can make a note of your request, but I need to be clear about the deadline. The outstanding payment arrangements must be settled within seven days for the planned treatment to proceed as scheduled.”

“Seven days?”

“Yes, Ms. Moretti.”

I looked through the glass partition toward the loading area, where workers moved between containers without giving a second thought to the ordinary lives unfolding around them.

Seven days.

I tried to make the words mean something less terrible.

Perhaps I could request an advance on my salary. Perhaps I could take enough extra shifts to make a difference. Perhaps someone would be willing to lend me the money, provided I explained that I would repay it.

Perhaps.

“Is my mother stable?” I asked.

“She is seriously ill, but she is conscious. We are continuing to monitor her condition. We strongly advise you not to delay the recommended treatment beyond the stated arrangements.”

“Can I speak to her?”

“She is available to speak with you when you visit. If you have further questions about the payment, please contact the billing department.”

“Thank you.”

The call ended.

For several seconds, I remained exactly where I was, staring at the dark screen.

Seven days.

I had survived three years of living with consequences I had never wanted. I had learned how to endure whispered conversations when people thought I could not hear them. I had learned how to keep my expression neutral when someone mentioned Adrian Rossi, and how to swallow the explanation that rose to my lips every time his name appeared.

I had learned how to work with a sore wrist, how to accept a position beneath the one I had once held, and how to return home exhausted without allowing myself the luxury of asking why everything had become so difficult.

But none of those lessons had taught me how to produce money I did not have.

“Isabella?”

I looked up.

A colleague stood a short distance away, holding a folder.

“Are you finished with those manifests?”

I blinked, forcing myself back into the terminal.

“Yes. Sorry.”

I took the folder from him and checked the documents. My hands were steady enough, even if my thoughts were not.

There was still work to finish.

And my mother still needed me.

---

By the time I reached the hospital, the afternoon had faded into evening.

I found Elena resting against her pillows, her face pale beneath the soft light above the bed. The sight of her brought a familiar ache to my chest, one I had learned to carry without showing it.

She turned her head when I entered.

“There you are.”

Her voice was quiet, and she paused to catch her breath before continuing.

“I was beginning to wonder when you would come.”

“I told you I would.”

I placed my bag beside the chair and leaned down to kiss her forehead.

“How are you feeling?”

She gave me a look that told me she recognised the question for what it was.

“Like someone who has spent too much time in a hospital bed.”

Despite myself, I smiled.

“That sounds serious.”

“Oh, very serious. I may have to complain to the management.”

Her attempt at humour was small, but it was enough to loosen the tightness in my chest for a moment.

I sat beside her and took her hand.

Her fingers felt warm against mine. I held them carefully, resisting the urge to examine every line of her face for signs of how much worse she had become.

She watched me for a while.

“What happened today?”

“Nothing.”

“Isabella.”

I looked down at our joined hands.

My mother had always possessed an inconvenient ability to recognise a lie before I had finished telling it.

“I had a difficult day at work,” I admitted.

“That is not unusual.”

“No.”

“And yet you look as though someone has told you the world is ending.”

I attempted another smile.

“I promise you, the world is not ending.”

“Then tell me what is wrong.”

I wanted to tell her everything.

I wanted to explain the phone call, the amount of money the hospital needed, and the seven days standing between us and the treatment her doctors had recommended. I wanted to tell her that I had already imagined a dozen possible solutions and found something wrong with every one of them.

But she was lying in a hospital bed, already struggling with an illness she could not simply wish away.

I could not bear to add my fear to hers.

“Nothing I cannot handle,” I said.

She studied me.

“You have been saying that for a long time.”

I lowered my head.

“Because it is true.”

“Is it?”

I had no answer.

She squeezed my fingers gently.

“You do not have to protect me from every unpleasant thing, my love.”

The words nearly undid me.

I leaned forward and rested my forehead against her hand for a moment, taking comfort in the familiar warmth of her skin.

“I know.”

“Then let me worry about you sometimes.”

I closed my eyes.

If she knew what I was trying to protect her from, she would worry about nothing else.

“I am fine, Mama.”

She did not look convinced, but she did not press me further.

Instead, she began asking about my day. I told her about a mistake in one of the cargo records that had taken longer than expected to resolve. I told her about the weather and a colleague who had nearly slipped on the wet floor.

I left out the hospital call.

I left out the deadline.

And I left out the man whose name I could not bear to think about without remembering the look in his eyes when he had confronted me at the terminal.

For a little while, we spoke about ordinary things.

I listened to my mother talk about a neighbour she had not seen in weeks, and I pretended that tomorrow would arrive without bringing another problem with it.

When it was time for me to leave, she held my hand a little longer.

“Whatever it is,” she said, “do not carry it alone.”

I bent to kiss her cheek.

“I will be all right.”

I made the promise because she needed to hear it.

Then I walked out of the room with the knowledge that I had no idea how to keep it.

---

Outside the hospital, I stopped beneath the shelter near the entrance and took out my phone.

Seven days.

The number had followed me from the terminal to my mother’s bedside. Now it stood between me and the only person I believed could make the problem disappear.

My father.

Victor Moretti had never been a man who enjoyed being asked for anything. He preferred to decide what people needed before they could ask, and he expected gratitude for whatever he chose to give.

But he had made me a promise.

I held on to that fact as I opened my contacts and found his number.

Three years ago, when I had been faced with an impossible choice, he had assured me that my mother would receive the care she needed if I cooperated in Adrian’s case. I had resisted him at first. I had questioned him, argued with him, and begged him to find another way.

He had made it clear that there was no other way he intended to offer me.

I had eventually done what he wanted.

The consequences had followed me ever since.

Still, I had believed that at least one thing would come from it. My mother would receive treatment. She would have a chance to recover. Whatever else I lost, I would not lose her because I could not afford to keep her alive.

That was the promise I had carried through the worst days of the past three years.

I could not accept that it had meant nothing.

I slipped my phone back into my bag and straightened.

I would go to his office tomorrow. I would remind him of exactly what he had promised and explain what the hospital had told me.

I would not leave until he understood how little time we had.

For the first time that evening, I allowed myself to imagine that he might actually help.

It was not much hope.

But it was the only hope I had left.