Chapter Three: The Face Of Blood
1018 Words
Alessio stared at the clear black-and-white security footage like he saw a ghost.
There she was.
Isobel.
Walking barefoot across the penthouse lobby of Milan’s prestigious Corte Bellissima residence, wearing nothing but the remnants of a torn black gown and his c*m sliding down her thighs.
And beside her…was the boy.
Small. Dark curls. Eyes too sharp for his age. Dressed in a tiny navy pajama set and clutching a stuffed lion in one hand. His other hand was wrapped tightly around hers.
The little bastard looked just like him.
Too much.
Same jawline. Same storm-dark gaze. Same wary alertness, like he already knew the world was dangerous.
“Zoom in,” Alessio barked at his assistant.
The image sharpened.
And then it hit him.
The kid had his dimples—the same one that surfaced only when Alessio wasn’t snarling.
His chest felt like it was shattering into pieces. everything else—the art gala, the orgasm, her smell still on his fingers—blurred behind the thundering in his skull.
Six years.
She’d vanished for six f*****g years.
And now he knew why.
“Find me everything,” he snapped. “Where she lives. Where the kid goes. Who she’s sleeping with. And if I find out anyone in my family helped her disappear…”
His voice dropped to ice.
“They’ll bleed.”
—
Meanwhile at Isobel’s apartment
Isobel closed the door with shaking fingers and locked all five bolts.
Nico stood in the middle of the foyer, yawning, his stuffed lion dropping in his hand.
“Mama?” he asked sleepily. “Why are you wet?”
She blinked down, realizing the evidence of Alessio’s release still glistened between her thighs.
God.
“Just ….champagne,” she whispered and rushed past him, barefoot.
She went straight into the bathroom and began to take a cool shower. She scrubbed every inch of her body until her skin was raw.
But she couldn’t erase the way it had felt. She tried to forget but she just couldn’t.
Alessio. The name rang like a bell in her ear continuously.
The moment their bodies collided, she knew. Deep down. Somewhere her logic hadn’t reached in time.
That voice.
That scent.
She’d let her own ex-husband f**k her raw, and neither of them had known until it was over.
And now…he knew.
Isobel slid down the bathroom wall, robe clutched to her chest, and stared at the pregnancy test lying on the marble counter.
Positive.
Another Ricci baby.
History repeating itself in the cruelest way.
…..
Back in New York
Alessio stood in his war room, shirtless, arms tense as his team displayed dossiers on a massive touchscreen.
Isobel De Luca-Ricci.
Former wife.
Disappeared post-divorce.
Remerged under an alias: Isobel Varelli.
Occupation: International Art Curator
Location: Milan, Italy
Child: Unconfirmed Identity
“She owns no property,” said Gino, one of Alessio’s men. “Rents everything through shells. No known lovers. No bank in her name. But she’s been drawing from an untraceable trust fund…possibly Sicilian.”
Alessio’s teeth clenched. “She’s using blood money from her father’s clan.”
“Want us to bring her in?”
“No,” Alessio said, cold. “I’ll go myself.”
He paused, fingers twitching at his side.
“And find out about the kid. I want a paternity test run before I claim anything.”
—
Back in Milan– The Next Morning
Nico bounced on the hotel bed, watching cartoons while Isobel packed bags frantically.
They had to leave.
She didn’t know if Alessio had recognized her during s*x last night. But even if he hadn’t—he would. And when he did, he’d come like a storm.
“Are we moving again?” Nico asked, voice small.
Isobel paused. Her heart clenched.
This was the seventh move in three years.
She crouched in front of him and cupped hisncheek. “We’re going somewhere safe, amore. Somewhere no one can find us.”
“But I like Milan…”
Her throat tightened. “I know. But you’ll like Paris more.”
He nodded slowly, trusting. Always trusting.
She turned and zipped the suitcase.
Her hands grazed her stomach.
The positive test was in her purse. A new secret. A new child. Another target.
……..
Alessio—That Afternoon.
The jet touched down in Milan.
Alessio didn’t wait for the staircase to be fully lowered before jumping out. His suit jacket whipped in the breeze, and his mind was a cyclone.
He could still taste her.
He could still hear her moans.
She had let him take her like a stranger. Without protest. Without knowing—or pretending not to know.
Which pissed him off more?
That she f****d him and fled again?
Or that the child might be his—and she’d kept him secret?
He strode straight into the waiting car.
“Take me to the Corte Bellissima penthouse. I want eyes on the kid and her in the next ten minutes.”
…….
That Night At Isobel’s Penthouse
She was gone.
The staff reported she’d left an hour ago. No notice. No forwarding address. Only messages left behind.
“Tell no one where I went.”
Alessio stood in the doorway, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the space. It smelled like her. Lavender and paint. His hand brushed the edge of a drawing pinned to the fridge—crayon on white paper.
A stick figure woman.
A stick figure boy.
And a tall, frowning man with black hair standing far away.
Above it, in child handwriting: “I miss my papa.”
Alessio’s heart stopped.
Then his phone buzzed.
Unknown number. A photo attached.
He opened it.
It was Nico—tied to a chair. Duct tape across his mouth.
A man in a ski mask held a gun to the boy’s head.
The message read: “You took something from us, Ricci. Now we take what’s yours. Come alone.
Alessio’s vision blurred red.
They had his son.
And if they touched a single hair on the boy’s head….
There would be nothing left of Milan but blood.
- Writer
