Davina’s POV

I was bleeding and half-conscious, but the girl with the gun didn’t blink—so sure, let’s pretend this isn’t the weirdest day of my life.

“Lie down,” Elena instructed as she lowered me onto the bed. “Dr. Moretti should be here any moment.”

My back hit the mattress, but my mind was still trapped in the chaos of my sister’s engagement dinner—gunfire, screaming, glass shattering. One second we were raising toasts, the next, bodies were hitting the floor.

Are they safe? My sister, my mom, my dad… are they even alive?

The not knowing gnawed at me. It chewed through my chest until it was hard to breathe.

I shifted, wincing as my body protested—and that was when I felt it. The stiff, sticky pull of dried blood between my thighs. I had seen it earlier. So much blood. Too much.

Panic clawed up my throat.

My hands trembled as I pressed them over my stomach, like I could hold everything together with just my fingers. Like I could protect what was still inside me from the wreckage outside.

“Who are you people?” I forced out.

She had Diego’s eyes, only darker, and the same sharp jaw. The resemblance was impossible to miss.

“Who do you think we are?”

Her head tilted—not mocking, not kind. Just enough to make my skin itch.

I glanced at the gun on her hip. “Not the welcoming committee, that’s for sure.”

Her eyes flickered—amused, maybe, or just entertained that I was still talking.

“My brother’s the don of the De Monrroe Mafia.”

“Mafia?” The word scraped out of me. My head swam, my stomach twisted. Not just armed strangers—mafia. That’s what I was caught in.

“Does my sister know?”

Before she could answer, the door swung open.

A man walked in with no reaction to the half-dead girl bleeding on the sheets. He set a black leather medical bag on the floor and looked at me through round, rimmed glasses, like he was about to offer tea and scones.

“Hello, my dear. What’s your name?”

“Davina,” I managed.

“Davina,” he repeated warmly, like we were old acquaintances. “My name is Dr. Moretti. Would you mind answering a few questions for me?”

I nodded. What else was I supposed to do? Say no, and see how fast Elena pulled her gun? I could feel her stare like a second bullet lodged under my skin.

“Wonderful.” He tugged on a pair of black latex gloves with a snap that made me flinch. “How far along are you, Davina?”

The question landed harder than I expected. My throat tightened.

“Eight weeks,” I said, hoarse.

“Excellent, excellent.” He smiled—cheerful, like I’d just told him I won a raffle. “Do you mind if I examine you? You may feel mild discomfort, but there shouldn’t be any pain.”

Again, I nodded. My body ran on autopilot while my mind screamed somewhere far behind.

“Elena,” he said gently, “would you mind giving Davina and me a bit of privacy?”

Elena didn’t look thrilled, but she slipped out without arguing. The door clicked shut behind her, and I let out a shaky sigh.

“Can I ask you something—and will you promise to be honest?”

“As honest as I can be,” Dr. Moretti replied, already rummaging through his bag. He pulled out a sleek, intimidating medical device and began gliding it across my stomach.

“Am I losing the baby?”

The question escaped before I could stop it. My throat tightened, my eyes burned. But I didn’t cry—there was nothing left in me to cry with.

Dr. Moretti didn’t flinch. He placed a liver-spotted hand gently over mine and gave me a steady, unreadable look that somehow made me feel ridiculous for doubting him.

He didn’t answer. Just turned back to his bag, pulled out something small and metallic, and continued the exam in silence.

Then, after a long beat, he exhaled. “I’m afraid miscarrying isn’t today’s problem.”

My heart stuttered. “W-what?”

“The fetus is intact, Davina.” He helped me sit up with surprising tenderness. “I heard a heartbeat—strong as an ox. You’re still pregnant. And from what I can tell, you’re going to stay that way.”

“But… I was bleeding,” I whispered.

“Yes, you were.” He zipped the bag shut with a soft click. “Likely trauma-induced. Stress. It’s not uncommon. Some women experience what’s called a breakthrough period—even in healthy pregnancies. You’ve been through hell, but rest will do the trick.”

I stared at him, willing the words to land.

“You’re sure?”

He gave me a flat look. “I’m old, not senile. You and the baby are stable. But you need rest.”

With a soft grunt, he stood and slung the bag over his shoulder like it was any other day.

“I’ll check on you tomorrow. Try not to do anything dramatic until then.”

I collapsed onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t lose the baby,” I whispered.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I breathed—deep, steady, almost human.

Then the door slammed open and Diego stormed in.

His eyes locked on me, and it was like being struck by lightning. My heart pounded as I jolted upright. His hair was a mess, his shirt clung with sweat, and his knuckles were raw and bloodied—but it was his eyes that terrified me most.

He looked like he could kill someone.

“Nico? Is the baby—”

“Healthy, happy, and perfectly safe,” Dr. Moretti said before he could finish.

Diego gave a sharp nod—curt, detached, like he didn’t care.

But if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have charged in like a man possessed.

It hit me—Diego caring about this pregnancy was a problem. A big one. Because I didn’t want him in my life, in this child’s life, or in whatever twisted version of fatherhood he was already imagining. I owed myself that boundary. I owed it to my sister—if she was still alive.

“Thank you, Nico. Please give us a moment.”

“Of course, sir,” the doctor said, gathering his things and stepping out.

I caught a glimpse of Elena in the hallway before the door closed—and locked her out.

I was alone with him now.

And for the first time that night, I was more afraid of what came next than what had already happened.

Diego dismissed the doctor with a single nod, his attention locked on me like nothing else existed.

The door clicked shut, sealing us in. Elena was gone. The world outside was gone.

Only Diego remained.

I should have felt safer. Instead, every muscle in my body screamed danger.

He stepped closer, bloodied knuckles flexing at his sides. His voice was low, quiet enough to slice through the silence.

“If you ever try to run from me again, Davina… you won’t like what happens next.”

And I realized then—I might fear Diego more than the people who shot up the engagement party.