Screech!

A Rolls Royce came to a sudden stop, but not before it hit me! I fell to the ground, hard. Scrapes and bruises start to show all over my body, but what alarmed me the most is the splatter of blood pooling around me as I lay in a supine state. What I suspected all along turned out to be true, after all. I was pregnant, but given the amount of blood I lost, I believe I just had a miscarriage.

In a daze, I peered at the flurry of activity inside the car. The driver, a woman in her twenties, looked familiar. Then it dawned on me. She is my boyfriend’s assistant. Next to her is Rocco Romano, my Italian boyfriend.

They both got out of the vehicle. My boyfriend seems to be in a daze. He was just standing there, looking down quizzically at the pool of blood on the pavement. His assistant, named Bianca Rossi, was fluttering her eyelashes at the policeman investigating the case.

The policemen let them go after she made a promise to sign some documents at the police station. She pulled at Rocco’s arm, insisting they needed to go as he still had to attend a very important meeting. Rocco took a long look at me, then reluctantly got in the vehicle.

I was near the entrance to the hospital, and it only took minutes for the attendants to rush me to the emergency room. After a series of tests, the doctor declared that I had a miscarriage.

I sat there, feeling utterly numb. Tears streamed down my face for the life that had once been a part of me. As I approached thirty, my longing for a child grew more desperate; I believed that having a baby would deepen my bond with Rocco.

When the doctor delivered the devastating news that my chances of conceiving again were slim, I cried out in anger and injustice. I cursed Bianca for her recklessness that had put me in this situation, and I hated Rocco for just standing there, seemingly powerless, and doing nothing to help me.

Rocco called me from New York as he flew there directly after my accident. I waited for him to ask me if I was alright, but all he did was talk about work and that it was freezing cold out there compared to Chicago. It was as if nothing had happened, as he did not mention my accident. Did he forget that I was in the hospital?

“Your bath’s getting cold.” Who was that? The voice sounded familiar. When the woman giggled, I realized it was none other than Bianca! She had been with him the entire time I was in the hospital, alone and afraid. I tried to convince myself that it was normal for an assistant to accompany her boss on work assignments, but my inner voice whispered that there are limits to employer-employee relationships—like preparing a bath for a man. I tried to banish the images from my mind, but they stuck stubbornly.

No one came to visit me at the hospital during the three days I was confined. No one came to hold my hand when my blood sample was extracted. The hospital staff looked at each other when, upon the date of my discharge, no one came to pick me up. Still reeling from the loss of blood and the aftereffects of medicines, I refused their help and hailed a taxi to go home to our apartment.

His car was left in the garage as he took a plane to New York. I inspected the hood, looking for signs of my accident. There it is! A broken headlight. I glanced inside the car, its interior dim due to the car’s tint. But something caught my eye—a flash of pink wedged in between the front seats.

Curiosity gripped me as I pulled open the car door, my breath hitching in my throat. My eyes widened at the sight before me. Oh my God! Is it what I think it is? My heart raced, pounding in my chest like a war drum. I reached down, trembling, and lifted up the soft fabric—my worst fears came crashing down.

There it was, tangled in the plush upholstery: delicate lace, a shimmering hue, and unmistakable for its shape! It’s something every woman dreads to find in her lover’s car—a silent testament of betrayal and infidelity!

Wedged between the seats of the Rolls Royce lay a pink lace bra, size 36C. It certainly wasn't mine, and I could only think of one woman who wore that size—Bianca!

“I’ve come to accept your job offer, Mr. Garcia, and will start as soon as possible.” Mr. Garcia sounded delighted. He thought that I didn’t know that he had an ulterior motive in hiring me, and that is to get inside information about Romano Holdings, Inc. He is a linchpin from a rival Mafia group, Lombardi, Ltd.

My boyfriend also tried to keep his involvement with the Mafia hidden, especially from the media and from me. Trying to keep a low profile while generating much wealth proved to be impossible. Such a fact often doesn't go unnoticed to a discerning eye. His unimaginable wealth came from centuries of Mafia-related transactions, tracing back its roots to Italy. He is the only heir to Romano Holdings, Inc., a multinational conglomerate specializing in food distribution and secretly funded by the Romano Mafias run by his father.

Rocco emerged from the shower, beads of water still clinging to his skin. His damp hair sent a thrill of excitement coursing through me. “He still excites me,” I thought, but I tried to suppress my feelings; he had grown so distant since hiring Bianca. Even in the shower, he had brought his cellphone, continuing his conversation with a woman—presumably Bianca. He tried to excuse himself, insisting that work took precedence over everything, even his bath time. I nodded at him, a guarded expression on my face.

It would be foolish to believe that no woman could fall for him, given his status and power. He stood tall and muscular, his tanned skin glowing and his full beard exuding strength. He resembled a god, and women were drawn to him like moths to a flame. I couldn't blame them; I had once been one of them, worshiping the ground he walked on, yearning for him to notice me.

I had no idea what drew him to me in the first place. I was just an ordinary employee in his company. Perhaps it was my air of innocence and childlike spirit—qualities he hadn’t encountered before among his countless women. At this very moment, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had once been a novelty to him, but now that novelty had faded.

“Who were you talking to just now?” he asked, not even looking up from his phone.

“No one. Just some random guy selling insurance.”

He reached for his cup of herbal tea and was surprised to see that I haven’t made one. He looked skeptically at me, but decided to change the topic.

“I received your x-ray and showed it to our company physician. He said it’s nothing serious, just a minor injury that will heal after a week. Just keep the wound dry so that it will not get infected.”

I simply nodded at him, my mind intent on drafting my resignation letter. I may have appeared nonchalant on the outside, but inside, I was seething with hurt and frustration. He had no idea I had six stitches on my leg from the accident; all he seemed concerned about were broken bones. My injuries ran deeper than the physical; they cut to the very core of my being. The loss of a child is a pain no parent can speak about lightly, a sorrow that twists your heart and leaves you feeling utterly alone.

I decided not to tell him about my miscarriage.The bond that should have drawn us closer is now gone. What purpose would it serve to tell him? It wouldn’t bring back our dead child, or heal the deep ache in my heart. I found myself struggling in silent grief, feeling more alone than ever in a relationship that once held much promise.

He was puzzled about what I was doing, as I was barely listening to him. He glanced at my phone, but then his phone rang. He smiled and was about to disappear into his study, but I stopped him in his tracks.

My fingers trembled as I reached into my bag, my eyes flickering with a mix of worry and apprehension. “There is something I am going to show you,” I said. “It’s something I saw wedged between the seats. You can’t say it’s mine because it’s not. Can you explain why you have it?”

Rocco’s brow furrowed, a flash of confusion crossing his face. “What is it? Tell me now! Don’t keep me waiting because you know how I am when I’m angry!”

As he leaned closer, the tension thickened , a charged silence filling the space between us. My heart was racing. I kept the thing hidden, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You might want to sit down for this…”

Rocco's eyes narrow, suspicion sparking. “Isabella, what have you—”

I held the lacy bra for his view. "This definitely is not mine.” He stood there, stunned. Then he slowly came near me, snatched the garment away from me, and walked away.

I opened my secret Instagram account and scrolled through his feed. There was a new entry. The words were so sweet that I felt sadness sweeping over me. It was addressed to Bianca.

“I should have been a better boss and skipped a boring business dinner. Tomorrow, my dear assistant, the night will be ours. Cheers, and keep the champagne on ice.”

I feel like crying, but I liked the post. I received a notification and saw the contract sent by Mr. Garcia. With fingers crossed, I uttered a silent prayer for my future. Without hesitation, I affixed my e-signature to the document.

It was early morning, and Rocco had instructed one of his men to buy chocolate and peanut bagels from a well-known bakery. As I was hungry, I was about to take a chocolate bagel, but he slapped my hand away and told me to pick the peanut bagel.

Shocked, all I could do was stare at him. We’ve been together for four years, and still he forgot that I am allergic to peanuts. I have an anaphylactic reaction to nuts and almost died of complications a few months ago when Bianca gave me peanut butter cookies, which she made. She must have known I was allergic to peanuts (she had access to HR documents), but she so conveniently forgot to tell me that the cookies had peanuts in them.

“Four years is a long time to get to know me well. In all those years, didn’t you know that I’m allergic to peanuts and almost died eating them?” Tears threaten to fall down my cheeks.

He stared at me, suddenly recalling that fateful night when paramedics rushed me to the hospital, bloated and struggling to breathe. Without swift medical intervention, I would have died.

His face flushed, and he couldn’t meet my gaze. What kind of man forgets the life-threatening moments of his girlfriend?

In order to hide his embarrassment, he assumed an aggressive stance. “You’re already old enough to protect yourself. You don’t need to use your imperfections against me to play victim and gaslight me! He grabbed me by the arm, his action hurting me. He gritted his teeth, then whispered harshly in my ear, “You don’t know the things I’m capable of doing.”

“I do,” I silently whispered to myself. I’ve heard of some Mafia atrocities going on in downtown Chicago and knew that Rocco was in the middle of it all. I’ve heard him having secret phone conversations and talking about ambush, kidnappings, and even murder. To what extent his evildoings were, only he himself knows. But I guess the police already had a clue, as I’ve seen plainclothesmen secretly following me and observing my every move. They thought that by tailing me, his girlfriend, I would unknowingly reveal some clues about his clandestine activities.

It was our first real fight. I am usually submissive by nature and avoid confrontations whenever possible. On some days when we had disagreements, I was the one who always crawled back to him and asked for forgiveness even though it wasn’t my fault. I tried to keep peace whenever possible, even to the point of agreeing with him at all times. “Sentimental fool,” I chastised myself.

But this time, something snapped inside me. My inner child could no longer be summoned. In its place, a demon reared its ugly head and took over my entire being.

I went to the kitchen and got the lacy bra from the garbage can. He threw it away after I gave it to him. But I have kept it solely for occasions like this.

I went back to the living room and handed him the undergarment. “Please give this back to Bianca, your girlfriend. I don’t want to see it; it’s too garish in color and stinks a lot.” I threw the bra at his face and walked away. He tried to stop me from leaving, but I was too fast for him. I ran to the street, got into my car, and sped away.

I looked in the rearview mirror. He was shaking his fist at me and shouting, “She’s not my girlfriend!”

He ran after my car, his anger palpable even at a distance. I revved up, frightened of a Mafia boss chasing me! Noooo! Stop chasing me please! Panic surged, I lost concentration and slammed the car into a post! The airbag deployed, a cloud of white bursting around me, and then everything went black. The last thing I remembered was the fury in his eyes!