Eight Graves Later, I Stopped Loving Him

Three hours before the alliance union was to be sealed, my betrothed sent word that he would not come for me. Instead, he turned his back on the pact and bound himself to Carmela Rossi before the eyes of the Family.

I stood through the murmurs that moved through the guests like smoke under a door, every whispered word a small knife. Then the younger cousin of my betrothed, Lorenzo Marchetti, pushed open the doors of the hall.

He came with the most extravagant procession the territory had seen in years, black cars gleaming like polished gun barrels, and he laid 1,001 roses at my feet. He confessed he had wanted me for years, that marrying me had always been his quiet dream. Moved by the way he pulled me out of that humiliation in front of the whole Family, I nodded. I gave him my yes on the spot.

In three years of our blood-bound union, I lost seven children before they ever drew breath. And at last I carried again.

Lorenzo was overjoyed. He drew me into his arms, and we turned together in a single slow step, like a dance no one else could see. His voice was full of tenderness when he told me to rest, and he swore on his own life that he would cherish me and the child both.

At three months along, I overheard him in the study with the Family's bought physician. "Don Marchetti, it is done. As before. The drug that empties the womb has been mixed into her milk."

"I confess I do not understand it. If Carmela can give you a son, why not your own wife?"

……

Lorenzo's laugh was low and bitter.

"The Old Don's edict is plain. The bloodline passes to whichever heir first sires a son. Matteo is sterile. Why would I let Elle suffer the shame of being the lesser woman, when I hold every card?"

So all those vows whispered against my hair were nothing but lies. If that was the truth of it, then I would leave.

"By doing this, Don, you give up more than the seat at the head of the Family. You give up the wife who would have stood beside you, the seven children the two of you might have raised under one roof."

"You have had me forge Matteo's medical records for years. He still does not know he can father nothing. If Carmela bears this child, and it can never call you Father, is any of this worth the price?"

Lorenzo's face softened, something between tenderness and sorrow moving behind his eyes.

"And so what if it cannot? I could not take Elle as my bride when it mattered, but I will see her safe and content to the end of her days. No one will take that from her. Not even the child Adriana carries for me."

The physician hesitated, then lowered his voice with quiet urgency. "But your wife. She has lost seven already. If she loses one more, I do not believe she will ever conceive again."

Lorenzo pressed his lips together. After a long pause, he said, "It is fine. I will keep her cared for the rest of my life, whatever comes."

The veins rose along the back of my hand where I gripped the handle of the study door. I was so angry my whole body trembled.

Before he could sense me there, I slipped back to our bedroom and sank to the floor in a daze. All this time I had believed it was my own frail body that had taken seven children from me in three years.

The Old Don, Lorenzo's father, had made the law clear before the whole Family. Lorenzo or Matteo, whichever cousin first produced a son would inherit the Marchetti name and rule the Family in his place.

After so many losses in so short a time, my health had crumbled. Yet I never once complained. I blamed only myself, drowning in guilt that my weakness was holding Lorenzo back from the throne that was his by right.

But in the end, all of it, every ounce of pain and sorrow, had been built on a lie.

Lorenzo had always steered me away from questions, insisting we take no precautions whenever we lay together. He soothed me each time, and with each loss my body grew weaker, my strength breaking apart piece by piece.

I understood now. To Lorenzo, my body and the seven children I had buried were nothing but obstacles in Carmela's path to happiness.

"Adriana, why are you sitting on the floor?" His voice cut through my thoughts as he came into the room. He crossed to me at once, easing me gently to my feet, his face carved with concern.

"It's nothing," I said quietly, forcing a weak smile. "Just a little morning sickness."

He rubbed my back, his touch light, soothing. "Tesoro, you've been pushing yourself too hard. Next time you feel unwell, promise me you'll call for me. It wounds me to think of you suffering alone."

"You've barely slept since the pregnancy. Once our child is born, I'll scold them properly for not taking better care of their mother."

"Here. Drink this. It will help you rest."

I looked down at the milk, and a pang of sorrow swelled in my chest. Would there even be a next time?

Before each of the miscarriages that came before, he had been just as attentive. From the late-night plates he carried to me himself, to the fruit he cut with his own hands because it was my favorite, his tenderness had always felt so real.