His Merciless Redemption novel Chapter 141

Chapter 141

Dominic’s POV

Bringing her home felt wrong.

The villa, which had been warm and loud just days ago for Mateo’s birthday, now felt hollow. Every sound echoed. Every footstep felt too loud against the marble floors.

Alessia walked beside me slowly, supported more by my arm than her own strength. She was pale, and fragile, smaller somehow.

Her parents followed behind us in silence.

No one spoke during the drive home, not even small talk.

The only sound had been the low hum of the engine and the kind of silence that follows something irreversible.

When we reached the house, Maria opened the door quietly and stepped aside. Even she seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere.

Alessia didn’t look at anyone.

She didn’t look at the house.

She didn’t look at the stairs where she had fallen.

Her gaze stayed fixed on nothing, like she was already somewhere else.

I helped her upstairs carefully.

She sat on the edge of her bed and just stayed there unmoving, hands folded in her lap, eyes unfocused.

Her mother knelt in front of her.

“Alessia,” she whispered gently. “Do you want some soup?”

No response.

Her father stood by the window, jaw tight, eyes watching everything.

“I’m not hungry,” Alessia finally said.

Her voice was flat, emotionless, hollow.

Her mother tried again. “You need to eat something.”

“What’s the point?” Alessia murmured.

For the first time since this nightmare began, I felt something solid between us.

Not romance, not even reconciliation, but partnership.

We stood there in silence.

Both grieving. Both exhausted.

And both knowing somewhere in our hearts that this tragedy wasn’t over yet.

A.D

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Chapter 141

Dominic’s POV

Bringing her home felt wrong.

The villa, which had been warm and loud just days ago for Mateo’s birthday, now felt hollow. Every sound echoed. Every footstep felt too loud against the marble floors.

Alessia walked beside me slowly, supported more by my arm than her own strength. She was pale, and fragile, smaller somehow.

Her parents followed behind us in silence.

No one spoke during the drive home, not even small talk.

The only sound had been the low hum of the engine and the kind of silence that follows something irreversible.

When we reached the house, Maria opened the door quietly and stepped aside. Even she seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere.

Alessia didn’t look at anyone.

She didn’t look at the house.

She didn’t look at the stairs where she had fallen.

Her gaze stayed fixed on nothing, like she was already somewhere else.

I helped her upstairs carefully.

She sat on the edge of her bed and just stayed there unmoving, hands folded in her lap, eyes unfocused.

Her mother knelt in front of her.

“Alessia,” she whispered gently. “Do you want some soup?”

No response.

Her father stood by the window, jaw tight, eyes watching everything.

“I’m not hungry,” Alessia finally said.

Her voice was flat, emotionless, hollow.

Her mother tried again. “You need to eat something.”

“What’s the point?” Alessia murmured.

The words hit me harder than I expected.

“What do you mean?” I asked carefully.

She looked up at me then, and the emptiness in her gaze made something inside me twist.

“There’s nothing left,” she said softly. “It’s gone.”

Her hand drifted to her stomach unconsciously.

“My body failed,” she whispered. “I failed.”

“You didn’t fail,” I said immediately.

But she didn’t seem to hear me.

She just stared ahead again.

Her parents exchanged a worried look.

This wasn’t just grief.

This was something darker.

Later that evening, when dinner was brought upstairs, she refused again.

“I don’t want it.”

“Alessia,” her mother insisted gently.

“No.” Her voice sharpened slightly.

I dismissed everyone else quietly.

“Leave it,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”

When the room emptied, I sat beside her with the bowl.

“Just a little,” I said.

Silence.

I scooped a spoonful and held it near her lips.

For a moment, I thought she wouldn’t open her mouth at all.

Then, slowly, mechanically, she did.

She swallowed without tasting.

I fed her another spoonful, and another.

She stopped after four bites.

“I’m tired.”

She lay down and turned away from me.

I stared at the back of her head for a long moment.

She looked so breakable, barely a shell of the woman she once was.

And it terrified me.

Downstairs, her parents were speaking in low tones.

“She cannot stay like this,” her mother said, voice strained. “She won’t survive it.”

“We should take her home,” her father added. “Where she is comfortable.”

“She’s too weak to travel right now,” I said.

“And she refused,” her mother whispered. “She said she doesn’t want to leave.”

They both looked torn.

“We’ll wait a few days,” her father decided. “But this is not healthy.”

I nodded.

It wasn’t.

The entire house felt like it was holding its breath.

Isabella moved carefully through the evening.

She helped Caterina to bed, checked on Mateo, and spoke softly to Maria, giving her appropriate instructions.

She tried to bring tea upstairs once.

Alessia’s mother stopped her at the door.

“She doesn’t need you,” she said coldly.

Isabella didn’t argue. She simply nodded and stepped back.

I saw it happen. I saw the restraint in her posture, the way she swallowed whatever she wanted to say. when I moved towards them, she caught my arm lightly..

“Don’t,” she murmured.

“They have no right-”

. And

“It’s grief,” she said quietly. “Let them.”

It infuriated me anyway.

Later that night, when the house had grown quiet, I found Isabella in the living room.

She was sitting on the couch, staring at nothing. I sat down beside her.

“I don’t like how they’re treating you,” I said bluntly.

She shrugged faintly. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“It’s understandable.”

Her calmness made it worse somehow.

“If it gets too much,” I said firmly, “I’m stepping in. And you don’t get to stop me.”

She looked at me for a long second. Then she nodded.

“Okay.”

The simplicity of it softened something in me.

We sat there in silence for a moment.

“I’m worried about her,” I admitted.

“I know,” she said gently.

“She barely speaks. And when she does, it’s so empty that it hurts to hear.”

“It’s the grief talking, not her,” Isabella finished.

“I know,” I admitted softly. “But I hate seeing her this way.”

Isabella leaned back against the couch. “It will take time,” she said softly. “Losing a child changes you.”

I studied her profile. She was a mother, too. I wished she would never have to go through something like that, ever in her life.

“How is Mateo?” I asked quietly.

She exhaled. “I told him God took Alessia’s baby,” she said. “That’s why she’s sad.”

“And?”

“He’s sad too,” she said. “But he understands.”

There was a softness in her voice when she said that.

“He asked if the baby is with the stars now.”

My throat tightened.

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him yes.”

Silence stretched between us again.

Since this nightmare began, we hadn’t argued, not once. We weren’t circling old wounds like before either. We were just two parents sitting in the quiet aftermath of something devastating.

“I’ll keep checking on her,” I said finally. “Make sure she’s not alone.”

Isabella nodded. “You should. It will take a few days for things to feel normal again.”

Normal.

The word felt distant.

Upstairs, Alessia was lying in a dark room, barely eating, barely speaking.

Her parents were watching her like she might disappear.

The house was heavy with grief.

Q

And somewhere deep inside me, something cold whispered that this wasn’t over, not even close.