His Merciless Redemption novel Chapter 145

Chapter 145

Dominic’s POV

After the meeting with Dr. Ferraro, I sat beside Alessia’s hospital bed again.

She looked fragile in daylight. Not physically weak anymore, the transfusions had helped, but emotionally hollow.

“You remember Sicily?” I asked lightly.

Her eyes flickered. “Sicily?” she repeated.

“When we were kids,” I said. “Your father yelling at us for climbing the olive trees.”

A faint twitch of her lips. “You fell,” she murmured.

“I didn’t fall. I jumped.”

“You cried,” she corrected softly.

I huffed a quiet laugh. “I was nine.”

“You were dramatic.”

That was more words than she’d spoken in days. I leaned back slightly, feeling more relaxed than I’d felt in days.

“You used to chase me with that wooden spoon your mother kept in the kitchen.”

“You deserved it,” she said, and this time the corner of her mouth lifted properly.

Her mother, seated on the other side of the bed, let out a quiet, relieved breath. Encouraged, I continued.

“You remember Milan? Our first big contract presentation?”

She nodded slowly. “You spilled wine on the investor,” she said faintly.

“He leaned into me.”

“You were nervous.”

“I wasn’t nervous.”

“You practiced that speech twelve times.”

I smiled despite myself. “That was strategic preparation.”

She studied me more closely now.

“You always stood in front,” she said quietly. “At meetings. At parties. You made sure no one spoke over me.”

Because you were valuable to the business. Because you were efficient. Because you were—

I stopped that thought.

“We made a good team,” I said instead.

“We went everywhere together,” she whispered. “Rome. Paris. Zurich.”

Her father stepped closer now. “You both worked very hard,” he added warmly. “Those were good years.”

Alessia nodded slowly. “It felt… full,” she said.

And for the first time since the overdose, she wasn’t whispering about emptiness. She was remembering fullness.

Her mother wiped her eyes discreetly. And I felt relief spread slowly through my chest as Alessia smiled after what felt like ages.

This was working. This was helping.

Then her hand drifted to her stomach, and the air shifted again.

“Our baby won’t hear any of that,” she said quietly.

Silence.

Her fingers pressed lightly against the hospital gown.

“He won’t climb trees,” she whispered. “Won’t attend meetings. Won’t listen to us fight about who spilled wine.”

Her voice began thinning again. I saw it happening. The retreat. The spiral.

Before I could respond, her mother stepped forward. “We can have another baby,” she said gently but firmly.

Everything stopped. I turned sharply to look at her. Even Alessia’s father stiffened.

Alessia blinked. “Another?” she breathed.

“Yes,” her mother continued, voice trembling but hopeful. “You’re young. There can be more joy. More life.”

Alessia’s eyes snapped to mine. And when they did, they were full of hope. Pure, desperate hope.

“We could,” she whispered. “We could try again.”

My stomach dropped. No. This was not happening.

I opened my mouth to correct it. To clarify. To explain.

But then I saw it.

The color returning to her cheeks. The light flickering back into her eyes. For the first time since the miscarriage, she looked alive. She looked hopeful.

And if I took that away right now, if I said no, would she retreat again? Would we end up back on that balcony?

“We can think about it,” I heard myself say.

The words tasted wrong, sounded wrong.

“But first you need to recover. Physically. Mentally.”

She barely heard the condition, her entire face lighting up.

“You’d want that?” she asked.

I hesitated for half a second too long. But she filled in the silence herself.

“We’ll have a baby,” she said softly. “We’ll do it right this time.”

Her parents exchanged relieved glances. I forced a neutral expression, and she kept talking. About names. About decorating. About how next time she wouldn’t walk alone down stairs.

It was the most animated she had been in weeks.

And everyone in that room looked grateful.

Everyone except me.

Later, when I stepped out into the corridor, Alessia’s mother followed.

“Dominic,” she called softly.

I turned sharply. “Why would you say that?” I demanded under my breath. “Why would you promise something like that?”

Tears welled in her eyes immediately. “You saw her,” she whispered. “You saw how she changed.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“She was disappearing,” she said, voice breaking. “I was watching my daughter fade in front of me.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Now she has hope.”

ilt on what? A future I had no right to promise?

eeds something to hold on to,” her mother said. “Please.”

he word wasn’t manipulative. It was desperate.

“Just until she’s stronger,” she continued. “Until she stabilizes.”

I ran a hand down my face. “This is not a small thing.”

“I know.”

“You’re asking me to lie.”

“I’m asking you to save her.”

I closed my eyes briefly. Because the worst part?

I understood.

If giving her this illusion kept her alive, was it truly a lie? Or a bridge?

“She stood by you,” her mother said quietly. “When everyone else thought you’d lost everything.”

The words hit exactly where they were meant to. She had. When I believed Isabella was dead. When my organization was fractured. When I was unraveling. Alessia had been there, steady, present and loyal.

Now it was my turn. And I couldn’t walk away.

“I’ll manage it,” I said finally.

Her mother exhaled shakily in relief. “Thank you.”

As she walked back into the room, I remained in the hallway. And disgust crept in slowly. Not at her. At myself.

Because I knew exactly what this meant.

Every word I had spoken inside that room, every memory I had shared, every promise implied, was something I should have been building with Isabella, the woman I loved, the woman I had nearly lost because of misunderstandings and ego.

And here I was, feeding hope to another woman.

Because guilt demanded it.

Because responsibility required it.

But in the quiet of that hospital corridor, one truth settled heavily over me that I was standing on a line I should never have crossed. And I didn’t know how much longer I could pretend this was only about saving

someone.

Because the cost of this ruse was already beginning to feel dangerously high.