His Ruthless Redemption (Isabella and Dominic) novel Chapter 230

Chapter 230

Dominic’s P

I had never liked hospitals, most people didn’t. But until today, I had disliked them for the same reasons everyone else did- the smell of antiseptic, the sterile white walls, the commant reminders of sickness and pain.

Now, I hated them

Because every corndor, every passing nurse, every beep of a monitor felt like a reminder of what we’d lost

Our baby

The words still didn’t feel real. Every time they crossed my mind, I expected someone to correct me, to tell me there had been a mistake. That the doctor had read the results wrong.

That everything was fine. That Isa was still pregnant. That our baby was still alive.

But nobody corrected me. Because it was true, painfully, devastatingly true.

I stared down at the cup of fresh fruit juice in my hand.

One of the nurses had suggested Isabella try drinking something later.

She hadn’t eaten anything, had barely spoken, had mostly cried herself into exhaustion before finally falling asleep into a rather restless sleep.

The thought alone nearly brought me to my knees.

I turned the corner leading back towards her room. And stopped.

My mother was walking towards me. For a second, neither of us moved.

Then, I noticed her face. Her eyes were red and swollen, the kind of swollen that only came from crying for hours.

And suddenly I wasn’t looking at Caterina Russo anymore.

I was looking at a grandmother who had lost her grandchild before ever getting the chance to meet them. The sight nearly broke me.

Without a word, I set the juice down on a nearby chair.

Then I walked straight to her. The moment I reached her, she wrapped her arms around me.

And that was it. The last bit of control I had left disappeared. I buried my face against her shoulder like I hadn’t done since I was a boy. And for the first time since the doctor had spoken those three awful words, I allowed myself to stop pretending to be strong

My mother held me tightly, one hand running through my hair, the way she used to when I was a child. When everything hurt and she could somehow make it better. Only this time neither of us could make anything better.

We simply stood there bolding each other, grieving for the baby, for Isabella, for the future we’d all started imagining.

Eventually she pulled back enough to look at me and a fresh wave of tears gathered in her eyes.

“My poor boy

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Chapter 230-

Haugheil bitterly and the sound came out broken. “Not exactly a boy anymore.”

“You’ll always be my boy.”

That only made my throat tighten further.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then she reached up and brushed away a tear I’d missed. The gesture was so gentle that it nearly destroyed me.

“It won’t always feel like this.”

I looked away.

Because I wasn’t sure I believed her.

My mother sighed softly. “It won’t go back to normal tomorrow.” Her voice trembled, “Or next week. Or maybe even next year.”

I swallowed hard.

“But eventually you’ll learn how to live with it.”

The words settled heavily between us.

Learn how to live with it.

Not move on, not forget, simply learn how to carry it. The grief. The absence. The hole our child had left behind.

I nodded slowly. “I’ll try.”

And I meant it. For Isa, for Mateo, for my mother, for the child/we’d lost, I would try.

But the truth was, there was another problem, one that terrified me almost as much as losing the baby.

I looked down at the floor. Then smiled sadly, a smile that didn’t feel remotely genuine. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

My mother frowned. “What do you mean?”

I let out a slow breath. “Isa’s done.”

ľ Her expression immediately changed going from confusion to concern to heartbreak as she understood what I meant. “What happened?”

I laughed softly but there was no humor in it. “She’s ured.” My voice cracked. “Tired of me. Tired of waiting. Tired of the chaos. She wants nothing to do with me anymore.”

For several seconds my mother simply stared at me.

Then something inside her softened and more tears gathered in her eyes, not for herself but for us. For what we’d become “Oh, Dominic.” The sadness in her voice was almost unbearable. “She’s been through so much.”

I nodded.

Because that was the problem. She wasn’t wrong. Neither of them were. Isa had been through more than most people experienced in a lifetime. The Vitellis. The mafia. The separation, Raising Mateo alone. Alessia. The kidnapping,

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And now this.

Now the loss of our baby.

A few tears slipped down my face. I didn’t bother hiding them. “She deserves better.” The words escaped before I could stop them.

My mother immediately shook her head. “No.

I looked up and she cupped my face in both hands. “You both deserved better.”

The distinction mattered. And somehow, it made me cry harder.

She pulled me into another hug, holding me tightly the way only mothers could. Eventually she pulled back.

Taking a steadying breath, she asked, “What happened?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“With Isabella.” Her expression hardened slightly. “Why was she out so late?”

The question hit me like a punch.

Because in my grief, I’d almost forgotten, not the kidnapping itself but the details. The rage. The betrayal.

My jaw clenched immediately.

And then I told her everything about the office, the security footage, the man carrying Isa unconscious from the elevator, then the call from Alessia, finding Vittoria, the threats, not leaving out a single detail.

By the time I finished, my mother’s face had gone pale. Then farious. Then ashamed.

The transformation was almost painful to watch.

“She did what?” The words came out in a whisper.

I nodded.

My mother closed her eyes. For a long moment she simply stood there, Ailent and aghast.

And when she opened them again, they were shining with tears. “She’s my sister.” The words sounded broken, not defensive. She was clearly devastated, ashamed and angry. As though Vittoria’s actions reflected on her somehow.

I reached for her hand.

“Mamma-”

“No.” She shook her head. “That poor girl. She should never have had to go through this.”

“No.” I swallowed. “She shouldn’t.”

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