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Behind the warmth I see anxiety, tension. Is this the reaction Dominic inspires? Fear? Has his reputation preceded him even here?
“Ah, Dominic! Last time I saw you in this clinic, you were no bigger than a grape in your mother’s belly,” Dr. Bianchi exclaims, a nostalgic smile on his face.
Dominic manages a strained smile, but his agitation is palpable. “It’s been a long time, Doctor,” he replies curtly.
Dr. Bianchi, seemingly oblivious to Dominic’s mood, ushers us into the examination room. “And who is this lovely lady?” he asks, turning his attention to me.
“This is Isabella,” Dominic introduces me, his voice softening slightly.
“Congratulations to you both,” Dr. Bianchi says as he begins the ultrasound. “Let’s see how your little one is doing.”
As the doctor starts the check-up, the image of our baby appears on the screen, and for a moment, all the tension in the room dissipates. I can’t help but feel a surge of emotion at the sight.
“There you go,” Dr. Bianchi says, pointing at the screen with a twinkle in his eye. “A healthy, growing baby. About ten weeks, I’d say. You can see the jawbone there already, and the upper lip. There’s the heart, you see that?”
Dominic, despite his earlier anger, looks at the screen with a mixture of awe and tenderness. “That’s our baby,” he whispers, more to himself than to anyone else.
“The organs all look like they’re in the right place. You’ve nothing to worry about.”
Dominic’s phone rings and he curses under his breath. “I’ll be right back,” he says, walking out of the room.
The moment he’s gone, Dr. Bianchi’s expression changes. “I’m sorry,” he says, bursting into tears. “He said he’d kill my grandchildren.”
“Who did?” I ask as a side door opens. “Dominic?”
I find myself looking into the eyes of the man I rejected at the screenwriting workshop. Vincent Marconi.
“Hello, Isabella,” Vincent says, pointing a gun at me. “Alone at last. Don’t scream or I kill the doctor. Walk this way, no sudden movements if you please.”
I walk over to him, staring at the gun barrel until he grabs my arm, dragging me out of a back door and into a black car.
He keeps the gun trained on me. “Dominic thinks he’s so clever,” he sneers as he starts the engine. “While his men wasted time watching my double, I made my way here. Now it’s time for us to go somewhere more private before we call your husband. Pass me your cellphone.”
I do as he asks and he slows for long enough to dump it out the window. “Don’t want him tracking us down before we’re ready, do we?” he asks. “Now we can be alone for a while.”
His words send chills down my spine. “Why are you doing this?” I manage to ask, my voice trembling.
He looks at me with hatred. “Because Dominic murdered my sister.”
I look out the window and see the derelict mansion Dominic showed me during our tour of the village.
We pull into the garage. Marconi’s grip on my arm is tight and unyielding as he drags me out of the car and into the building.
12
DOMINIC
“Come on, Isabella, pick up,” I mutter under my breath, a mixture of frustration and fear beginning to set in. I call a third time, my grip tightening around the phone.
Still no answer. The unsettling silence on the other end of the line sends a chill down my spine.
Dr. Bianchi is looking at me in terror from the far side of the room, muttering apologies. “If she’s dead, so are you,” I tell him, loading the tracker on my phone.
“Please,” he replies. “I had no choice.”
“You better pray she’s alive. Don’t even think about running. I’ll find you.”
I sprint outside, climbing into my car, my mind racing with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. Vincent’s killed her. He’s torturing her right now. He’s loading her into a plane.
