He Chose His Bastard Over Our Baby - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

I cradled Amara against my chest, her little body growing colder, her breaths fading.
"Please, Lorenzo," I begged, my voice cracking. "She needs you. Our daughter needs you!"
Lorenzo's jaw tightened as his gaze flickered between Amara and the boy beside Isabella—Dante. His son. The battle in his eyes was unmistakable—the hesitation, the crushing weight of an impossible choice.
And then he said it.
"I'm sorry, Valeria."
Those words shattered me worse than any bullet ever could.
My breath hitched. "No…" I shook my head, holding Amara tighter. "No, you don't mean that."
But he did.
Lorenzo turned to Dr. Romano. "Do it. Save Dante."
A raw, broken sob tore from my throat. "Lorenzo—"
He didn't even glance my way.
Doctors scrambled to prep for the transfusion. His men stood like statues, faces unreadable as they watched the legendary Lorenzo De Luca make his choice. Not his daughter. Not our daughter.
I pressed my forehead to Amara's, my tears soaking her icy skin. "I'm here, baby," I whispered. "Mommy's here."
She didn't answer. Didn't move. Her tiny fingers slipped from mine.
And then—nothing.
The world spun. I don't remember screaming, but I must have, because suddenly hands were on me, wrenching Amara from my arms.
"No! Don't take her from me!" I fought, my voice ragged, my body convulsing with sobs.
Lorenzo didn't stop them. He just stood there, his grip on Dante's shoulder, watching as my world crumbled. And in that moment, I knew—I would never forgive him. Not in this life. Not in the next.
The funeral was small. Private.
Rain drizzled down, soaking my black dress, but I barely felt it. I stood at the edge of the grave, staring at that tiny coffin being lowered into the ground. My tears had run dry. There was nothing left inside me—nothing but rage.
Lorenzo stood a few feet away, his men forming a silent barrier around him. He hadn't spoken to me since that night. Hadn't even tried. Not that it mattered. He'd made his choice. And now, my baby—our baby—was gone.
The priest droned on about peace, about God's will. But there was no peace. No divine plan. Just a hollow, aching void where Amara should have been.
Then—movement.
Lorenzo stepped back, phone pressed to his ear, face unreadable. And then he turned. Walked away. Didn't even stay to see her buried.
I already knew why. Isabella. She'd called him. And like a damn fool, he'd gone running.
A bitter laugh rose in my throat, but I choked it down. My nails dug into my palms hard enough to draw blood. Lorenzo De Luca had walked out on his own daughter's funeral because Isabella summoned him.
I should've screamed. Should've begged him to stay. Should've forced him to grieve. But I was too hollow. So I let him go. And as the last shovelful of dirt covered Amara's coffin, I swore—I would never forgive him.
Because the truth was, Isabella had stolen everything from me. She'd left Lorenzo once, chosen another man over him. Then, when that man was gunned down, she came crawling back.
Not just for Lorenzo. But for everything he had. For my daughter's place. For my life.
And Lorenzo—blind, stupid, heartless Lorenzo—had let her.
I stood there until midnight. The cemetery was silent, the only sound the wind whispering through the trees. My legs ached, my body numb from the cold and rain, but I couldn't move. I was empty. Yet my mind wouldn't stop.
Memories flooded in, drowning me in everything I'd lost—everything he'd taken from me.
Lorenzo.
He used to be a good husband, even with the mafia's blood staining his hands. I remembered the night I was kidnapped—the ropes cutting into my—