She Was Forced to Marry an Infertile Mafia Boss — Months Later, Her Morning Sickness Shocked All
Chapter 3
Three months passed.
Elena learned the rhythm of Vincent’s world.
He left before sunrise.
Returned after midnight.
Held meetings behind locked doors.
Never discussed business at the dinner table.
And never touched her without permission.
Their marriage remained a strange arrangement.
They lived under the same roof.
Shared meals occasionally.
Spoke almost every evening.
But they remained separated by an invisible wall neither dared cross.
Then Vincent got sick.
It happened during a winter storm.
Elena found him sitting alone in the library, one hand pressed against his ribs.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re clearly not.”
He tried to stand.
His knees buckled.
Elena caught him.
For the first time, she felt the full weight of the man everyone feared.
He was human.
Vulnerable.
And exhausted.
She called the family doctor.
The diagnosis was a severe stomach ulcer aggravated by stress.
Vincent hated being cared for.
He complained about the medication.
Refused soup.
Argued with Elena when she told him to stay in bed.
“You’re impossible,” she said.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure.”
For several days, Elena stayed nearby.
She brought him food.
Checked his temperature.
Read books in the chair beside his bed.
One night, Vincent woke and found her asleep there.
He stared at her for several seconds.
Then quietly pulled a blanket over her shoulders.
Elena woke.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“So are you.”
“You need supervision.”
“Apparently.”
She smiled.
It was the first genuine smile between them.
Something changed after that.
Vincent began joining her for breakfast.
They started watching old movies together.
He learned she hated roses but loved sunflowers.
She discovered he secretly liked jazz.
One evening, they stood on the balcony overlooking Chicago.
“You never asked me about the infertility,” Vincent said.
Elena stiffened.
“I didn’t think it was my business.”
“It is now.”
She looked at him.
“My doctors say I can’t have biological children.”
“Are you certain?”
“They tested me repeatedly.”
His voice became quieter.
“I was twenty-six when they told me.”
Elena hesitated.
“That must have been difficult.”
Vincent laughed without humor.
“You have no idea.”
“Did you always want children?”
He looked toward the city.
“Once.”
“And now?”
“I stopped allowing myself to want things I couldn’t have.”
Elena’s heart tightened.
She reached for his hand.
He looked down at their fingers.
Neither moved away.
That night, something unspoken finally broke between them.
The marriage stopped feeling like a contract.
And began feeling dangerously close to something real.
But neither knew that Vincent’s medical records contained a mistake.
A mistake someone had spent years making sure nobody discovered.
