The silence in the mansion was heavier than usual. Not just heavy—but dense. It hung in the air like a warning. Casey could feel it in the floorboards, in the way the windows seemed to breathe cold air, in how Ivan hadn't spoken a full sentence all morning.
And when Ivan Park went quiet… something terrible was on the horizon.
She found him in the study, drinking his fifth black coffee. He didn't look up.
"What are we waiting for?" Casey asked.
He didn't answer immediately. Just stared at the fire like it had answers.
"I swore I'd never let him near my child," he finally said. "Not even close."
"You mean your father?"
Ivan's jaw tightened like it might crack. "He doesn't deserve the word."
It happened an hour later.
Three black Bentleys rolled up the driveway in perfect synchronization, like some dark parade. Mirella, ever ready, stood on the roof with binoculars and a crossbow that looked illegal in three countries.
Luca opened the door with an exaggerated sigh. "Should I roll out the red carpet or call an exorcist?"
The first man who stepped out was tall, old enough to be Ivan's father, but his presence… it was like Ivan's squared. Suited in black, silver-streaked hair combed back, a gold crucifix around his throat—and not an ounce of warmth in his stare.
"Where is she?" he asked in a voice that silenced even the birds.
Ivan stood at the door. "You're not stepping inside."
Casey stayed behind him, instinctively protective of the baby she carried. Their baby.
The man's eyes found her anyway. His stare sharp, calculated.
"So," he said coldly, "this is the womb."
Casey's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?!"
Ivan moved fast—faster than she'd ever seen. He grabbed his father by the collar and shoved him against the car.
"You don't speak to her. Ever."
His father smirked. "Still soft when it comes to women. Just like your mother."
That punch? It was heard two streets over.
The confrontation ended with blood, threats, and Mirella launching a warning arrow straight through one of the Bentleys' tires "just for fun."
But Casey wasn't thinking about that.
She was thinking about the way Ivan trembled when he mentioned his mother. And how quickly his hands had clenched when his father looked at her belly.
That night, as Casey lay in bed, unable to sleep, she wandered toward the library.
She didn't expect to find Ivan there—shirtless, bruised, and pouring whiskey over a split knuckle.
"I didn't know you could get angry like that," she said gently.
He glanced up, tired. "He makes monsters out of everyone."
Casey sat beside him on the floor, both of them back against the bookshelf. "Did he hurt your mom?"
Ivan didn't answer. Just took a long drink, then muttered, "He killed her."
The air dropped. So did her heart.
She reached for his hand—not expecting him to flinch.
But he didn't.
She held it.
And for once, he didn't let go.
Meanwhile…
Down in town, Vivienne sat at a café, watching the screen of her burner phone.
The photos she'd taken—Casey in Ivan's arms, Ivan defending her, the mafia king bleeding because of her—were all lined up in a neat little folder.
She sent them off with one click.
And then smiled like a fox.
"They'll never survive this."
Back at the mansion…
Luca burst into Casey's room the next morning, waving a pink dress.
"What is that?" she asked.
"The wedding rehearsal, duh."
"What wedding?"
He grinned. "Yours."
Casey fainted.
Mirella caught her mid-fall and muttered, "Told you we should've eased her into it."
Ivan simply walked in, looked at the chaos, and said:
"She's marrying me tomorrow. You can panic after breakfast."