Chapter 4 - The Rossi MachineVittorio Rossi made his first phone call before his daughter was even placed in a holding room.
He did not call a lawyer.
Lawyers were tools.
He called a judge.
Then a hospital board member.
Then a media consultant who specialized in making guilty people look misunderstood.
By midnight, the Rossi machine was awake.
By 12:17 a.m., three anonymous messages had reached major gossip accounts.
By 12:24, one entertainment reporter posted:
Sources say billionaire wife Khloe Thorne suffered an emotional episode at tonight’s gala. Police presence at St. Aurelia Hospital. More soon.
By 12:31, a second account added:
Insiders claim Isabella Rossi may have been injured while trying to calm a distressed pregnant woman.
Marcus saw the posts on Elaine’s tablet while wearing a sterile gown outside the operating room.
His son had not yet been born.
His wife was open beneath surgical lights.
And the world was already being taught to blame her.
Something inside him went quiet.
Elaine watched his face.
“I can call our public relations team.”
“No.”
“Marcus—”
“No PR.”
Elaine hesitated. “Then what?”
Marcus looked through the small window in the operating room doors. He could not see Khloe’s face, only movement, blue gowns, bright lights.
“The truth.”
Elaine lowered her voice. “The footage?”
“Yes.”
“Once it leaves the hospital, the Rossis will claim it was edited.”
“They will claim that anyway.”
“Khloe may not want the world seeing her like that.”
Marcus turned to her.
That stopped him.
Not law.
Not scandal.
Not money.
Khloe.
He imagined millions of strangers watching her fall. Watching her curl around their baby. Watching Isabella’s heel crash into her body again and again through replay clips and reaction videos.
His jaw clenched.
“You’re right.”
Elaine nodded slowly. “We can release stills. Timestamps. Police confirmation. Hospital statement. Enough to kill the lie without turning her trauma into entertainment.”
Marcus looked at her with new respect.
“Do it through counsel. Not gossip sites.”
“I’ll draft it.”
“And Elaine?”
“Yes?”
“Find out who fed the lie to the accounts.”
Elaine’s eyes narrowed. “Already on it.”
Across the hospital, Isabella sat in a private security office with two police officers, her attorney, and her father’s fixer, Nolan Vance.
She had stopped crying.
There was no point crying for people who were not useful.
Nolan stood by the door, speaking in a low voice. “You say she shoved you first.”
“She did not.”
Nolan stared at her.
Isabella rolled her eyes. “Fine. She grabbed my wrist.”
“Better. You were afraid.”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant women can still be violent.”
Isabella looked away.
For the first time since the kick, an image returned to her: Khloe on the floor, hands around her stomach, face twisted with pain.
A normal woman might have felt horror.
Isabella felt annoyance.
The kick was not supposed to be captured.
That was the only mistake.
Her attorney leaned forward. “Isabella, listen carefully. Do not speak to police. Do not speak to hospital staff. Do not text anyone. Do not call Marcus.”
At Marcus’s name, Isabella’s expression shifted.
“He came in at the wrong moment.”
“No,” Nolan said. “He came in after a camera recorded you assaulting his wife.”
Isabella slammed her palm against the table.
“She took him from me.”
The room went silent.
Her attorney closed his eyes.
Nolan looked toward the officers, then back at Isabella.
“You and Marcus were never together.”
“He was supposed to be mine.”
“You were a donor’s daughter with access to foundation events.”
“He looked at me.”
Nolan’s face tightened. “Men look at paintings too. They don’t marry them.”
Isabella stood so fast her chair scraped back.
One officer moved closer.
Nolan lowered his voice. “Sit down.”
She did.
But fury burned behind her eyes.
“She made herself pathetic,” Isabella hissed. “The sweet pregnant wife. The innocent charity darling. Everyone loved her because she looked fragile.”
Nolan leaned across the table.
“You are being recorded.”
Isabella froze.
The officers exchanged a glance.
Her attorney put both hands over his face.
Back outside the operating room, Marcus received a text from an unknown number.
Destroy the footage before sunrise, or your wife’s secrets become public.
There was no signature.
There did not need to be.
Marcus showed it to Elias.
Elias read it once.
“What secrets?”
Marcus’s eyes remained fixed on the phone.
“I don’t know.”
Elias studied him. “Does Khloe have secrets?”
“Everyone has secrets.”
“That is not an answer.”
Marcus’s face tightened. “It’s the only one I have.”
The operating room doors opened.
Dr. Keller stepped out in surgical scrubs.
Marcus forgot the text.
Forgot Vittorio.
Forgot Isabella.
Forgot everything but the doctor’s eyes.
“Your son is alive,” she said.
Marcus’s knees nearly gave out.
Dr. Keller continued, “He is small. He needs respiratory support. NICU is stabilizing him now.”
“And Khloe?”
The pause lasted half a second too long.
Marcus felt the floor disappear beneath him.
Dr. Keller removed her mask.
“She lost a dangerous amount of blood. We controlled it, but she is not out of danger yet.”
Behind Marcus, Elias whispered his niece’s name.
Dr. Keller’s voice softened.
“She fought hard.”
Marcus looked through the doors.
Inside, machines surrounded the woman he had failed.
A son he had not yet seen was fighting behind glass.
And outside, a family with money and influence was already sharpening the next lie.
Marcus took the phone back from Elias.
He read the threat one more time.
May you like
Then he called his attorney.
“Wake everyone,” he said. “We go to war before sunrise.”
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