They Murdered My Babies, So I'll Drag Them All to Hell

I stood at the podium of St. Anthony's Church, my hand gently caressing my five-month pregnant belly, feeling my child kicking beneath my palm as if he couldn't wait to see this world.

Candlelight flickered throughout the church hall, making everyone's faces appear angelic. But I should have known better then—angels and demons often wear the same mask.

"Thank you all for attending tonight's charity gala," I began, my voice carrying across the crowded church hall. Looking at the expectant faces below, my heart pounded.

"I have wonderful news to share with our parish family." I paused, letting the anticipation build. "My husband and I are overjoyed to announce that our family will soon be blessed with a new generation to carry on the Corleone name!"

The church erupted in thunderous applause. The sound echoed off the vaulted ceiling, and in that moment, I truly felt blessed. Domenico bounded up the steps, his face radiating pride, and kissed my forehead.

"My wife is the true Madonna," he announced to the crowd, his arm around my waist. "She has given me the most precious gift."

I looked down at Isabella, Domenico's cousin, sitting in the front row, her perfectly manicured hands clapping enthusiastically. Her smile was so perfect, the kind that belonged on magazine covers.

"Congratulations," she called out, her voice sweet as honey. "This truly is a perfect night."

Perfect. That's what I thought too. But perfect things have a way of shattering when you're least prepared.

Two years ago, almost to the day. Our first pregnancy announcement at a family gathering.

That night I was very careful, only drinking soda water. But Isabella insisted we toast with wine. "Just a sip," she said, pressing the glass into my hands. "For good luck."

I should have noticed the way she watched me drink. But I was too happy, too trusting.

The wine tasted stronger than usual, burning my throat. "Is this a different brand?" I asked.

"Oh, I might have accidentally added some vodka," Isabella laughed, covering her mouth. "I get so clumsy when I'm excited!"

By midnight, I was doubled over in agony. By dawn, our first child was gone.

"These things happen," the doctor said gently. "First pregnancies are usually fragile."

Then came the second time, just last year. I can still feel the cold marble steps as I tried to catch myself falling. The water on the stairs that Isabella swore she'd spilled while watering plants.

"I'm so sorry!" she cried, rushing to help me up. "I should have cleaned it up immediately!"

Domenico was angry that time—not at Isabella, but at the "accident." His first concern was whether his beloved cousin was traumatized by witnessing my fall.

Standing in the church, watching her applaud my third pregnancy announcement. Why was she always there? Why was it always an "accident"?

The drive home was quiet except for the gentle hum of the Mercedes engine. Domenico held my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my knuckles. Isabella sat in the passenger seat, occasionally turning to smile at me.

"You looked radiant tonight," she said.

"Thank you." I leaned back against the leather seat, tired but happy. "I can't wait to start setting up the nursery."

Our house loomed ahead, a monument to old Italian money and older Italian pride. The marble steps leading to the front door gleamed under the porch lights like polished bones.

I was halfway up the grand staircase when Isabella called my name.

"Valentina, wait. There's something important I need to discuss with you."

I stopped. When I turned around, Domenico stood at the bottom of the stairs, his face unreadable in the shadows.

Isabella was three steps below me, no longer smiling. Her face had transformed into something I'd never seen before—cold, calculating, almost reptilian.

"Sorry," she said, but there was no apology in her voice. "But some things need to end."

She moved faster than I could react. Her hands struck my back with shocking force, and suddenly I was falling, tumbling down those beautiful marble steps we'd imported from Carrara. Each impact sent lightning through my body—my shoulder, my hip, my head.

The world spun in slow motion. I saw the ceiling, the chandelier, Domenico's face watching from below. Not shocked. Not horrified. Just... watching.

I hit the bottom hard, my head striking the marble with a sound like a cracking egg. Warmth spread between my legs, and I immediately knew what it meant.

"No," I whispered, pressing my hands to my belly. "Please, no."

Domenico knelt beside me, his expression more concerned than angry. He scooped me up, and for a moment I thought he would rage at Isabella, demand answers, call an ambulance.

Instead, he said the words that would haunt me forever:

"Maybe this is God's will. Isabella's been struggling ever since Uncle Mike died—she's the only family I have left from his side. The stress of watching you pregnant... she can't handle it. She needs my protection now."

I stared at my husband's face, searching for any sign of the man who had just kissed me on stage, who had called me his Madonna. But his eyes were flat, emotionless.

"Domenico," I gasped, feeling our child slipping away from me. "Our baby..."

"There will be other babies," he said softly. "But Isabella's all I have left of my father's brother. Family protects family."

Isabella stood behind him, no longer bothering to hide her satisfaction. She watched the blood pooling beneath me like she was admiring her handiwork.

The hospital room smelled like disinfectant and death. I lay in the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling tiles while the nurse bustled around, cleaning up the remnants of my hopes.

She carried out a metal basin covered with a white cloth that couldn't quite hide the redness seeping through. My third child. Gone like the others.

"I'm sorry for your loss," the nurse said gently.

Domenico sat in the corner chair, scrolling through his phone. Isabella had gone home, claiming she was too traumatized by the "accident" to stay. The irony would have been funny if it wasn't so fucking tragic.

"When can I come home?" I asked, my voice hoarse from screaming.

"Tomorrow morning," he said without looking up. "Isabella's making your favorite soup."

Of course. Perfect, caring Isabella.

I turned my face to the wall and let the part of me that believed in goodness, in family, in love's power to protect what mattered most die along with my child in that sterile hospital room while my husband made dinner plans with the woman who murdered our baby.

My hand unconsciously moved to my neck, touching the Virgin Mary necklace my mother had left me. The small silver pendant was warm between my fingers. Mom always said the Virgin would protect me, would watch over my children.

'Where were you?' I whispered to the ceiling. 'Where were you when my children died?'

But I knew the answer. There was no Virgin. No protection. Only reality, cold and brutal reality—in this world, the weak are trampled by the strong, good people are used, and trust is just another word for stupidity.