Pregnant And Running From The Mafia Don

For five years, my husband kept me in a dog cage because he believed I murdered his fiancée, my stepsister Kinsley.

He stripped me of my dignity, my name, and my humanity, all to avenge a woman who wasn't even dead.

When Kinsley finally returned, alive and smiling, I thought my nightmare was over.

Instead, she framed me again.

Right in front of Courtland, she pushed my little brother down the stone steps of the estate.

I held my brother's broken body in the rain, screaming for help.

But Courtland just stood there, shielding Kinsley under his umbrella, looking at me with cold indifference.

He chose the monster over his wife.

That night, I realized love wasn't enough to save me.

So, I stood on the edge of the hospital roof and let gravity take me.

I wanted him to mourn. I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to burn.

Three years later, at a gala in New York, the Ice King dropped his champagne glass.

He stared at me-the woman in the red dress, the fiancée of his rival.

I looked him dead in the eye and smiled like a stranger.

He cornered me later, his voice trembling with rage and obsession.

"Death is the only divorce in my world, Anastasia. And you are still very much alive."

Chapter 1

Anastasia POV

I was on my knees, my forehead pressed against the cold linoleum, when the Warden threw a black velvet box at my head.

It skittered across the floor, stopping inches from my nose.

"Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Johnson," the Warden sneered, checking his watch. "Your husband is outside, and he says if you aren't in the car in three minutes, he burns the orphanage where we keep your brother."

I didn't pack.

I didn't even breathe.

I just ran.

Five years inside the "Serenity Rehabilitation Center" had stripped the meat from my bones, but it hadn't touched the panic that lived in my marrow. If anything, fear was the only thing keeping me upright.

To the world, I was Anastasia Johnson, the tragic, drug-addicted wife of New York's most powerful Don. A woman so broken by the "accidental" death of her saintly stepsister, Kinsley, that she needed institutionalizing.

To the staff here, I was a murderer. A rat. A woman who bit the hand that fed her.

I scrambled off the floor, my knees cracking in protest. I grabbed the velvet box as I sprinted past. I didn't need to open it to know what was inside, but my trembling fingers pried the lid open anyway as I navigated the corridors.

A locket.

I clicked it open. Kinsley's face smiled back at me. Blonde, perfect, and rot-in-the-ground dead.

The note tucked behind it was written in Courtland's sharp, slashing handwriting.

*For your daily prayers.*

He didn't just want me to remember; he wanted me to wear the face of the woman he believed I killed. He wanted it burning against my skin like a brand.

I clasped the cold metal around my neck. It felt like a noose.

I moved through the sterile white hallways like a ghost. The other patients-real addicts, real broken souls-didn't look at me. They knew better. I was the Don's punching bag, stored away until he felt like hitting something again.

I pushed through the double doors, and the humid New York air hit me like a physical blow, heavy with exhaust and freedom.

I scanned the curb.

I expected a lineup of black SUVs. I expected soldiers. I expected the usual pageantry of the Mafia.

There was nothing. Just the gray pavement and the distant, indifferent sound of traffic.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Was this a test? Was I supposed to run so his men could hunt me down for sport?

Then I heard it.

The predatory roar of an engine.

A silver sports car tore around the corner. It wasn't slowing down. It was accelerating.

The grill was aimed directly at my legs.

I froze. My brain screamed *move*, but my body was locked in the muscle memory of submission.

The tires screeched, burning rubber and smoke filling my lungs as the machine drifted sideways.

The bumper stopped an inch from my shins. The heat from the engine radiated through my thin, rehab-issue slacks, a warning of the fire to come.

The driver's door opened.

A polished black shoe hit the pavement. Then a leg clad in charcoal wool.

Courtland Johnson rose from the car.

He was taller than I remembered. Broader. The boy I had saved in the garden all those years ago was gone. The man standing before me was made of ice and violence.

He wore his ruthlessness like a second skin. His jaw was set in a line of granite, and his eyes-those dark, intelligent eyes that once looked at me with gratitude-were now void of anything human.

He didn't look at my face. He looked at the locket resting on my chest.

"Get in," he said.

His voice was a low rumble, devoid of affection. It was a command given to a dog.

I opened the passenger door, my hands shaking so hard I could barely work the handle. I slid into the leather seat. It smelled like him. Sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and rain.

It smelled like the safety I used to dream of.

Now, it smelled like a cage.

He got in beside me. He didn't check if I was buckled or if I was even fully inside. He slammed the car into gear and peeled out of the driveway, merging onto the highway with reckless speed.

"Where is Aspen?" I asked, my voice raspy from disuse.

Courtland stared straight ahead. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"You speak when spoken to, Anastasia."

"Is he safe?" I pushed, desperation lending me courage. "You said-"

"I said what was necessary to get you out of that hole without a scene," he cut me off, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. "Aspen is at the Estate. For now."

*For now.* The threat hung in the air between us, heavy and suffocating.

"Why bring me back?" I whispered, shrinking against the door. "Why now? After five years?"

He glanced at me then. A quick, dissecting look that took in my gaunt cheeks, the dark circles under my eyes, and the cheap clothes hanging off my frame.

He didn't see a wife. He saw a stain on his legacy.

"Because," Courtland said, his eyes shifting back to the road, cold and dead. "I'm dying. And before I go, I'm going to make sure you pay for every single sin."

Anastasia POV

The tires crunched heavily over the gravel of the Johnson Estate.

To my younger self, this place had once resembled a castle. Now, with its looming stone turrets and imposing iron gates, it looked more like a mausoleum.

Courtland didn't drive to the front entrance. Instead, he swerved sharply to the left, forcing the car onto the narrow service road that wound toward the back courtyard.

My stomach dropped.

The back courtyard wasn't for guests. It wasn't for family.

It was for the dogs.

He slammed on the brakes. "Get out."

I fumbled with the door handle, stumbling out onto the loose gravel. The sun was setting, casting long, blood-red shadows that stretched across the stones like grasping fingers.

Guards were already waiting. These were not the men I used to know. These were new faces-younger, harder, mercenary types. They looked at me with open disgust.

Two of them grabbed my arms. Their grip was bruising, fingers digging into my flesh like talons.

"Courtland, please," I gasped, trying to dig my heels into the shifting rocks. "I didn't do it. You know I didn't-"

He didn't even turn around. He simply walked toward the shadows where the iron kennels stood, a silhouette of indifference.

The guards dragged me. My shoes scraped uselessly against the ground.

We reached the cages. The heavy scent of musk, wet fur, and raw meat assaulted my senses. Inside the largest run, three Dobermans paced. They were massive beasts, muscles rippling like coiled steel under sleek black coats. They threw themselves against the chain-link fence, snarling, teeth snapping at the air.

"Open it," Courtland ordered.

One of the guards unlocked the gate.

"No," I whimpered, panic seizing my throat. "Courtland, please! They don't know me!"

"That's the point," he said softly. He finally turned to face me. "You are an intruder here, Anastasia. A parasite."

He nodded to the guards.

They shoved me inside.

I hit the concrete floor hard, the rough surface shredding the skin off my palms. The gate clanged shut behind me. The lock clicked.

I scrambled backward, pressing my spine against the cold iron bars.

The dogs stopped barking. They lowered their heads, a low, vibrating growl building in their throats. They began to circle.

I curled into a ball, hiding my face in my knees. My trembling fingers sought the only anchor I had left: the small, smooth surface of a lapis lazuli bead hidden in my pocket. It was the only thing I had left of the truth. The bead I had placed in his hand the day I saved him. The bead Kinsley stole credit for.

*I saved you,* I screamed silently. *I was your eyes when you were blind.*

But I couldn't say it. The *Omertà*-the code of silence Kinsley had trapped me in-meant that speaking the truth would trigger a kill switch on Aspen.

So I stayed silent.

A snarl erupted right next to my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the teeth.

"Down!"

Courtland's voice cracked like a whip.

The dogs instantly dropped to their bellies, whining submissively. They were trained to kill, but they were trained to obey him more.

I opened my eyes. Courtland was standing on the other side of the fence, watching me tremble. He looked disappointed that I hadn't fought back.

"Pathetic," he muttered.

The world tilted violently on its axis. Black spots danced in my vision. The adrenaline crash, combined with five years of severe malnutrition, was finally too much.

I slumped sideways, the cold concrete rushing up to meet me.

*

Consciousness returned with the sharp sting of a slap.

My head snapped to the side. My cheek burned.

I was indoors. The air was cool and thick with the scent of lilies-funeral flowers.

I pushed myself up. I was on the polished marble floor of the West Wing. Specifically, the Kinsley Memorial Room.

A massive portrait of Kinsley hung above the fireplace. She looked angelic, painted in soft pastels that lied beautifully about the rot in her soul.

Standing over me was Eleanor Johnson, Courtland's mother. The Dowager.

"Get up, you filth," she spat.

I struggled to my knees. "Eleanor..."

She slapped me again. Harder. My lip split, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

"Do not speak my name. You are not family. You are the reason my sweet Kinsley is dead."

Courtland stood in the corner, leaning against a heavy oak table. He swirled a glass of amber liquid, watching the scene with a bored, cruel detachment.

"She needs to learn her place, Mother," he said.

"One hundred times," Eleanor commanded, pointing to the floor beneath the portrait. "Bow to her. Apologize to her. Beg her forgiveness."

Two maids stepped forward. I recognized them-enforcers in aprons. They grabbed my hair and forced my head down.

*Thud.*

My forehead hit the marble.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the lie tasting like ash on my tongue.

"Louder!" Eleanor shrieked.

The maids yanked my hair up and slammed my head down again.

*Thud.*

"I'm sorry, Kinsley."

*Thud.*

"Forgive me."

By the fiftieth time, the room was spinning. A warm trickle of blood ran down my nose, dripping onto the pristine white floor.

By the hundredth time, I couldn't lift my head. I lay there, panting, my blood mixing with the wax polish of the floor.

Courtland walked over. I saw his expensive shoes stop inches from my face.

He crouched down.

"Do you want to see your brother?" he asked.

I tried to nod, but my neck wouldn't support the movement. "Yes," I croaked.

He pulled a small glass vial from his jacket pocket. The liquid inside was dark, viscous.

"Drink this," he said.

I looked at it. "What is it?"

"Insurance," he said coldly. "I won't risk a rat like you carrying my heir. If you want to see the boy, you ensure my bloodline stays pure."

An abortifacient. He wanted to sterilize me. He wanted to hollow me out so I could never be anything more than a vessel for his hate.

I looked at the vial. Then I looked at the door, imagining Aspen on the other side.

I didn't hesitate.

I took the vial from his hand, uncorked it, and swallowed the bitter poison in one gulp.

Anastasia POV

Agony erupted in my stomach and clawed its way up my throat.

It wasn't a slow burn. It was an incineration.

I dropped the empty vial. It shattered on the marble, the sharp crack echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.

I clutched my abdomen, curling into a fetal position. A guttural sound ripped from my throat-half scream, half sob. It felt like my insides were being twisted by rusted pliers.

Courtland stood up. He took a step back, watching me writhe.

"It works fast," he observed, his voice devoid of emotion.

I couldn't answer. I retched, my body trying to expel the poison, but nothing came up except bile and blood.

Red splattered onto the white marble, mixing with the cold sweat dripping from my forehead.

Courtland frowned. He took a step closer, his shoe nudging my shoulder. "Anastasia?"

I gasped for air, but my lungs felt like they were filled with concrete. My vision tunneled. The pain was blinding, a white-hot agony that erased everything else.

"Doctor!"

Courtland's voice sounded far away. There was a hint of panic in it now. Not concern-panic. Like a child who realizes he's broken his favorite toy too soon.

"Get Manning! Now!"

I squeezed my eyes shut. *Let me die,* I prayed. *Let this be the end.*

But the Johnsons didn't let you die until they were done with you.

*

Consciousness returned to the sound of a machine humming.

My throat felt raw, like I had swallowed razor blades. There was a tube in my nose.

I blinked open my eyes. I wasn't in a hospital. I was in the servant's quarters.

The room was small, windowless, and damp. The walls were bare concrete. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows.

Dr. Manning was packing a bag by the door. He was the Family doctor-which meant he knew how to keep people alive just enough to be tortured again.

"She's awake," he said.

Courtland stepped into the light. He was still wearing his suit, immaculate as ever.

"Did it work?" he asked.

"Her stomach is pumped," Manning said, his tone clinical. "But the damage to her reproductive system is... extensive. It is unlikely she will ever conceive."

Courtland nodded. He looked satisfied.

"Good. Leave us."

Manning left, closing the heavy door behind him. The lock clicked.

Courtland threw a bundle of fabric onto the narrow cot.

"Put it on."

I sat up, fighting the wave of dizziness. I touched the fabric. It was black lace. Sheer. Tiny.

"What is this?" I rasped.

"Dinner attire," he said. "We have a guest. Mr. Harrison. He's crucial to our West Coast expansion. He likes... broken things."

My blood ran cold. "No."

"No?" Courtland laughed. It was a dark, terrifying sound. "You think you have a choice? You are my wife in name only, Anastasia. In practice, you are an asset. A bargaining chip."

"I am a human being!" I shouted, my voice cracking.

He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing my jaw. His fingers dug into my skin.

"You are a murderer," he hissed. "Human beings have souls. You sold yours the day you killed Kinsley."

He shoved me back onto the cot.

"Get dressed. If you aren't in the dining room in ten minutes, I send a finger of Aspen's to your grandmother."

He slammed the door.

I sat there, shaking. Tears blurred my vision, hot and angry.

I stood up, my legs trembling. I stripped off my soiled clothes and pulled on the black dress.

The cold air hit my skin. It was humiliating. The lace clung to my emaciated frame, highlighting every rib, every bruise. It barely covered my thighs. The neckline plunged to my navel.

I walked to the small, cracked mirror on the wall.

The woman staring back wasn't me. She was a ghost. Pale skin, hollow eyes, bruised lips.

But beneath the terror, I saw something else. A flicker of rage.

I wasn't just a victim. I was the girl who had saved the blind boy in the garden. I was the girl who had kept a secret for five years to save her brother.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks.

I walked out of the room.

The private dining room was dim, lit only by candles. Courtland sat at the head of the table. To his right sat Mr. Harrison-a greasy, overweight man with eyes that stripped me bare the moment I walked in.

"My," Harrison leered, licking his lips. "You didn't tell me she was this... fragile. I like them fragile."

Courtland swirled his wine. He didn't look at me.

"She is yours for the evening, Harrison. Provided the contracts are signed."

Harrison stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. He walked toward me, his hands reaching out.

"Come here, little bird," he cooed.

I stood my ground. I didn't run.

I looked at Courtland. I wanted him to see this. I wanted him to watch.

Harrison's hand closed around my upper arm. His touch made my skin crawl. He pulled me close, his breath smelling of stale cigars and lust.

"Courtland," I said, my voice steady.

He finally looked up.

"What?"

"I hate you," I whispered. "More than I ever loved you."

Then I did the only thing I could do.

I opened my mouth and bit down hard on my own tongue.