Mafia Don's Regret: His Heir Never Existed

On the night of my twenty-fourth birthday, my husband walked into our heavily guarded penthouse with his pregnant childhood friend and demanded a divorce to protect her bastard child—entirely oblivious to the fact that I was carrying his.

My posture became a rigid thing at the long mahogany dining table.

The wicks of the candles I had spent hours preparing had drowned, leaving greasy craters in the frosting.

On the far side of that ruined confection, Christian Cavallaro stood.

He was the Don of the Cavallaro Family—a man who had left two rival syndicates cooling on mortuary slabs before his twenty-fifth birthday, whose name was a quiet command that could make hardened men lower their eyes. His dark suits were always tailored to perfection, hiding the lethal weapons and scars beneath.

But right now, he was just the man breaking my heart with a single sentence.

Serena stood slightly behind him, her hand a pale guard over her still-flat stomach.

She was a high-ranking Capo's daughter, a glamorous socialite who had spent the last few years in Europe. Now she was back, pregnant with a child fathered by an outsider from an enemy faction.

In our circle, that was a crime punishable by death.

Christian took a step closer. His gaze fell to the hollow of my collarbone. In the dim light, his pupils were wide, the shadows obscuring his intent.

He told me the syndicate demanded blood for Serena's transgression. The only way to shield her was to give her child the protection of his name. He needed to marry her.

My hand moved to my own flat stomach.

Beneath my palm was the secret I had planned to share tonight—the tiny heartbeat I had imagined would complete our fractured family.

A sudden, glacial clarity settled in my bones.

I looked at the man who had pulled me out of the blood and trauma of my parents' assassination ten years ago. They had been loyal soldiers, dying to take bullets meant for his father. In return, I had been made a ward of the estate. A decade of devotion, bartered for this. I had folded my medical school acceptance letter and tucked it away to become a silent, suitable wife. I had weathered his mother's remarks about my low-ranking blood, learning to arrange my face into a serene mask.

I had thought my devotion would eventually thaw his cold exterior.

I was wrong.

Christian reiterated the necessity of the divorce. He said it was only a temporary measure.

I looked at Serena, and saw the smirk that flickered for an instant behind her sculpted mask of fear.

I realized then that bringing a child into this penthouse—where any window might splinter inward from a sniper's bullet—would be a life sentence. My baby would be born into a cage of paranoia and blood, with Serena's poisoned presence a permanent threat.

If I revealed my condition now, his child would forever chain me to his syndicate.

I would never be free. Neither would my child.

I lowered my hand from my stomach and folded it over my other hand on the table.

I looked directly into my husband's eyes, and I told him I agreed to the divorce.