Chapter 4

Inside a bulletproof glass case sat a flawless set of red diamond jewelry.

I'd spent a year using dark web intel to track down those rare black-market pieces.

I remembered Darien cleaning his handgun when I told him I'd found them.

He had pulled me into his arms, kissed my ear, and said.

"You want it?"

"I'll take it from that Russian by force just to get you the complete set."

He had collected the set.

Only he gave it to Mia as a gift to cement her status as his new wife.

Darien's encrypted comms buzzed.

His face darkened.

He answered the call, then rushed out of the safe house with his closest men.

Not long after, Mia stepped out holding a glass of water.

"Mia, you—"

Before I could finish, she grabbed my jaw and forced the water down my throat.

A searing, violent cramp erupted in my lower abdomen.

I doubled over, cold sweat soaking my clothes, and my knees slammed into the floor.

This wasn't an ordinary stomach ache; it was the effect of a potent abortion drug.

Mia dropped her hypocritical act.

Her eyes went manic as she lunged forward, stomping her sharp high heel into my vulnerable lower abdomen.

"Laurel, our syndicate's rules are brutal."

"I don't have a choice."

"If you stay fertile, and Darien shows you mercy by taking you off birth control to conceive an heir, my child won't be safe!"

"I am pregnant with his baby now, and I have to eliminate any future threats!"

My body spasmed in agony, but through the pain, my mind was clear.

Birth control?

For the past five years, I had never been able to conceive a child for the Allerton family.

It turned out there was never a problem with my body.

Darien had been slipping me birth control pills all along.

Mia's hands clamped around my throat.

She let out a triumphant shriek.

She spat.

"You think he's disgusted by women?"

"He doesn't want some fraud who stole my life giving birth to a lowborn bastard!"

Was she right?

Seven years ago, I was seven months pregnant with Darien's baby.

Seeking revenge against him, his enemies planted a bomb under my car.

I lost the baby, suffered severe uterine damage, and almost bled out.

That day, Darien—the ruthless mafia godfather who never shed a tear for anyone—dropped to his knees outside the ER.

I could feel his hot tears against my neck.

Trembling, he kissed me and begged.

"Laurel, I don't care if we never have a kid."

"As long as you pull through... as long as you're safe."

Did he say that to spare me the fatal risks of another pregnancy?

Or did he think my bloodline was beneath him, like Mia claimed?

Mia sneered, her grip tightening.

"You stole my life, Laurel."

"You took my place."

"You should have died a long time ago!"

My lungs burned for air, but I refused to cry out or beg.

In the mafia, respect is paid in blood.

Ignoring the agonizing, tearing pain in my lower stomach, my hand blindly scrambled for a shard of broken porcelain on the floor.

Staring at her with ice-cold clarity, I pulled my arm back and drove the jagged edge deep into her calf.

Mia shrieked and let go.

Clutching my bleeding stomach, I leaned heavily against the wall and dragged myself up.

I looked down at her crumpled on the floor, my voice hoarse but razor-sharp.

"Don't project your incompetence onto me, Mia."

"Even if the family cut me loose, I still fought my way through gunfights."

"You want me dead?"

"You don't have what it takes."

My consciousness started to slip.

In the haze, my mind drifted back to a secure safe house in Sicily, seven years ago.

Darien had stripped off his bloodstained clothes, tossed his weapons aside, and dropped to one knee on the rug, pressing his ear to my pregnant belly to hear the heartbeat.

He kissed my cheek, his voice full of unwavering devotion.

"Laurel, this baby is going to make the future of the Allerton family whole."

"I don't care how much the elders push back—I will always point my gun at your enemies."

A second later, the memory shattered.

The vast sea of blood from my past faded into darkness.

When I opened my eyes again, I was trapped inside a tiny, suffocating metal box.

The harsh stench of formaldehyde and burnt material flooded my senses.

Peering through a narrow gap in the dim light, I could make out the words painted on the concrete wall outside: Mafia Private Underground Incinerator.

A cleaner's rough, deadpan voice echoed close by.

"No vital signs confirmed."

"Pour the gas and prep for incineration."

My body locked up.

A jolt of terror shot through my scalp.

I was alive.

If I didn't make a sound, they'd treat me like another disposed mafia corpse and torch me to ash in a thousand-degree furnace.

I didn't waste my breath screaming.

Instead, I pulled my legs up and used every ounce of strength I had left to kick the heavy metal door with my heels, hammering out a steady, muffled distress signal.

The metal hatch above me swung open.

Fresh air rushed into my lungs, and I grabbed the collar of the cleaner peering inside.

The two massive, ruthless killers stumbled back in shock.

"Damn it... it's Laurel."

"She's still alive!"

Ten minutes later, someone hauled me up into the freezing mortuary hall.

Darien rushed in with his men.

Mia was behind him, her expression dark.

The second she saw me sitting there alive, she plastered on a terrified, pitiful look.

She whimpered.

"Darien, I swear I didn't know."

"One of the hunting dogs died at the estate, and I told the cleaners to cremate it."

"I had no idea Laurel would hide inside a body bag to scare me..."

Darien looked down at my battered, bloodied body.

Whatever brief flash of relief I saw in his eyes vanished, replaced by ice.

He said, condescending and accusatory from his first breath.

"Laurel, enough with the cheap stunts."

"When you're done acting out, come back to the estate with me."

He didn't stop there.

"This dark web situation has Mia on edge lately."

"She's an ordinary civilian without our training."

"How much further are you going to push her by nearly getting yourself killed?"

I sat on the autopsy table, staring at the godfather I'd loved for ten years.

I had nearly burned to death in a fire, but to him, it was a desperate plea for attention.