The Pregnancy I Faked, His Empire I’ll Break

My husband, Don Enzo, swapped our son for his precious Eliana’s, then had me killed. I woke up in the past. Found a clinic. Ended the pregnancy.

I walked out of that clinic clutching the vial of hormones that would sell the lie.

The pain from the abortion was nothing.

Not compared to the cold in my heart when Enzo shoved that custom dagger—the one with my name on it—straight through my chest.

My heart was a block of ice. Sadness was a luxury I couldn't afford.

The son that should have been his was gone. Forever.

I drove my Maserati back to the Falcone estate.

Her voice dripped with honey before I even cut the engine.

"Enzo, you're so sweet."

I stepped out, and the sight turned my blood to ice.

My husband. Don Enzo. In front of his prized car, holding Eliana like she was a porcelain doll.

And her, in that Dior dress, arms snaked around his neck.

Pathetic. I was his wife, the Donna, and I had to watch him protect her.

The crunch of my heels on the gravel made their heads snap around.

For a split second, I saw the victory in her eyes.

Then she buried it under a look of wide-eyed surprise.

“Marcella! You’re back!”

Her voice made my stomach turn.

I walked toward them, my hand resting protectively on my still-flat stomach.

The hormones were already at work, selling the lie. I was every bit the woman carrying the family heir.

“Good afternoon, Enzo. Eliana,” I said, my voice flat.

Eliana snuggled deeper into Enzo’s arms, her eyes glued to me.

“Marcella, look!” she shrieked, pointing to the backseat. “Enzo bought me a custom Fendi stroller! There are only five in the world!”

I glanced over. The thing was obscenely expensive.

“It has the latest bulletproof weave,” Eliana bragged. “Not even a Morozov slug can get through it. Enzo says he wants the best protection for my baby.”

The best protection.

I could almost smell the gunpowder from my last life. The scent of betrayal.

Eliana had returned shortly after I found out I was pregnant. Heartbroken from a so-called “unhappy” marriage.

Enzo told me he just felt sorry for her. Childhood friends. He had to take care of her.

I believed him. I even shared my expensive prenatal supplements with her.

I had no idea it was all a setup. They had been planning this from the start.

“Enzo is such a good husband,” Eliana cooed. “Aren’t you lucky to have him, Marcella?”

A good husband. The words almost made me choke.

In my last life, Eliana and I were rushed to the hospital around the same time.

They said the baby I delivered had ice-blue eyes—the unmistakable mark of the Morozov bloodline. In our entire family, in our entire part of the world, eyes of that color were an impossibility.

During a war when contact with the Morozovs was forbidden, it was a death sentence. A clear sign of a traitor.

I remember screaming my innocence, begging Enzo—my husband—to look me in the eyes and see the truth. He wouldn't meet my gaze.

He just threw down the surveillance photos, the cold images projecting my so-called "treason" for the whole family to see.

“How could you?” he’d asked, his voice dripping with disgust, and every word was a shard of glass in my heart.

The photos showed me meeting a Morozov in secret, plotting.

With the war raging, the family found me guilty. I was thrown into a damp, concrete cell.

They shot me up with tranquilizers every day, crushing my will until I couldn't even fight back.

I even started to wonder if I’d been kidnapped, if I’d been violated without knowing it.

Three years later, Enzo was crowned head of the Chicago Commission.

He came to my cell, saying he was ready to forgive his “errant wife.”

He brought me back to the estate, where I overheard Eliana talking to my son.

The child with Morozov blood was hers.

And my own son was complaining about how weak I’d become, wishing I would just die already.

When I exposed their plot, I tried to run—to get word to the Commission in New York. But I was caught.

Enzo threw me back in that cell. This time, he ended my life himself. With one thrust of his knife.

The pain of that memory pulled me back to the present. I stared at the two lovers.

“Enzo,” my voice was ice. “A Don playing chauffeur instead of running his turf?”

Enzo’s brow furrowed. “Watch your tone, Marcella.”

“I’m just worried about the family’s future,” I said with a shrug. “We lost ground on the St. Lawrence Seaway last time. This war will be bloodier. Everyone should be doing their part.”

Eliana flinched in his arms, putting on a show of being scared. “Marcella, I haven’t been feeling well. Enzo was just worried about the baby…”

“Of course,” I nodded. “The heir is all that matters.”

Enzo gave me a long, hard look. “And stop with the cheap drugstore vitamins,” he warned, his voice low. “They’re not good enough for a Falcone heir.”

He wasn't worried about me. He was worried I’d mess up his plan.

I nodded, feigning obedience.

I waited until I was back in my suite. Then I dry-swallowed another handful of hormone pills.

There was no baby.

Not anymore.