All Chapters of The billionaire Mafia's Pregnant maid: Chapter 11 - Chapter 15

Lucien leaned back in his leather chair, the office dim except for the slice of morning light spilling across his desk. The night before replayed in his head like a broken reel of film, flashes out of order, blurred at the edges, but impossible to ignore. A hand gripping his shoulder. The taste of skin. A soft voice gasping his name. He closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening. This wasn’t clarity. Lucien relied on clarity, whether in business or blood. He remembered every deal, every betrayal, every bullet. But this… this was fractured. His gaze cut to the crystal decanter on his desk, the whiskey inside still half-full. He remembered the glass in his hand, yes. But he also remembered the shift in his body, the heat that had taken root too fast, too strong. His hunger had not been his own. His fists clenched on the armrests, tendons taut. Someone had tampered with him. He could feel it in his bones. That wasn’t paranoia

A month had slipped by, though the echoes of that night refused to fade. Maya had buried herself in work, scrubbing floors until her fingers bled, polishing silver until her reflection blurred. Anything to keep her mind too occupied to remember.But sometimes, when the house fell quiet, she could still feel the heat of Lucien’s touch like a phantom pressed into her skin. She avoided him as much as she could, though avoidance was a dangerous game in a mansion where he saw everything.Lately, however, there was something else pressing on her—an ache she couldn’t ignore. Her stomach twisted in the mornings, waves of nausea making it hard to stand. She brushed it off at first, blaming exhaustion, the stress of constant vigilance under Georgia’s venomous eyes.Today, though, the dizziness hit harder. While arranging fresh linens in the hallway, her vision swam, and she steadied herself against the wall.“Careful there,” one of the maids muttered, givin

The morning of her day off arrived cloaked in pale light. For once, Maya didn’t put on her apron or polish the silver; she didn’t tie her hair back with the neat ribbon Mrs. Carbone insisted on. Instead, she stood before her small mirror and braided her hair loosely, strands slipping free no matter how she tried to tame them.Her reflection looked foreign, tired, pale, older than the girl who had walked into Lucien Santoro’s mansion months ago. There was a heaviness in her eyes now, shadows carved deep from nights of restless sleep and mornings where nausea clawed its way up her throat.She slipped into faded jeans and a loose blouse, the kind she used to wear back home, simple clothes that felt almost like armor. Clutching her worn satchel, she left through the side gates, grateful for the brief freedom her day off provided.But as she stepped into the bustling city, the weight didn’t lift. The streets were alive with merchants shouting their wares, child