All Chapters of Mafia Boss's stolen sperm: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The warehouse smelled of damp concrete and stale gasoline. Rain tapped a steady rhythm on the corrugated iron roof high above, a sound like distant machine gun fire. The space was vast, empty except for a single chair in the middle of the concrete floor, bolted down, and the three men standing around it.Liam Thorne stood with his hands in the pockets of his cashmere overcoat.The coat was black, absorbing the weak light from the single industrial lamp hanging directly over the chair. He didn't feel the cold. He only felt a familiar hollow focus.In the chair sat Marcus. Once a lieutenant. Now just a man sweating through his shirt, the fabric sticking to his skin in dark patches. His wrists were bound to the chair arms with zip-ties. His eyes, wide and white, flickered between Liam and the two silent men who flanked him."Liam. Boss. Please," Marcus choked out. His voice echoed in the cavernous space. "It was a mistake. A one-time thing."Liam didn't answer.He studied the man. He rem

The sun that day was a liar.It poured through the windows of Alexandra's small apartment, painting everything in a warm, buttery gold. It lit up the dust motes dancing in the air, made the pale wood floors glow, and caught the edge of the open wedding planner on her kitchen table, turning the glossy pages into sheets of light.Alexandra hummed, a tuneless, happy sound. Her bare feet were cool on the floorboards. She spun once, slowly, in the middle of the living room, her arms outstretched. In three months, she would be Alexandra Reed-Hawthorne. The thought sent a fizzy, disbelieving laugh bubbling up in her throat.David Hawthorne. Her David. Serious, charming David with his sandy hair and his promise of a safe, steady future.The apartment was full of him. His economics textbooks stacked by the sofa. His worn leather jacket draped over a chair. The faint, clean smell of his soap mingling with her lavender candles. It felt like a shared life. It felt like a home being built, brick b

The decision had not come to her like an epiphany. There had been no cinematic moment of clarity, no swelling music in her head. It had arrived quietly, like a line drawn in wet sand and then hardened by the sun. One day, it was simply there- unchallengeable, irreversible.A month ago, Alexandra Reed's The world had been reduced to three faces, replayed on an endless, merciless loop.David's panicked expression, his eyes darting as if searching for an escape hatch that no longer existed. Chloe's triumphant smirk, sharp and knowing, the look of someone who hadn't just won but enjoyed the winning. And her mother's face- cool, controlled, already retreating into judgment and practicality. You need to think about appearances, Alexandra. About stability.Those faces had burned themselves into her memory with the intensity of trauma. They were not emotional impressions so much as forensic evidence, proof of what the world truly was when illusions were stripped away.Now, her world was quiet

Liam was silent for a long moment. He looked out at the gray city. A fertility clinic. A bribed coordinator. A hacked touch. It stank of personal, not cooperate, espionage. This wasn’t about stealing intellectual property. This was about manipulating a very specific, human outcome.“Find Martin Frye,” Liam said, his tone leaving no room for discussion. “Today. I want to have a conversation with him.”"It's your building," Marcos said, already typing. "He clocks in at 8:30 AM. I've already disabled the building's security logs for your visit. The clinic's director is at a conference in Zurich. You'll be a ghost.""Good."Liam left Marcos to his screens. He went to his room, opened a wall safe behind a framed abstract painting, and removed a small, non-descript case. Inside were items like: a voice scrambler, a jammer, a pair of thin leather gloves. He didn't expect violence in a fertility clinic. But he expected lies. And he was very good at cutting through those.An hour later, Liam s

ALEXANDRA’S POVThe two weeks following the phone call were a study in quiet metamorphosis.Alexandra's life became a series of small, deliberate adjustments. The secret, a fragile, glowing ember, required careful tending. She moved through her days with a new, soft-focused consciousness, as if the world had been dialed down a few notches to accommodate the monumental work happening silently with her.Her body began sending its first, subtle dispatches. It wasn’t a dramatic nausea of movies. It was a persistent, low-grade queasiness that rose each late morning like a tide, smelling of the library’s old paper and the lemon-scented polish the janitors used. She kept a sleeve of bland crackers in her desk drawer. At 11:15 am, she would eat two, slowly, her eyes closed, willing her stomach to settle. The metallic taste in her mouth was constant, turning water strange and making her morning tea taste like she was sucking on a penny.The fatigue was the most profound change. It was a differ