All Chapters of Pregnant With the Don’s Heirs, I Disappeared: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

I hid behind the study curtains, heart racing with a fragile, trembling joy. In my hands: an ultrasound photo—two heartbeats—and a no-limit black card. Alessandro had given it to me last night, his lips on my neck, calling me his Donna, his queen.Tonight, I was going to tell him about the twins."The Petrov family needs to see my good faith," his voice drifted in, smooth as velvet. "Vittoria arrives Thursday. I’ll announce the engagement then."My blood froze."What about Elena?" someone asked. "She’s been with you three years. She manages the books, dug that slug out of your side herself. Is this fair to her?""Elena?" He leaned back in the leather chair, cigar smoke curling around his jaw. "She’s like a trained hound, Salvatore. After the Rossi family got wiped out, I pulled her from the gutter, gave her a gun and a bed. Have you ever seen a hound leave its master? I could kick her, and she would lick my boot and ask for another."My nails sank into my palms, crumpling the ultrasoun

Vittoria leaned in, her breath reeking of expensive vodka and cruelty."He's been mine since Christmas," she whispered, her lips brushing my ear like a viper's kiss. "All those nights you thought he was managing the docks? He was in my bed at the Plaza. If he hadn't been so careful, I'd already be carrying his heir—unlike you, with your useless, barren womb."My blood turned to ice. "What?""You can never give birth, can you, Elena?" She smiled, eyes dropping to my stomach with predatory precision. "Alessandro is disgusted by your broken body. He told me he's been counting the days until he can discard you like the defective toy you are. After all, the Family needs an heir. A real Donna." She leaned closer, her diamond earring scratching my cheek. ""Don't worry, little bookkeeper. When I'm pregnant with his true heir, you'll be the first to know. You can serve as our midwife.""Vittoria!" My voice cracked, tears blinding me. "You shameless—"I shoved her. She stumbled back with a theat

I walked twenty blocks before my legs gave out. No taxi would stop for a bleeding woman at 4 AM. I found a cab near the docks and gave him the address of the Red Hook safe house—the brownstone where Alessandro had first taught me to shoot, where he had once called me his heart.The place reeked of him. Cuban tobacco and gun oil. I collapsed against the door, sliding to the floorboards. The sounds wouldn't stop—the wet laughter, the slap of his gun, Vittoria's voice purring true heir.I crawled to the bathroom and heaved into the toilet. Nothing came up. I hadn't eaten since the night before, too busy being his ghost. The twins twisted in my womb, demanding I survive. I forced down cold pasta from the refrigerator, tears streaming into the marinara, eating with my hands like a starving animal.I pulled the burner phone from the drawer—the one he didn't know I had. I dialed the number."I need out," I whispered. "Blood Oath annulment. Full extraction.""Forty-eight hours," the voice answ

The stink of rust and diesel in the ship’s belly seeps into my pores like old blood. I’m wedged between two shipping containers in the hold, listening to waves slam the deck overhead—each impact counting down the miles between me and his empire, stripping away the years of trained submission.I press my palm against my stomach, feeling the slight swell beneath the coarse wool of my coat. Three months. The danger zone. I think of that night—how I’d carried the ultrasound photo in my pocket like a live round, ready to blow through his chest and make him see me. Now that same photo curls in my breast pocket, soft and frayed from my body heat, edges worn like a drowned man’s fingerprints.The hull shudders. I dry-heave, but there’s nothing left. Half a bottle of water since I slipped out of St. Mary’s Hospital twenty hours ago. The Camorra contact was blunt: pregnant women on this route die. But Alessandro’s reach extends into every safe house in New York—each floorboard in Red Hook probab

The mountain road isn't a road—it's a wound. Our jeep bucks between limestone fissures, every jolt spasm through my womb. I'm biting down on my belt, swallowing the screams. Salvatore doesn't need my fragility distracting him from the wheel. Outside, the Sicilian mountains rise like the spine of some buried beast, and we're headed for the sharpest vertebrae.My grandmother lives at eight hundred meters, in a stone village without electricity, only windmills and blood feuds. The birthplace of the Rossi clan, and its burial ground. Twelve generations sleep in the cemetery behind the olive grove, including my parents—their coffins hold no bodies, only clothes, but the headstones bear full names, as if this makes death seem complete."Three kilometers," Salvatore says. His fingers drum the steering wheel in the rhythm of some Sicilian folk song—a code. If the rhythm breaks, it means danger.I look down at my hands. Pale, knuckles red from gripping the gun too long. The Beretta 92FS rests o