Pregnant And Running From The Mafia Don

For five years, my husband kept me in a dog cage because he believed I murdered his fiancée, my stepsister Kinsley. He stripped me of my dignity, my name, and my humanity, all to avenge a woman who wasn't even dead. When Kinsley finally returned, alive and smiling, I thought my nightmare was over. Instead, she framed me again. Right in front of Courtland, she pushed my little brother down the stone steps of the estate. I held my brother's broken body in the rain, screaming for help. But Courtland just stood there, shielding Kinsley under his umbrella, looking at me with cold indifference. He chose the monster over his wife. That night, I realized love wasn't enough to save me. So, I stood on the edge of the hospital roof and let gravity take me. I wanted him to mourn. I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to burn. Three years later, at a gala in New York, the Ice King dropped his champagne glass. He stared at me—the woman in the red dress, the fiancée of his rival. I looked him dead in the eye and smiled like a stranger. He cornered me later, his voice trembling with rage and obsession. "Death is the only divorce in my world, Anastasia. And you are still very much alive." Chapter 1 Anastasia POV I was on my knees, my forehead pressed against the cold linoleum, when the Warden threw a black velvet box at my head. It skittered across the floor, stopping inches from my nose. "Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Johnson," the Warden sneered, checking his watch. "Your husband is outside, and he says if you aren't in the car in three minutes, he burns the orphanage where we keep your brother." I didn't pack. I didn't even breathe. I just ran. Five years inside the "Serenity Rehabilitation Center" had stripped the meat from my bones, but it hadn't touched the panic that lived in my marrow. If anything, fear was the only thing keeping me upright. To the world, I was Anastasia Johnson, the tragic, drug-addicted wife of New York’s most powerful Don. A woman so broken by the "accidental" death of her saintly stepsister, Kinsley, that she needed institutionalizing. To the staff here, I was a murderer. A rat. A woman who bit the hand that fed her. I scrambled off the floor, my knees cracking in protest. I grabbed the velvet box as I sprinted past. I didn't need to open it to know what was inside, but my trembling fingers pried the lid open anyway as I navigated the corridors. A locket. I clicked it open. Kinsley’s face smiled back at me. Blonde, perfect, and rot-in-the-ground dead. The note tucked behind it was written in Courtland’s sharp, slashing handwriting. *For your daily prayers.* He didn't just want me to remember; he wanted me to wear the face of the woman he believed I killed. He wanted it burning against my skin like a brand. I clasped the cold metal around my neck. It felt like a noose. I moved through the sterile white hallways like a ghost. The other patients—real addicts, real broken souls—didn't look at me. They knew better. I was the Don's punching bag, stored away until he felt like hitting something again. I pushed through the double doors, and the humid New York air hit me like a physical blow, heavy with exhaust and freedom. I scanned the curb. I expected a lineup of black SUVs. I expected soldiers. I expected the usual pageantry of the Mafia. There was nothing. Just the gray pavement and the distant, indifferent sound of traffic. My heart hammered against my ribs. Was this a test? Was I supposed to run so his men could hunt me down for sport? Then I heard it. The predatory roar of an engine. A silver sports car tore around the corner. It wasn't slowing down. It was accelerating. The grill was aimed directly at my legs. I froze. My brain screamed *move*, but my body was locked in the muscle memory of submission. The tires screeched, burning rubber and smoke filling my lungs as the machine drifted sideways. The bumper stopped an inch from my shins. The heat from the engine radiated through my thin, rehab-issue slacks, a warning of the fire to come. The driver’s door opened. A polished black shoe hit the pavement. Then a leg clad in charcoal wool. Courtland Johnson rose from the car. He was taller than I remembered. Broader. The boy I had saved in the garden all those years ago was gone. The man standing before me was made of ice and violence. He wore his ruthlessness like a second skin. His jaw was set in a line of granite, and his eyes—those dark, intelligent eyes that once looked at me with gratitude—were now void of anything human. He didn't look at my face. He looked at the locket resting on my chest. "Get in," he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of affection. It was a command given to a dog. I opened the passenger door, my hands shaking so hard I could barely work the handle. I slid into the leather seat. It smelled like him. Sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and rain. It smelled like the safety I used to dream of. Now, it smelled like a cage. He got in beside me. He didn't check if I was buckled or if I was even fully inside. He slammed the car into gear and peeled out of the driveway, merging onto the highway with reckless speed. "Where is Aspen?" I asked, my voice raspy from disuse. Courtland stared straight ahead. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "You speak when spoken to, Anastasia." "Is he safe?" I pushed, desperation lending me courage. "You said—" "I said what was necessary to get you out of that hole without a scene," he cut me off, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. "Aspen is at the Estate. For now." *For now.* The threat hung in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. "Why bring me back?" I whispered, shrinking against the door. "Why now? After five years?" He glanced at me then. A quick, dissecting look that took in my gaunt cheeks, the dark circles under my eyes, and the cheap clothes hanging off my frame. He didn't see a wife. He saw a stain on his legacy. "Because," Courtland said, his eyes shifting back to the road, cold and dead. "I’m dying. And before I go, I’m going to make sure you pay for every single sin."