Pregnant And Running From The Mafia Don

Anastasia POV

Agony erupted in my stomach and clawed its way up my throat.

It wasn't a slow burn. It was an incineration.

I dropped the empty vial. It shattered on the marble, the sharp crack echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.

I clutched my abdomen, curling into a fetal position. A guttural sound ripped from my throat—half scream, half sob. It felt like my insides were being twisted by rusted pliers.

Courtland stood up. He took a step back, watching me writhe.

"It works fast," he observed, his voice devoid of emotion.

I couldn't answer. I retched, my body trying to expel the poison, but nothing came up except bile and blood.

Red splattered onto the white marble, mixing with the cold sweat dripping from my forehead.

Courtland frowned. He took a step closer, his shoe nudging my shoulder. "Anastasia?"

I gasped for air, but my lungs felt like they were filled with concrete. My vision tunneled. The pain was blinding, a white-hot agony that erased everything else.

"Doctor!"

Courtland’s voice sounded far away. There was a hint of panic in it now. Not concern—panic. Like a child who realizes he’s broken his favorite toy too soon.

"Get Manning! Now!"

I squeezed my eyes shut. *Let me die,* I prayed. *Let this be the end.*

But the Johnsons didn't let you die until they were done with you.

*

Consciousness returned to the sound of a machine humming.

My throat felt raw, like I had swallowed razor blades. There was a tube in my nose.

I blinked open my eyes. I wasn't in a hospital. I was in the servant’s quarters.

The room was small, windowless, and damp. The walls were bare concrete. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows.

Dr. Manning was packing a bag by the door. He was the Family doctor—which meant he knew how to keep people alive just enough to be tortured again.

"She's awake," he said.

Courtland stepped into the light. He was still wearing his suit, immaculate as ever.

"Did it work?" he asked.

"Her stomach is pumped," Manning said, his tone clinical. "But the damage to her reproductive system is... extensive. It is unlikely she will ever conceive."

Courtland nodded. He looked satisfied.

"Good. Leave us."

Manning left, closing the heavy door behind him. The lock clicked.

Courtland threw a bundle of fabric onto the narrow cot.

"Put it on."

I sat up, fighting the wave of dizziness. I touched the fabric. It was black lace. Sheer. Tiny.

"What is this?" I rasped.

"Dinner attire," he said. "We have a guest. Mr. Harrison. He’s crucial to our West Coast expansion. He likes... broken things."

My blood ran cold. "No."

"No?" Courtland laughed. It was a dark, terrifying sound. "You think you have a choice? You are my wife in name only, Anastasia. In practice, you are an asset. A bargaining chip."

"I am a human being!" I shouted, my voice cracking.

He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing my jaw. His fingers dug into my skin.

"You are a murderer," he hissed. "Human beings have souls. You sold yours the day you killed Kinsley."

He shoved me back onto the cot.

"Get dressed. If you aren't in the dining room in ten minutes, I send a finger of Aspen’s to your grandmother."

He slammed the door.

I sat there, shaking. Tears blurred my vision, hot and angry.

I stood up, my legs trembling. I stripped off my soiled clothes and pulled on the black dress.

The cold air hit my skin. It was humiliating. The lace clung to my emaciated frame, highlighting every rib, every bruise. It barely covered my thighs. The neckline plunged to my navel.

I walked to the small, cracked mirror on the wall.

The woman staring back wasn't me. She was a ghost. Pale skin, hollow eyes, bruised lips.

But beneath the terror, I saw something else. A flicker of rage.

I wasn't just a victim. I was the girl who had saved the blind boy in the garden. I was the girl who had kept a secret for five years to save her brother.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks.

I walked out of the room.

The private dining room was dim, lit only by candles. Courtland sat at the head of the table. To his right sat Mr. Harrison—a greasy, overweight man with eyes that stripped me bare the moment I walked in.

"My," Harrison leered, licking his lips. "You didn't tell me she was this... fragile. I like them fragile."

Courtland swirled his wine. He didn't look at me.

"She is yours for the evening, Harrison. Provided the contracts are signed."

Harrison stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. He walked toward me, his hands reaching out.

"Come here, little bird," he cooed.

I stood my ground. I didn't run.

I looked at Courtland. I wanted him to see this. I wanted him to watch.

Harrison’s hand closed around my upper arm. His touch made my skin crawl. He pulled me close, his breath smelling of stale cigars and lust.

"Courtland," I said, my voice steady.

He finally looked up.

"What?"

"I hate you," I whispered. "More than I ever loved you."

Then I did the only thing I could do.

I opened my mouth and bit down hard on my own tongue.