The Mafia Don’s Runaway Baby

I woke up the next morning to a row of pills on the nightstand.

And a note in Alessio's familiar handwriting:

"Babe, remember to take your meds. I'm handling some work. I'll be back for dinner."

I glanced at it and walked out of the room.

I needed a trigger.

Something that would give me a "reasonable" excuse to storm out in a rage, creating the window I needed to disappear for good.

And Bianca was the perfect fuse.

Laughter echoed from the living room downstairs.

Bianca was wearing an expensive Chanel suit, chatting with a few of her socialite friends.

"You have no idea, for my eighteenth birthday, Gianni and Alessio threw me the most amazing party!" Bianca's voice was full of pride. "All of Manhattan's high society was there."

Her friends oohed and aahed.

"And do you remember that necklace? The limited edition Tiffany one? Only three in the world!"

"And that couture gown, worth a million dollars!"

Hearing my footsteps, Bianca turned. Seeing me coming down the stairs, a flash of malice crossed her face.

"Oh, right," she said, feigning innocence. "Marcella, we have the same birthday! How was yours?"

The same birthday.

What a cruel coincidence.

While she was enjoying her million-dollar party, I was being chased by my foster father's debt collectors.

To pay off his gambling debts, that man beat me black and blue in front of everyone.

And Bianca?

She was in her million-dollar dress, basking in compliments on the dance floor.

It's okay. It's all in the past. And it's all about to end.

I ignored her jab and walked toward the kitchen.

"Hmm, not talking?" Bianca's voice was dripping with fake concern. "Is it a bad memory?"

Her friends exchanged knowing glances.

"Should I help you remember?" Bianca stood up and walked toward the giant screen in the living room. "I happen to have a video right here!"

I stopped dead in my tracks.

This was it. The moment.

But even though I was prepared, seeing that familiar scene on the huge screen still felt like a punch to the gut.

In a rundown room in the slums, an eighteen-year-old me was curled in a corner.

My drunk foster father held a belt, whipping me again and again.

"You little bitch! Pay what you owe! Go get me money!"

The crack of the belt was crystal clear. My screams echoed through the mansion.

"Please... stop... I don't have any money..."

On the screen, I was bruised and bloody, still begging for mercy.

Bianca and her friends were howling with laughter.

"Oh my god, is that really the Ricci princess?"

"She looks like a beggar!"

"Hahaha, that's pathetic!"

Shaking, I rushed toward the TV and hurled the remote at the screen.

The giant screen shattered with a deafening crash.

The living room fell silent.

Bianca's friends screamed and ran. I turned and grabbed the suitcase I'd already packed.

But in the next second, Bianca blocked my path.

She kicked the suitcase. "What's in there?" she demanded. "That's all Ricci property. Open it up and let me see."

I froze for a second, then a wave of humiliation washed over me.

They started grabbing at me.

"What, cat got your tongue? Open it up!"

Bianca sneered. "You're obviously hiding something. Bet you stole the key to Alessio's safe to sell it!"

A joke. The entire estate was in my name. What would I need to steal?

I shoved her hand away. "Get off me! Don't touch me!"

Bianca stared, shocked that the weak girl she knew would dare talk to her like that.

She exchanged a look with her short-haired friend, then kicked my suitcase over.

My clothes, paints, and sketches scattered across the floor.

Seeing the designer labels on my clothes, a flash of jealousy crossed Bianca's face. She hated me for taking everything she'd had. And now that she knew Alessio and Gianni still loved her best, she wasn't holding back.

Bianca hooked one of my drawings with her foot. It was a portrait I had spent a month on.

"What is this garbage?" she sneered, grinding it under her heel. "You call this art?"

The paper ripped beneath her foot.

She reached for the collar of my shirt, a sick smile on her face, like she wanted to tear my clothes and humiliate me completely.

I snapped. I shoved her hard, sending her sprawling to the floor.

Then I brought my hand across her face. Crack.

And again. Crack.

Blood bloomed on her perfect lips.

I raised my hand again.

As I brought it down for the third time, a powerful hand clamped around my wrist.

"Marcella!" Alessio's voice was full of fury. "What the hell are you doing?!"

He looked at Bianca, pathetic on the floor, and his face turned to stone.

Gianni rushed over from behind, pushed me hard, and scooped Bianca into his arms.

"Bianca! Are you okay?" his voice was filled with concern. "Are you hurt?"

They only had eyes for Bianca.

Just like three years ago.

"Apologize!" Alessio commanded, his voice pained. "Apologize to Bianca, now!"

I looked at him, hysterical. "Alessio, you only see me hitting her, but did you see how she trampled all over my dignity?"

"There's nothing to explain!" Alessio cut me off coldly. "I saw you hitting her!"

Gianni grabbed a wine glass from a nearby table and smashed it at my feet.

Glass shards flew everywhere.

"Apologize! Now!" he roared.

I stood there, looking at my scattered drawings, at the shattered screen.

They only saw my raised hand.

They didn't see Bianca humiliating me, playing that video, crushing my art.

Bianca sobbed in Gianni's arms, but she shot me a look of pure triumph.

Her friends whispered nearby, their eyes alive with the thrill of the drama.

The maids sighed and shook their heads, as if I was the one who didn't know her place.

I suddenly laughed.

Then, calmly, I turned and walked away.

"Don't stop her!" Alessio and Gianni roared at the same time. "Let her go!"

"Go on, crawl back to that slum you grew up in!" Gianni's voice was filled with disgust. "That's where you belong!"

I didn't react. I just walked out of the mansion.

A black car was already waiting at the door.

I'd paid cash for a week of an anonymous car service. The driver only followed orders and never asked questions.

The car pulled away from the estate.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. Every breath was agony.

But I knew I couldn't stop.

An hour later, an "accidental" car crash would happen on the edge of the city.

A doctor I'd already arranged would produce a medical report.

It would clearly state: Miscarriage due to extreme anxiety.

And I, with my baby safe in my womb, would be on a flight they could never trace, under a new name.

（卡）