Divorced, Yet the Mafia Boss Wants Me Back

When Anastasia regained consciousness, she found herself back in her bedroom.

She had thought that once Irene returned, she would be kicked into the maid's quarters to make room. But to her surprise, Irene had moved into the room at the end of the second-floor hallway—the very place Anastasia had once been scolded for even approaching.

That forbidden room, she realized now, was their secret nest.

His and hers.

A bitter smile tugged at her lips. The smallest movement pulled at her half-healed back, reopening the wound.

Pain shot through her body, draining the color from her face. Still, she forced herself upright, dragging several large boxes from under the bed.

One by one, she stuffed inside everything that carried a trace of Julius—the million-dollar engagement ring he'd once slipped onto her finger. The bullet he'd taken to his chest for her. Stacks of photos filled with smiles that now felt like mockery.

When the last box was finally full, the door burst open.

"You're not a naive little girl anymore," Julius's cold voice cut through the air. "Stop playing these childish games—running away, pretending to suffer."

Anastasia froze mid-motion. She didn't bother to explain that she wasn't pretending—she really was leaving.

"Did you not hear me?" His tone sharpened when his gaze caught the blood soaking through her back. "Do you have a death wish?"

Before she could react, he strode over, forcing her down onto the bed. Ignoring her weak struggles, he pulled up her shirt.

A cool liquid spreads across her burning wound, numbing the pain. It took her a moment to realize—he was applying medicine.

"Does it still hurt?" His voice was soft, the same gentle tone he used years ago after combat training when he comforted her. For an instant, her heart faltered.

But then the memory of how she'd been injured returned—the reason behind it—and the illusion shattered.

Whatever tenderness he gave her now was nothing compared to what he lavished on Irene.

When he finished dressing her wounds, Julius began buttoning her clean pajama top, one button at a time.

"Since you got hurt, Irene hasn't been eating well. She even threw up earlier and had to be taken to the hospital. The doctor said..."

He lowered his head.

"She's pregnant."

The words sliced through the air like a blade.

"You've been pregnant before," he continued, his tone almost coaxing. "You know what foods won't make her sick. Anastasia, if you take care of her for the next three months, I'll forget about you kicking her and the dog."

His voice was calm, almost tender. But to Anastasia, it struck like thunder—loud, violent, deafening.

"She scattered my child's ashes to the wind," she hissed, trembling, "and you want me to forgive her—to take care of her baby?"

Her fury ignited. She slapped his hand away, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Keep dreaming!"

Julius's expression darkened instantly. The softness vanished, leaving only shadow and threat.

"This isn't a request," he said coldly. "It's an order."

He wiped the remaining ointment from his hands with a handkerchief, tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

"It's just one meal," he added flatly. "Your brother is still in the hospital. Or would you rather see his ashes next?"

His gaze swept over Anastasia with arrogant indifference. Then he lifted his foot and strode toward the door.

"I want to see the dishes on the table in half an hour. Your brother's life depends on it."

The metallic taste of blood filled Anastasia's mouth, and a chill spread through her limbs.

Eight years together—no one knew each other better than they did. Julius knew exactly where her weaknesses lay, and he never made empty threats—and she knew he was capable of anything.

He truly was using her brother's life as leverage.

Anastasia's heart ached, but she didn't have the luxury to hesitate. She forced herself to move, hurriedly pulled on her clothes, and stumbled downstairs into the kitchen.

The iron pot was heavy. Each time Anastasia lifted it, the wound on her back tore open a little more, sending sharp waves of pain through her body. Cold sweats drenched her forehead, but she gritted her teeth and refused to make a sound. By the time she placed the dishes on the dining table, only minutes remained before the half-hour deadline.

Irene sat at the dining table, her lips pursed in a petulant pout. With a light push, she shoved the soup bowl away.

"I'm not hungry," she said, curling her lip. "Unless you feed me."

Julius gave her a helpless, affectionate smile. He blew gently on a spoonful of soup and brought it to Irene's lips with infinite care.

Steam blurred Anastasia's vision. Her tears slipped silently into the soup bowl.

That tenderness—she once had it, too. When she was pregnant. Before everything was taken from her.

Irene barely swallowed a sip before retching it back out. Her expression soured as she glared at Anastasia.

"This tastes disgusting. Are you mocking me? Even my dog wouldn't eat it!"

She sneered and dumped the soup onto the floor.

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, she smiled—a cruel, childish smile.

"I guess your baby probably died because even it couldn't stand your cooking. It'd rather rot in your womb than taste this garbage, right?"

Julius, who knew full well how their child had really died, didn't scold her. He only smiled, tenderly wiping the soup from Irene's lips.

"If you don't like it, she'll make something else. Don't starve our baby."

The string of reasons in Anastasia's mind finally snapped.

The spoon slipped from her hand into the bowl—and in the next second, the scalding soup splashed over Irene's head.

The shrill scrape of a chair against the floor was followed by a sharp crack—

Slap!

Anastasia's palm burned as she snarled through her teeth, "You said even a dog wouldn't eat it, didn't you? Fine. I'll feed you myself. Tell me—does it taste good now?"