Divorced, Yet the Mafia Boss Wants Me Back

The slap knocked Irene's face to the side. The scalding soup splashed across her cheek, and within seconds, angry blisters rose on her skin.

Tears welled up in her eyes like beads breaking loose from a string.

"It hurts, Julius... my stomach hurts too! Our baby—will it be okay?"

Those words—our baby—dragged Anastasia straight back into the nightmare she'd tried so hard to forget.

Her nails dug into her palms. She still remembered that night—the blood pooling beneath her body, the icy terror in her veins when she realized her child's heartbeat was gone.

Back then, she clutched Julius's arm, sobbing desperately. "Is our baby still alive? Tell me, Julius, please!"

He had held her tightly then, his voice hoarse with guilt.

"It's my fault, all my fault... Ana, we'll have another child, I promise..."

Now, years later, those same arms held another woman—the woman who had scattered her child's ashes—and his eyes were colder than she'd ever seen.

"Are you insane, Anastasia?!"

His voice cracked through the air like a whip.

"What did Irene say that was wrong? You couldn't even protect your own baby—do you want to kill hers too?"

Her fingertips went numb. Blood slid down from her clenched fists, dripping to the floor. She stared at him, disbelief clouding her gaze.

The child she had lost while saving him had become the weapon he now used to stab her heart.

"Am I crazy?" she screamed, her voice breaking. "I should have gone crazy a long time ago!"

Her eyes blazed red as she burst into laughter—hysterical, tear-streaked, and filled with despair.

She should have lost her mind the moment Julius chose Irene over his own brother. When he had stood between them and defended the woman who mocked her unborn child.

"If she loses her baby," Anastasia snarled, grabbing Irene by the hair, "then maybe it's just because she couldn't protect it either!"

She grabbed Irene's hair and raised the empty soup bowl, slamming it toward her stomach.

"Ah! Julius, help me!" Irene shrieked. She struggled, but against Anastasia's eight years of combat training, her resistance was nothing. Anastasia raised the bowl again—but before she could strike, her wrist was caught midair.

A dull crack echoed through the dining room.

Pain exploded through her arm as her wrist bone snapped. The bowl slipped from her hand, shattering on the marble floor.

Crash.

"You dare hurt her?" Julius's voice dropped to a chilling growl. "Then be ready to pay a hundred times over!"

The darkness in his eyes was no longer cold—it was murderous. The composed mafia lord she once knew now radiated raw, terrifying rage.

He extended a hand, and the butler immediately stepped forward, offering him a bowl of freshly reheated soup—boiling hot.

Without hesitation, Julius seized Anastasia's chin and forced the steaming liquid down her throat. She gagged and coughed, the pain scalding her from mouth to chest.

He didn't even glance back as she collapsed amid shards of porcelain, trembling violently, while he bent tenderly over Irene, lifting her into his arms.

Her right hand—swollen, purple, and broken—shook as she clutched at her burning throat. The pain clawed down her esophagus, spreading through her chest like fire. Her whip wounds tore open again, fresh blood soaking her back.

She lay in that crimson puddle, watching as Julius's once-cold eyes melted into tenderness—tenderness he now offered only to Irene, carefully tending to her injuries with his own hands—the same hands that had once protected her.

Her vision blurred as sweat and tears stung her eyes.

When Julius rushed out the door carrying Irene toward the hospital, Anastasia was left behind like trash—discarded, forgotten.

It took everything she had to stand. Every step left a fresh trail of blood.

Staggering into her room, she found only darkness—except for the dim glow of her computer screen.

With her fractured hand, she fumbled for the mouse, her knuckles stiff and purple. She couldn't feel the pain anymore.

On the screen played a video she had watched countless times before. Julius's mature, affectionate face filled the frame.

He hadn't placed a ring on her finger that day. Instead, he handed her a gun.

"Anastasia, I love you. If I ever change my heart, don't hesitate—pull the trigger yourself, and let my heart beat only for you.."

Tears fell between the keyboard keys, blurring his voice into a muffled echo.

Anastasia leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the screen. Her tears streamed down endlessly.

She missed him—the man who once took a bullet for her, who avenged her, who swore to love her with his life.

The man who no longer existed.

"Liar..." she whispered. "You lied to me."

Bloody footprints trailed from the living room, through the hallway, and out into the garden.

Her trembling hand struck a match. The flame flickered, reflecting off her tear-streaked face.

When she threw the computer into the fire, the blaze roared to life, swallowing the last fragments of her past.

The light of the flames danced in her eyes—and as her body finally collapsed into the soil, Anastasia's strength was completely spent.