Divorced, Yet the Mafia Boss Wants Me Back

Anastasia dreamed for what felt like an eternity.

In her dream, Julius sat beside her hospital bed, smiling softly as he cradled both her and their newborn child. From the hallway came her brother's cheerful voice, calling her name as he ran in with a basket of fruit.

She reached out her hand—and in an instant, everything was swallowed by blinding red.

"No!"

She jolted awake, gasping.

Julius's face was the first thing she saw—so close that she could feel his breath against her cheek. The air conditioner's chill brushed across her bare skin, and she flinched, only then realizing she wasn't in her room at all.

They were in a car.

And Julius was dressing her—forcing her into a revealing short skirt.

"Let me go, Julius..." Her voice was ragged, the burn in her throat tearing open with every word. "What are you going to do?!"

But with her fever and blood loss, her weak struggles were laughable. He bound her wrists and ankles easily with a strip of silk, his expression dark, jaw clenched tight as if holding back a storm.

He didn't speak. Not once.

Not even as he carried her out of the car and strode into a private club.

"Here's your gift."

He set Anastasia down on a marble table, his voice like ice. "Where's my person?"

Her heart lurched violently. Gift?

A scar-faced man lounging on the sofa let out a dry laugh.

"Teach your new lover's pet some manners, Mr. Perkins. The next time she trespasses on my turf, it won't be just one pretty little Anastasia you'll have to trade for her."

He kicked open a burlap sack at his feet.

Inside was Irene—her flawless face streaked with tears and a flush that wasn't natural.

"Julius... it hurts..."

Her words were slurred. She'd been injected with a stimulant.

Julius's entire demeanor shifted. The frost melted from his aura as he bent toward her, his voice gentle again.

"I'm here. Don't be afraid."

The marble beneath Anastasia's body was cold as ice, seeping through her bones.

He had traded her—his woman—to save Irene.

Her stomach twisted.

She tried to rise, but the scarred man's bodyguards blocked her. One of them brushed a rough, greasy finger against her cheek. She jerked away, nausea clawing up her throat.

"Roses are beautiful," the scarred man sneered, "but damn, the thorns cut deep. What do you say, Mr. Perkins—help me deal with this one properly?"

He tossed a syringe to the floor—it rolled to Julius's shoes, the label marked with a muscle relaxant.

Meanwhile, Irene's breath hitched, her voice breaking into whimpers. "So hot... help me..."

She began fumbling with her buttons.

Julius's hands tightened into fists. For one fleeting second, his eyes flickered with conflict—then he bent, picked up the syringe, and strode toward Anastasia.

"Once I get Irene to safety," he said quietly, "I'll come back for you. I promise."

The needle pierced her skin. Anastasia smiled faintly.

Maybe it was because her heart was already dead—but she didn't feel pain anymore.

Irene clung desperately to his neck, her body trembling with desire. But for the first time, Julius pushed her away—only to bend down and kiss Anastasia instead.

A bitter pill slipped from his mouth into hers. The chemical taste spread across her tongue, dulling the drug's effects, but not stopping them.

With her last ounce of strength, Anastasia shoved him off, her voice calm and cold. "Julius... whether I walk out of here alive or not, after tonight—we're finished."

Her steady, hollow gaze struck him harder than any slap.

For the first time, his heart faltered. He opened his mouth to speak—but the scar-faced man's men surged forward, shoving him toward the door.

Clutching the dazed Irene, Julius turned away and left without looking back.

The door slammed shut.

And the monster revealed himself.

"Now, let's see just how delicate Miss Rios really is..."

The scarred man untied the silk restraints with a smirk, his filthy hands pawing at her exposed skin. He threw her onto the couch, tearing at her skirt—only to be met with a sharp, brutal kick to the face.

"Get your filthy hands off me!"

Blood gushed from his nose. His expression twisted into fury. He snatched up an ashtray and smashed it against her head.

The world exploded in white noise. Laughter, jeers, heavy breathing—then nothing.

Her limbs went limp. The last of her strength bled out of her as her torn skirt slipped from her body, leaving her trembling in the cold air.

Her stomach churned violently. She wanted to vomit.

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed.

The scarred man's scream shattered the air. He crumpled to the floor, clutching his leg, and behind him stood Julius—like a demon risen from hell.

Rage burned in his eyes.

He rammed the same ashtray into the scarred man's mouth and smashed his head against the ground again and again until the room filled with the wet sound of bone meeting marble.

When the man went limp, Julius turned on the others—fists raining down like a storm until every one of them lay broken, bloodied, and unconscious.

Only then did he approach Anastasia.

His voice, hoarse and trembling, cracked the silence.

"I'm sorry... I was late."