Divorcing the Mafia Heir

Aria’s POV

When we reached the car, Camilla hurried ahead and reached for the front passenger door as if it were already hers.

To my surprise, Enzo caught her wrist lightly.

“Wait,” he said, then glanced at me. “Aria… you can sit in front.”

There was something almost apologetic in his tone, as if offering me the seat could undo everything else.

“Camilla can take the back.”

“No,” Camilla objected immediately, her lips forming a dramatic pout. “I get nauseous in the back seat. The baby’s been making me dizzy all day, Enzo.”

I let out a quiet breath through my nose.

Enzo hesitated, clearly trying to navigate between us.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said evenly. “She can sit in front.”

“But—”

“I said it’s fine.” My voice sharpened slightly. “I don’t care where I sit.”

A brief silence followed.

Camilla’s lips curved in subtle triumph.

Enzo frowned but didn’t argue further.

I slid into the backseat carefully, biting back a wince as my body protested the movement. Every bruise and stitch reminded me of the hospital bed I had just left.

I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window and stared outside, distancing myself from the scene unfolding just a few feet away.

Five minutes into the drive, Camilla began her performance.

She rested her hand casually on Enzo’s thigh. Her fingers moved slowly, deliberately. I didn’t turn my head, but I could see the faint movement reflected in the side mirror—and the sideways glance she threw in my direction.

Enzo stiffened.

“Camilla,” he warned quietly, removing her hand.

She blinked at him with exaggerated innocence. “What?”

When he didn’t elaborate, she returned her hand to his leg, this time sliding it higher.

“I said stop,” he snapped, more firmly.

Instantly, her eyes filled with tears. She withdrew her hand and covered her face.

“Why are you yelling at me?” she whimpered. “I’m pregnant. You’re stressing me.”

Enzo exhaled, frustration melting into concern. “I’m not yelling. Just… not when she’s here.”

He didn’t say my name.

As if I were nothing more than background noise in my own life.

Camilla sniffled softly, then leaned forward to open the glove compartment. “I’m just looking for tissues,” she muttered.

What she pulled out was not tissue.

She held up a delicate scrap of red lace between her fingers and laughed softly.

“Oh, Enzo,” she said sweetly. “Remember this? That night we didn’t make it to the hotel? You pulled me onto your lap right here in this car—”

“That’s enough,” Enzo cut in tightly, eyes fixed on the road.

She shrugged. “Relax. Aria knows it’s just hormones. Pregnancy makes everything more intense.” Her hand drifted back to his thigh. This time, he didn’t remove it.

Through the rearview mirror, his gaze flickered toward me.

For a second, our eyes met.

I looked away immediately.

There was nothing left for him to see.

—

The moment the car stopped in front of the orphanage gates, I stepped out without a word.

I didn’t wait for them.

I walked through the iron gates and into the building my father had built with his own hands long before the city learned to fear his name. The scent of old wood and disinfectant greeted me. For a brief moment, memories tightened my chest, but I forced myself forward.

Mr. Damien, the administrator, looked up from his desk when I entered his office.

His eyes widened. “Miss Aria,” he said warmly, standing at once. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“I won’t take much of your time,” I replied. “There are matters we need to review immediately.”

We went over documents, security updates, funding allocations. I ensured every contract and ownership clause was ironclad. By the time we were finishing, I felt steadier than I had in days.

Then a scream tore through the building.

It wasn’t playful.

It was panicked.

My heart lurched violently.

Another cry followed—sharper this time.

I didn’t wait. I rushed out of the office, Mr. Damien right behind me.

The smell hit me before I saw it.

Smoke.

Thick and bitter.

It burned my throat instantly.

The screaming was coming from the west wing—the dormitory for the younger children.

I ran toward it, dread tightening every muscle in my body.

When I reached the corridor, I froze.

Flames licked up the walls near the far exit. Smoke rolled along the ceiling in dark waves. Children were crying, some huddled near the stairwell, others coughing desperately as staff tried to herd them away from the spreading fire.

For a heartbeat, everything felt unreal.

Then instinct took over.

“Get them out!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the chaos. “Use the east exit! Move now!”

My father’s orphanage was burning.