I Carried the Mafia King’s Child—and Burned His Empire

Isla’s POV

The woman’s face twisted with rage as she jabbed a finger straight at me, so close it nearly brushed my skin.

“A vice president?” she shrieked. “So you outrank her—and this is how you behave? Intimidating her, hurting her, then pretending it’s her fault? What kind of organization allows people like you to climb so high? Is this what the Montenegro syndicate stands for?”

“I didn’t—”

My chest seized. My lungs refused to cooperate. I tried again, forcing air into my throat, but before another word could escape, the atmosphere shifted.

Alaric had arrived.

The second his eyes swept over the scene—Sabrina collapsed on the floor, the screaming baby nearby—his expression hardened into something dark and volatile.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Sabrina didn’t hesitate.

Through tears, she explained that I had accidentally pushed her, that she’d lost her balance and slammed into the woman holding the child. She clutched her ankle as though in pain, biting her lip dramatically.

“It hurts… but I’ll be fine,” she whimpered. “Please don’t be upset. Just explain it to the client. The vice president didn’t mean to do this…”

Alaric turned on me like a storm breaking.

“Isla!” he shouted. “Have you completely lost your mind? You couldn’t even manage something this simple? Why would you shove her?!”

“I didn’t—”

“I’m not interested in excuses!” he snapped. “Apologize. Now.”

I stood frozen, my breathing shallow and erratic.

He doesn’t even doubt her, I realized dully.

Not for a second.

But something inside me finally shattered.

“I won’t,” I said quietly. “I’m not apologizing for something I didn’t do.”

My hand rose instinctively to my stomach. My voice trembled, but I didn’t retreat.

I was leaving anyway.

I was finished explaining myself. Finished begging.

Shock flickered across his face—he hadn’t expected defiance.

Before he could respond, the enraged woman suddenly lunged forward and shoved me with all her strength.

“You disgusting woman!” she screamed. “With an attitude like that, no wonder your child will grow up rotten! You won’t even apologize? Get out of my sight!”

I slammed into the floor.

Pain tore through my abdomen like something being ripped apart from the inside. My ears rang violently. The world dissolved into noise and light, everything muffled, distant, unreal.

I saw Alaric take a step toward me—his hand twitching, hesitation written across his face.

Then he stopped.

In the next second, he turned away and lifted Sabrina into his arms instead, carrying her swiftly toward the exit.

“Think about what you’ve done, Isla!” he shouted without looking back.

I curled around my stomach on the icy tiles as waves of agony crashed through me.

Voices blurred together. Some whispered. Some shouted. Others stepped away as if I were something dangerous. I caught glimpses of raised phones, flashing screens, strangers recording my collapse, my humiliation.

That was all I could process.

Noise.

Judgment.

Pain ripping me open from the inside.

It wasn’t until much later that someone realized something was truly wrong and called for medical help.

At the hospital, chaos erupted.

Doctors rushed me down sterile corridors toward the operating room. Orders were shouted over one another.

“Where’s her family?” someone yelled. “Her vitals are dropping—do we save the mother or the baby?!”

A nurse grabbed my phone with trembling hands. “Ma’am—do you have the father’s number?”

My lips shook as I gave her Alaric’s contact.

He answered.

Not with fear.

Not with concern.

With fury.

“Isla, are you insane?!” he roared through the line. “What did you do to Sabrina? Her ankle is badly swollen—the doctor thinks it could be fractured! All because you shoved her!”

My entire body trembled as I whispered, “I didn’t… She fell… on her own.”

“Oh, stop with that jealous nonsense!” he snapped. “You’re upset because she joked about becoming my wife? You actually took that seriously? It was obviously a joke!”

A joke.

Tears finally spilled as my fingers clenched the sheets.

“Alaric… the baby—”

The call ended.

I stared up at the doctor, forcing a broken smile through the pain.

“Please,” I whispered. “Forget the baby. Just… save me.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” the doctor said quietly.

When I woke, my body felt unbearably light.

Wrongly light.

My stomach was flat.

A nurse approached slowly, holding a small box. She placed it gently in my hands. Inside lay what remained of my child—so tiny, so fragile, never given the chance to breathe.

Something inside me collapsed completely.

My sobs tore out of me, violent and uncontrollable. No physical injury had ever hurt this much. The emptiness was unbearable.

In the midst of my grief, the door burst open.

A man rushed in—tall, disheveled, his presence instantly familiar.

My brother.

Not by blood, but by choice. By loyalty. By every bond that mattered.

He crossed the room in seconds and pulled me into his arms, his voice hoarse with guilt. “I’m sorry… I should’ve been here sooner.”

I buried my face against his chest, unable to speak through the tears.

That same afternoon, he transferred me to a private hospital under his own name, cutting off all access, shielding me from the world.

Before I left the city forever, I mailed the small box—the remains of the heir the Montenegro family had wanted so badly—to their estate.

Then I sent Alaric one final message.

We’re done.

I blocked his number. Deleted everything. No hesitation. No regret.

From that moment on, Alaric Montenegro no longer existed in my life.

And he never would again.