Pregnant And Running From The Mafia Don

Anastasia POV

The tires crunched heavily over the gravel of the Johnson Estate.

To my younger self, this place had once resembled a castle. Now, with its looming stone turrets and imposing iron gates, it looked more like a mausoleum.

Courtland didn't drive to the front entrance. Instead, he swerved sharply to the left, forcing the car onto the narrow service road that wound toward the back courtyard.

My stomach dropped.

The back courtyard wasn't for guests. It wasn't for family.

It was for the dogs.

He slammed on the brakes. "Get out."

I fumbled with the door handle, stumbling out onto the loose gravel. The sun was setting, casting long, blood-red shadows that stretched across the stones like grasping fingers.

Guards were already waiting. These were not the men I used to know. These were new faces—younger, harder, mercenary types. They looked at me with open disgust.

Two of them grabbed my arms. Their grip was bruising, fingers digging into my flesh like talons.

"Courtland, please," I gasped, trying to dig my heels into the shifting rocks. "I didn't do it. You know I didn't—"

He didn't even turn around. He simply walked toward the shadows where the iron kennels stood, a silhouette of indifference.

The guards dragged me. My shoes scraped uselessly against the ground.

We reached the cages. The heavy scent of musk, wet fur, and raw meat assaulted my senses. Inside the largest run, three Dobermans paced. They were massive beasts, muscles rippling like coiled steel under sleek black coats. They threw themselves against the chain-link fence, snarling, teeth snapping at the air.

"Open it," Courtland ordered.

One of the guards unlocked the gate.

"No," I whimpered, panic seizing my throat. "Courtland, please! They don't know me!"

"That's the point," he said softly. He finally turned to face me. "You are an intruder here, Anastasia. A parasite."

He nodded to the guards.

They shoved me inside.

I hit the concrete floor hard, the rough surface shredding the skin off my palms. The gate clanged shut behind me. The lock clicked.

I scrambled backward, pressing my spine against the cold iron bars.

The dogs stopped barking. They lowered their heads, a low, vibrating growl building in their throats. They began to circle.

I curled into a ball, hiding my face in my knees. My trembling fingers sought the only anchor I had left: the small, smooth surface of a lapis lazuli bead hidden in my pocket. It was the only thing I had left of the truth. The bead I had placed in his hand the day I saved him. The bead Kinsley stole credit for.

*I saved you,* I screamed silently. *I was your eyes when you were blind.*

But I couldn't say it. The *Omertà*—the code of silence Kinsley had trapped me in—meant that speaking the truth would trigger a kill switch on Aspen.

So I stayed silent.

A snarl erupted right next to my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the teeth.

"Down!"

Courtland’s voice cracked like a whip.

The dogs instantly dropped to their bellies, whining submissively. They were trained to kill, but they were trained to obey him more.

I opened my eyes. Courtland was standing on the other side of the fence, watching me tremble. He looked disappointed that I hadn't fought back.

"Pathetic," he muttered.

The world tilted violently on its axis. Black spots danced in my vision. The adrenaline crash, combined with five years of severe malnutrition, was finally too much.

I slumped sideways, the cold concrete rushing up to meet me.

*

Consciousness returned with the sharp sting of a slap.

My head snapped to the side. My cheek burned.

I was indoors. The air was cool and thick with the scent of lilies—funeral flowers.

I pushed myself up. I was on the polished marble floor of the West Wing. Specifically, the Kinsley Memorial Room.

A massive portrait of Kinsley hung above the fireplace. She looked angelic, painted in soft pastels that lied beautifully about the rot in her soul.

Standing over me was Eleanor Johnson, Courtland’s mother. The Dowager.

"Get up, you filth," she spat.

I struggled to my knees. "Eleanor..."

She slapped me again. Harder. My lip split, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

"Do not speak my name. You are not family. You are the reason my sweet Kinsley is dead."

Courtland stood in the corner, leaning against a heavy oak table. He swirled a glass of amber liquid, watching the scene with a bored, cruel detachment.

"She needs to learn her place, Mother," he said.

"One hundred times," Eleanor commanded, pointing to the floor beneath the portrait. "Bow to her. Apologize to her. Beg her forgiveness."

Two maids stepped forward. I recognized them—enforcers in aprons. They grabbed my hair and forced my head down.

*Thud.*

My forehead hit the marble.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the lie tasting like ash on my tongue.

"Louder!" Eleanor shrieked.

The maids yanked my hair up and slammed my head down again.

*Thud.*

"I'm sorry, Kinsley."

*Thud.*

"Forgive me."

By the fiftieth time, the room was spinning. A warm trickle of blood ran down my nose, dripping onto the pristine white floor.

By the hundredth time, I couldn't lift my head. I lay there, panting, my blood mixing with the wax polish of the floor.

Courtland walked over. I saw his expensive shoes stop inches from my face.

He crouched down.

"Do you want to see your brother?" he asked.

I tried to nod, but my neck wouldn't support the movement. "Yes," I croaked.

He pulled a small glass vial from his jacket pocket. The liquid inside was dark, viscous.

"Drink this," he said.

I looked at it. "What is it?"

"Insurance," he said coldly. "I won't risk a rat like you carrying my heir. If you want to see the boy, you ensure my bloodline stays pure."

An abortifacient. He wanted to sterilize me. He wanted to hollow me out so I could never be anything more than a vessel for his hate.

I looked at the vial. Then I looked at the door, imagining Aspen on the other side.

I didn't hesitate.

I took the vial from his hand, uncorked it, and swallowed the bitter poison in one gulp.