Pregnant And Running From The Mafia Don

Anastasia POV

The mud was not just cold; it was a living, freezing thing that seeped through my clothes, chilling the marrow of my bones. But the glacial hollow inside my chest was worse.

I looked up at Courtland. Rain cascaded from the brim of his umbrella, a gray curtain masking his expression.

"You knew?" I whispered. My voice was a jagged shard, barely audible over the roar of the storm.

He didn't answer. He just looked at me—the woman groveling in the filth—and then at Kinsley, the resurrected saint.

"Oh, Ana," Kinsley cooed. She stepped out from under the umbrella, sacrificing her dryness for the performance. She let the rain dampen her perfect blonde hair, a calculated move to appear fragile, open. "Don't look so shocked. You should be happy. I forgave you."

"Forgave me?" I choked, coughing as water and bile rose in my throat. "I didn't do anything! You framed me! You stole five years of my life!"

I scrambled to my feet, swaying drunkenly. I lunged for her. I wanted to tear that serene smile off her face.

Courtland stepped in front of her. His hand shot out, catching my throat.

He didn't squeeze, but he held me there, pinned in the suffocating air.

"Enough," he growled.

"She's lying, Courtland!" I screamed, clawing at his wrist until my nails broke. "She faked it! She did this to us!"

"She did it to protect herself from *you*," Courtland said, his voice hard as steel. "She told me everything. How you threatened her. How you were jealous of us. She had to disappear to stay alive."

My jaw dropped. The audacity of the lie was breathtaking.

"I saved you!" I shrieked, the truth finally bursting out. "In the garden! It was me! I was the one who fed you! I gave you the bead!"

Courtland’s eyes narrowed. For a second, just a second, a fracture of doubt appeared in his stoic mask.

"What bead?" Kinsley asked sharply.

I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing the smooth stone.

"This one," I sobbed, pulling out the lapis lazuli.

Courtland stared at it, his gaze locking onto the blue stone.

Kinsley laughed. It was a light, tinkling sound, like glass breaking. "Oh, Ana. You stole that from my jewelry box years ago. I wondered where it went."

The doubt in Courtland’s eyes vanished, snuffed out like a candle in a gale. It was replaced by disgust.

He released my throat. I fell back into the mud with a wet thud.

"Get her out of my sight," he ordered the guards who had appeared behind us.

"Wait," Kinsley said. She placed a delicate hand on Courtland’s arm. "She's sick, Courtland. Look at her. She needs... care. Let me look after her. It’s the Christian thing to do."

Courtland looked at her with blind adoration. "You are too good for this world, Kinsley."

He nodded. "She is yours."

*

Being Kinsley’s "patient" was worse than the kennels.

She moved me to the basement storage room. No bed. Just a pile of mildewed rugs.

She cut my hair while I slept. I woke up with jagged clumps missing, my scalp raw.

She told the staff I was contagious, so no one spoke to me. I was a ghost in my own hell.

But tonight was different.

A guard came to fetch me. "Dining room. Now."

I walked up the stairs, my legs heavy as lead. I was starving. I hadn't eaten in two days.

The formal dining room was set for a feast. Roast beef, potatoes, wine. The rich aroma made my stomach cramp violently.

Kinsley sat at the head of the table. Courtland was gone—business in the city.

She pointed to the floor.

There, on the expensive Persian rug, was a dog bowl.

It was filled with scraps. Gristle, congealed fat, and something that looked like wet dog food.

"Eat," Kinsley said, sipping her wine.

I stared at her. "No."

"Eat," she repeated, smiling over the rim of her glass. "Or I make a call to the West Wing. I hear Aspen is afraid of the dark. I can have the power cut to his room."

My blood ran cold.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

I looked at the bowl. Then I looked at her.

Slowly, my knees bent. I lowered myself to the floor.

I crawled toward the bowl.

The smell was revolting, rancid meat and stale grease.

"Good dog," Kinsley whispered.

I leaned down. I had to do this. For Aspen.

Just as my face neared the food, the double doors creaked open.

"Ana?"

The voice was small. Trembling.

I froze.

I lifted my head.

Standing in the doorway, clutching a worn teddy bear, was Aspen.

He looked older. Thinner. But his eyes were the same.

He was staring at me. His big sister. His hero.

On her hands and knees. Eating out of a dog bowl.

Kinsley clapped her hands in delight.

"Oh, look, Aspen! Your sister is having dinner. Doesn't she look hungry?"

Aspen’s lip trembled. Tears filled his eyes.

"Ana?" he whispered again. "Why?"

The sound of my name on his lips broke whatever was left of my heart.

I stood up. I didn't care about Kinsley. I didn't care about Courtland.

I wiped my mouth.

"Run, Aspen," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Run."