The Pregnancy I Faked, His Empire I’ll Break

“I’m moving to the villa on Lake Michigan.”

I made the announcement at the breakfast table.

Enzo froze, his knife hovering mid-air. His brow furrowed—the first sign of the Don’s displeasure.

“Why? The estate has the best security, the best private doctors.”

“My nerves are shot,” I said, letting my voice tremble just enough. “The noise… Eliana’s parties… I’m worried it’s not good for the baby.”

The word ‘baby’ changed everything.

It was the most important piece of his plan—the scapegoat.

“Fine,” he said, his tone softening. He even put his hand on mine in a fake show of affection. “You’re the Donna. You need absolute quiet. I’ll send a security detail with you.”

He was lying.

I saw the relief in his eyes.

Sending me away meant he could be with Eliana without interruption.

I moved into the lake house.

It was remote, surrounded by a thick forest. The perfect hiding spot. And the perfect battlefield.

I ordered the security team to install military-grade signal jammers around the property.

The excuse: the pregnancy made me sensitive to electromagnetic waves.

The truth: I needed to cover my digital tracks.

They called me ‘The Ghost’ once. A whisper in the digital underworld. My father didn't spend a fortune on my training in Israel for me to become some Don’s trophy wife.

The Ghost wasn't dead. She was just sleeping.

The next few months were a ridiculous one-woman show.

Enzo visited every two weeks, playing the part of the ‘devoted husband.’

But his gifts gave him away.

For me, it was cheap vitamins from a corner store.

For her, I saw on the family’s hidden ledgers, it was millions.

Enough to buy a small arsenal.

Its destination? A secret Swiss account belonging to Eliana, of course.

It was clear. Just like last time.

Eliana was having severe complications with her pregnancy. She was weakening fast.

Without a top medical team and an endless flow of cash to keep her alive, neither she nor that bastard child would make it to term.

Staring at the massive expenses on the screen, I remembered my last life.

I was bleeding out from a gunshot wound, begging him to approve the funds for a life-saving surgery.

What did he say then?

“That’s the family’s strategic fund. It can’t be wasted on a woman who might be a traitor.”

And now, he was throwing it all at the woman carrying the enemy’s bastard.

I finished my last set of pull-ups, a bitter smirk on my face.

Sweat dripped from my chin. Muscle burned. Power flooded my veins.

“Donna, you’ve been looking radiant lately,” said the family’s private doctor, my cousin Dr. Rossi, during a routine check-up.

He was a careful man with sharp eyes.

“Thank you,” I replied coolly.

Dr. Rossi hesitated, then lowered his voice. “I saw the Don... he took Eliana to a specialist in New York. Again. The family is whispering, Marcella. They’re saying she’s the one carrying the real heir, and that you…”

He trailed off, his eyes full of pity.

“Marcella, your father was very good to me. I only trust what I can see. If you ever need my help, I will always be on your side.”

He thought I was the poor, clueless wife.

I rose from the sofa, pulling a silk robe over the hard curve of the fake belly.

“Let them talk, cousin,” I said, picking up a glass of water. “Enzo is the Don. He knows what he’s doing. As long as my child is born safely, I’m content.”

Dr. Rossi looked like he wanted to say more, but he held his tongue.

If he knew what I was really thinking, he would have a heart attack.

I didn’t care about Enzo and Eliana.

In fact, his obsession with her was my shield. It kept his paranoid, controlling eyes off me.

Otherwise, even with the hormone shots and the fake belly I wore every day, he might have seen through the whole charade.

Six months flew by.

As my ‘due date’ approached, Eliana was clearly getting desperate.

That night, the villa door was thrown open.

Enzo burst in, soaked from the rain, his face pale.

He was in a hurry.

My informant had told me Eliana’s water broke an hour ago.

That Morozov bastard was tearing her apart from the inside, and the pain was killing her.

Enzo needed my ‘baby’ to swap with hers. Now.

“Marcella!” Enzo strode into the bedroom, a crystal glass in his hand.

The liquid inside was a strange, deep purple, and it gave off a chemical chill.

“Darling, I know you haven’t been feeling well,” he said, his voice trembling, trying to sound concerned.

“Drink this,” he pushed the glass toward me. “It’s for the baby. To make him strong. A true Falcone.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and watched him.

I knew it wasn’t some vintage wine.

It was a powerful inducing agent, mixed with a sedative that would blur my memory after birth.

It would force violent contractions and leave a woman disoriented afterward—a puppet in his hands.

Last time, I drank it.

I passed out on the delivery table, letting him swap my son.

“It’s for the good of the heir, right?” I asked, taking the glass, my fingers tracing its cold rim.

Enzo swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the glass. “Yes. For our heir. Drink it. Be a good girl.”

He was terrified.

If I didn't ‘deliver’ tonight, his precious Eliana would be executed for birthing an enemy’s child.

I brought the glass to my lips.

The acrid, chemical smell filled my nose.

For a second, I saw the flicker of cruel anticipation in his eyes.

“Enzo,” I asked, my voice dangerously low. “Are you sure this is for our son?”