When the Mafia Boss Returned with a Pregnant Mistress

Avery’s POV

I truly believed I had escaped.

For one delicate, foolish heartbeat, I thought I was finally free.

I didn’t even make it past the outer gates of the Moretti estate before fate laughed in my face.

Two men stepped out from the shadows as if they’d been waiting all along. Black suits. Stone expressions. Don Moretti’s personal security—soldiers who answered only to him. I barely registered their faces before they seized me, one iron grip on each arm, hauling me backward like a criminal instead of the woman who once ruled this house beside him.

“Mrs. Moretti,” one of them said flatly, already dragging me toward the main villa, “you’re required inside. The Don wants you now. He needs your blood.”

My lungs locked.

“What—no—let go of me!” I thrashed violently, panic flooding my body—not for myself, but for the fragile life hidden beneath my ribs. My heart hammered so hard it felt like a warning siren. A plea. “Why would he need my blood?”

Why him?

Why this marriage?

Why was my punishment always disguised as loyalty?

I had given him everything.

My body. My name. My future. I stood beside him through indictments, rival families circling like wolves, whispers that could’ve torn his empire apart. I shielded him when bullets flew—literal and political. I was his wife in every way that mattered.

Was that still not enough?

What kind of twisted joke was it that I ended up bound to a man who saw me as a resource? A tool? Something to be used and discarded when convenient?

And yet—he wanted more.

He always wanted more.

I couldn’t decide what terrified me more: the possibility that he might discover my pregnancy… or the possibility that he already knew and simply didn’t care.

Cold metal slammed into my spine.

The next thing I knew, I was strapped into a reinforced medical chair inside the famiglia’s private infirmary. Steel restraints bit into my wrists. I lifted my head just enough to see Don Zachary Moretti standing across from me, arms folded, expression distant—like I wasn’t worth the effort of emotion.

“So this is it?” I let out a hollow laugh. “You drag me back to bleed me like contraband?”

He didn’t even flinch.

“Stop being dramatic,” he said coldly. “You’re contributing. Make yourself useful.”

Something inside my chest cracked clean in half.

“Useful?” I scoffed. “Is that what I was? A walking blood bank with a marriage contract?”

“You’re emotional,” he replied instantly. “You always were. You confuse hysteria with loyalty.”

“That’s rich,” I shot back. “Coming from the man draining his wife while his mistress rests like a queen.”

He crossed the distance in two strides.

His hand snapped around my jaw, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise.

“Watch your mouth,” he warned.

“Or what?” I whispered, fury burning through fear. “You’ll humiliate me again? Strip whatever dignity I have left?”

His lips curved into a cruel, amused smile.

“You’re breathing,” he said softly. “Be grateful.”

“You already have her,” I snapped. “You got the heir you wanted. So why am I still chained to this chair?”

The irony nearly crushed me.

She lay in another room—guarded, pampered, surrounded by doctors and silk sheets—while I bled for her survival. For her child.

While my own baby stayed hidden, clinging to me in silence.

I said nothing.

I couldn’t.

He would weaponize it. He would turn my child into leverage, the same way he turned love into ownership.

So I swallowed the truth and stared at the ceiling, letting the sterile lights blur as I refused to cry.

“This is what loving you cost me,” I said quietly. “Defending your name in every council meeting. Standing between you and every enemy. Acting like a partner instead of property. I should’ve left the moment I realized you never loved me—you claimed me.”

“Then why didn’t you?” he snapped. “Because you needed me. You always did.”

“And you,” I whispered, “were too much of a coward to ever let me go.”

His smirk deepened.

“Why would I?” he said calmly. “You never stay gone.”

That was when the needle pierced my skin.

It was thick—too thick—more like a blade than a medical instrument. The pain hit instantly, sharp and searing as it slid into my vein. I didn’t scream. I wouldn’t give him that pleasure. But sweat soaked my neck, and my fingers trembled violently against the restraints.

As the blood drained, memories went with it.

Our first appearance as Don and Donna.

The night I stepped into gunfire meant for him.

Every lonely hour spent convincing myself that waiting was love.

He watched the entire time—silent, detached—as if I were nothing more than a container being emptied.

“Don Moretti,” a doctor said cautiously, “her vitals are destabilizing. If we continue—”

“Proceed,” Zachary cut in. “She’s resilient.”

My vision dimmed.

I bit my cheek until I tasted blood just to stay conscious.

Eight hundred milliliters.

That was how much they took.

I thought it was finished.

Then someone cleared their throat behind the privacy curtain.

Zachary straightened immediately.

“Double it,” he said. “She requires more.”

My breath stuttered.

“So this is for her,” I whispered weakly. “You’re bleeding your own wife to save the woman who shattered us?”

“She needs it,” he replied flatly.

I laughed—broken, hollow.

“And me?” I murmured. “You’d drain me dry without hesitation.”

His face didn’t change.

From behind the curtain, her voice drifted out—fragile, perfectly timed.

“Zachary…”

He moved at once.

I was fading, restrained, slipping into darkness—and he was already gone.

The doctor hesitated. “Sir… continuing may endanger the pregnancy—”

“Do it,” Zachary barked. “Or find employment elsewhere.”

I tried to scream.

The darkness swallowed me first.

---

When I woke, the world felt wrong—distant, muffled.

I lay on a narrow cot beneath a thin blanket. A doctor sat beside me, eyes rimmed with guilt.

“You’re stable,” he said quietly. “Physically.”

“That doesn’t sound like good news,” I whispered. “So what aren’t you saying?”

He swallowed hard.

“There was… a complication.”

My hand flew to my stomach.

“No,” I breathed. “Please—no—”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “When the extraction increased… the pregnancy could not be sustained.”

The scream tore out of me.

I thrashed violently, knocking equipment aside, sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe. I forced myself upright, dizziness crashing over me as I staggered toward the door.

“ZACHARY!” I screamed. “YOU KILLED MY BABY!”

He wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t.

I collapsed to the floor, grief hollowing me out—until something colder took its place.

Focused.

Sharp.

No more pleading.

No more hope.

I looked up at the doctor.

“Prepare my discharge,” I said hoarsely. “And copy every medical record. Every detail.”

Because I was done surviving.

Now, I was planning my revenge.