When the Mafia Boss Returned with a Pregnant Mistress

Avery’s POV

When the car rolled through the iron gates of the estate, Don Zachary didn’t spare me a glance.

His attention was fixed entirely on the woman clinging to his arm.

He guided his nauseated mistress up the marble steps toward the master suite, his palm firm at her lower back, steering her as if she were something fragile—and precious. He barked instructions to the chef to prepare her favorite dishes, then lingered at the doorway longer than necessary, watching her settle into the bed that had once been mine, waiting for her smile like a man desperate for approval.

Only when he turned to head downstairs did he finally notice me.

I was trudging toward the guest wing, suitcase dragging behind me, the sound echoing down the corridor like a quiet declaration of defeat. Everything I had left in the world rattled inside that bag.

He stopped mid-step.

Without turning fully around, he muttered to the chef, “Prepare two more plates. The ones Avery prefers. Set three places.”

That made me pause.

For half a second, I wondered if I’d imagined it. If there was regret buried somewhere beneath his arrogance. A hollow attempt at decency—setting a place for me at the table while his mistress occupied the Don’s bed.

The thought was almost laughable.

He couldn’t remember the date we first met. Couldn’t be bothered to unlock his phone for me. Yet now he expected rosemary lamb and a place setting to mean something?

I bit down hard on my teeth and kept walking.

The guest room door closed behind me with a soft click that landed heavier than any insult. The silence pressed in instantly, thick and accusing, as though the walls themselves understood I no longer belonged here.

I dropped my bag at the foot of the bed and knelt to unzip it.

The moment the zipper parted, my stomach sank.

Every piece of clothing inside had been destroyed.

Not torn in anger—cut cleanly, deliberately, shredded into neat strips. Whoever did it hadn’t acted on impulse. This was careful. Calculated. A message.

My chest hollowed out.

Then I noticed what remained.

Tucked deep into the lining—my passport. Plane tickets. Legal documents. Every paper I couldn’t afford to lose.

Untouched.

Protected.

I sank back onto my heels, disbelief and fury crashing together. I didn’t need to guess who’d done this.

Nina.

Only she would be petty enough to destroy what hurt while preserving what mattered. Only she would want me humiliated—but still able to leave, so she could claim victory without consequence.

There would be a reckoning later.

For now, I needed out.

I crouched by the bed, shoving the remaining salvageable items into my bag, when the door creaked open behind me.

Nina stepped inside.

She held a small black bottle between two fingers, swinging it casually as her eyes swept the room like she was inspecting property. Her nose wrinkled, disdain written clearly across her face—until her gaze landed on me.

If looks could kill, I would’ve been dust.

“Well,” she drawled, tilting her head with that sickly sweetness that always made my skin crawl, “you really are impressive, Avery. After everything I’ve done to embarrass you in front of capos, investors, socialites—anyone who matters—you still cling to this place like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

Her smile sharpened.

“Oh. That’s right. Your grandmother passed last month, didn’t she?” She feigned thoughtfulness. “Now that your last piece of family is gone, I suppose it makes sense. You’re desperate. Hanging onto Zachary like he’s your final lifeline.”

Then she laughed—light, cruel, perfectly timed.

“Remember how you begged him to fly you out to see her one last time?” she asked softly. “Do you want to know why he didn’t?”

She lifted her phone, waving it like a blade.

“Because he promised to take me to the coast that day. Sunset. Champagne. That photo everyone saw? That’s when it was taken.”

The words didn’t hit all at once.

They fractured slowly—spreading through me like cracks in glass.

She’d known.

She’d known exactly what she was doing when she flaunted that picture. When she reminded me of the helicopter. Of the one day I’d knelt on cold marble, begging him to let me leave for just a few hours.

And he chose her.

The pressure built in my chest, jaw locking, fists curling at my sides until my nails bit skin.

Something inside me snapped.

“You think this is amusing?” I hissed, my voice low and sharp. “You think tearing apart what little I have left makes you powerful? Makes you worthy to stand beside him?”

Nina arched a brow, lips curving into something predatory. “I don’t need to be his equal,” she said calmly. “I already have everything.”

I stepped closer, teeth bared. “You have nothing,” I spat. “You’re a parasite. A leech feeding on scraps from his life—and mine.”

The room went very still.