Page 112 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
Surrounded by their scents, I dreamed of them every night. Sometimes violent nightmares where they hunted me through endless corridors. Sometimes erotic fantasies that left me waking up aching and needy. And sometimes—these were the worst—domestic scenes of shared meals and gentle touches that left me more shaken than any nightmare could. Nothing says “you’re screwed” quite like dreaming about Sunday pancakes with the mafia lords who’d promised to hunt you down.
The morning sickness worsened until even water became my enemy. I lost weight despite the premium groceries that continued to appear in my refrigerator—now supplemented by prenatal vitamins I definitely hadn’t purchased. Someone knew about the pregnancy. Someone was providing for us like we were some charity case for the Alpha Billionaire Benevolence Society.
I tried not to think about who that might be. Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt; it’s also my primary coping mechanism.
By the end of the week, I was so sick that even Mrs. Patel’s miracle ginger tea couldn’t help. I called in to work for the first time, bracing for Reynolds’ irritation but getting something much more disturbing instead.
“Take all the time you need, Hart,” he said, his tone oddly deferential, like I’d suddenly been promoted from “dishwasher” to “person who might have his kneecaps broken.” “Your position will be waiting when you’re feeling better.”
Mrs. Patel checked on me throughout the day, bringing tea and toast and motherly concern that made my chest ache with missing my own mom. She never directly mentioned pregnancy again, but her knowing looks and gentle pats on my hand spoke volumes. The woman had the subtlety of a neon sign.
“Your friends asked about you,” she said casually as she straightened my already-tidy living room. “I told them you were unwell but being looked after.”
“What friends, Mrs. Patel? Last I checked, my social circle consists of you, a waitress who’s betting on my reproductive status, and a toilet bowl I’ve become intimately acquainted with this week.”
“The handsome ones,” she replied vaguely, adjusting a pillow. “So concerned for your welfare. It’s good to have people who care, Tyberius.”
I wanted to press her for details, to demand names and descriptions, but her expression had closed like a bank vault at closing time. Instead, I thanked her for the tea and promised to call if I needed anything, like an explanation, or perhaps a witness protection program.
After she left, I dragged myself to the window, scanning the street below for any sign of surveillance. Nothing obvious—no black SUVs, no men in suits looking suspiciously like they belonged on a movie poster forGeneric Mafia Henchmen 5: The Henchening. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there, watching my every move, waiting for the right moment to reclaim what they considered theirs.
Me. And now, my baby.
The thought sent a chill through me, followed by a confusing wave of something almost like relief. If they wanted the baby, if they considered it theirs, then they would protect it. Provide for it. Ensure its safety and comfort.
“Listen to yourself,” I said, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. “Contemplating handing your unborn child over to three mafia alphas like they’re running some kind of underground daycare service. ‘Yes, hello, I’d like to enroll my baby in Criminals with Attachment Issues Academy. Do you offer a sibling discount for future kidnappings?’”
But the alternatives were limited. I had no money for proper medical care. No family to support me beyond a father who was still De Luca’s prisoner. No friends beyond Megan and Mrs. Patel. And a baby, especially one fathered by a powerful alpha, would need resources I simply couldn’t provide on my own without resorting to a life of crime, which seemed counterproductive given the circumstances.
The realization sat heavy in my chest. I had escaped one prison only to find myself trapped in another, one constructed not of walls and guards, but of biology and circumstance. The universe had a sick sense of humor, and apparently, I was its favorite punch line.
By the tenth day after my pregnancy discovery, the constant nausea had finally begun to subside, replaced by a bone-deep fatigue that made even simple tasks like brushing my teeth feel exhausting. But at least I could keep food down now, could think more clearly about my options, which remained somewhere between “terrible” and “catastrophic.”
Megan had been texting daily, checking on me, offering to bring soup or medicine. Her kindness was a bright spot in the darkness, a reminder that not everyone saw me as just an omega, just a vessel, just a means to an end.
Feeling any better?she texted that evening.Diego’s cousin says the thing at the compound is happening soon. Like, tomorrow soon. Whole north side’s gonna be chaos.
The compound. De Luca’s compound. Where my father was still being held. Where the Trinity was planning an assault. Tomorrow.
My heart raced violently as the implications sank in. If the Trinity was attacking tomorrow, there would be confusion, distraction, security focused on external threats rather than internal movement. The perfect opportunity for someone to slip in unnoticed.
Someone who might finally be able to save his father.
It was insane. Reckless. Potentially suicidal. I was pregnant, weakened by weeks of morning sickness, with no weapons, no backup, no real plan beyond “get in, find Dad, get out.”
“Great plan, Ty,” I said to myself, pacing the small confines of my apartment. “Very detailed. Very strategic. Maybe add ‘don’t die horribly’ as a bonus objective. Or ‘try not to get captured by either the sadistic old mafia donorthe three alpha baby daddies who probably want to mount your head on their wall.’”
But it might be my only chance. My father had been De Luca’s prisoner for months, kept alive only as leverage against me. Once the Trinity attacked, that leverage would be worthless. De Luca might kill him out of spite, or he might be caught in the crossfire of the assault.
I couldn’t let that happen. Not when I had a chance to prevent it.
Thanks for the heads-up,I texted back to Megan.Feeling better. Should be back at work in a day or two.Assuming I survived tomorrow’s suicide mission, which was about as likely as me suddenly developing the ability to fly.
Then I pulled out the map of the compound I’d been sketching from memory, studying entry points and guard positions. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all I had. Tomorrow, I would face De Luca one last time. Would risk everything—my freedom, my life, my child’s future—to save the only family I had left.
And if I encountered the alphas in the process… well, I’d deal with that if it happened. One impossible task at a time. My life had become a series of increasingly dangerous hurdles, like a twisted game show where the grand prize was continued existence.
I placed a protective hand over my still-flat stomach, a fierce determination settling in my chest. “We’re going to be okay,” Ipromised the tiny life growing inside me. “Both of us. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not De Luca. Not the alphas. No one.”
