Dan Belinni: Pregnant by the Lethal Mafioso

Isabella Silva — 3 Months Earlier

"Stop crying. You’re strong," I whisper to myself in the airport bathroom as I wipe away my tears.

I shove the coffee-stained shirt into my backpack and put on a clean one—black and basic. When I got here, I was so nervous that I ended up spilling my drink while thinking about the chaos my life had become.

I step out of the stall and wash my face, noticing my gold necklace with a heart-shaped pendant standing out against the black fabric. My mother gave me the piece when I turned fifteen, and it was my favorite birthday gift of all time. It’s beautiful. And still intact.

While my real heart lies in pieces.

Because of all the ways I imagined spending my eighteenth birthday, I never once thought it would be like this.

Alone, forced to leave everything and everyone behind, going away to another country.

My God… it’s still hard to believe.

If I could choose a superpower, it would without a doubt be the ability to go back in time—just so I could run away from home before my mother said the words that would change my life forever.

"You’re the daughter of a mafioso. When I lived in the United States, I worked as a maid in the house of Charles Ricciardi, your father. He was young and ambitious, and I… well, I was just a Brazilian girl trying to make a living. I ended up getting pregnant by him."

The revelation hit like an earthquake, tearing down everything I thought I knew about myself.

"Mom… what?" My voice came out weak, barely above a whisper.

She took a deep breath, tears already streaming freely down her face.

"Charles’s father—your grandfather—found out and decided he needed to protect his son’s reputation. He wasn’t going to let a scandal like that stain their legacy, and he made me swear I would never tell anyone about ‘the bastard.’" She gestured with her hands, the tears in her eyes making it clear that it had been a terrible time for her. "Not even your father. Your grandfather sent me back to Brazil with money I used to buy our house and pay for your education, but only after he made sure you weren’t a boy."

"A boy? What does that have to do with anything?"

"In the mafia, Bella, boys are heirs—potential leaders. Since you were a girl, you weren’t seen as a threat to the line of succession… That’s why he let us live."

I stayed silent, trying to process the absurd story she was telling me. My whole life, I had believed my father was just some man who disappeared before he even knew I existed. But now…

"Why didn’t you ever tell me before?"

"I wanted to protect you." The pain in her voice was almost tangible. "Your grandfather was a cruel man, and he would have killed me if I had even thought about opening my mouth. Besides, if anyone found out who you really were, they would use you to get to the Ricciardi family. They have many enemies."

"And now?" I asked, my chest tightening.

She hesitated before answering, as if each word were a knife piercing her soul.

"Your grandfather died last week, and your father found some notes of his in the office. He pulled a few strings and found out about you."

I couldn’t say anything. I could barely breathe. Then she went on:

"He came to me," she sighed, her face weary. "Your father demanded that you return to the United States, Bella. He wants his daughter back."

That sentence hit like a bomb.

"He wants?" I let out a bitter laugh. "Did he ask what I want?"

"Bella, please, listen to me. I fought to keep you here, away from that world, but he’s Charles Ricciardi. He doesn’t accept being defied. He sees you as part of the family legacy, as a piece he needs to protect and… use. The best I could do was make him wait until your eighteenth birthday… so I could say goodbye. But you’re a mafia princess, and you owe him obedience." Her voice broke, and I felt like I was going to throw up.

A mafia princess?

My God.

No. Absolutely not.

I was just a simple girl with a scholarship at a private school—which I’m only now realizing was a lie—and a weekend job at my mother’s beauty salon.

I wasn’t the daughter of a mafioso.

I couldn’t be.

My head spun as I tried to understand what this meant for me, for my life.

"So what happens now?"

"You need to board a flight to the United States today. Your father will meet you at the airport in New York."

"Today?" My voice cracked, and a bitter laugh slipped from my lips.

"Your father wanted to pick you up himself on the mafia’s private jet, but I begged him to at least let you take a regular flight, so you’d have some space to try to process everything on your own. He agreed to make the trip less traumatic for you because I know he wants to earn your trust, but there will be soldiers in disguise to guarantee your safety."

"This has to be a nightmare."

My mother tried to come closer.

"I know it’s a lot to take in…" she whispered, but I raised a hand, keeping her at a distance.

"I can’t believe you let this happen, Mom."

"I’m so sorry, Bella." She was sobbing now, looking as lost as I felt. "But you need to understand… I had no choice."

"And I don’t either, right?" I spat the words, the hurt turning my voice into something I barely recognized.

"Charles wants to know you. He wants you to understand that you have a place by his side."

She tried to soften the situation, but it was impossible.

I didn’t know much about the mafia or criminal organizations, but I valued my freedom far too much to submit to this. To the will of a man I had never met.

"As if I wanted that!" I shouted. "I’m not part of that world. I’m not the daughter of a mafioso, I’m just… just me!"

My mother looked at me with endless sadness.

"You’re Isabella Ricciardi. A mafia princess. Whether you want it or not, that’s who you are now."

That sentence echoed in my head as I walked away. I was going to be forced to abandon my life and become the daughter of a mafioso in a country I had never even set foot in. And the only reason I spoke the language fluently was because my mother had insisted I take English lessons since I was very young.

Maybe she had always known this could happen…

"Isabella…"

"You should have trusted me. I never would have told anyone if I knew it would put your life at risk, but you chose to hide me instead. Even though it was about me—about my life."

"Sweetheart…" she cried, sobbing.

"How much time do I have?" I asked, ignoring all of my mother’s tears. I knew that one day I would forgive her, but that day would not be today.

She sighed and looked at the clock.

"Your flight is at six."

Less than twelve hours to pack my life into a suitcase and say goodbye to everything I had built so far. I didn’t even have the courage to text my friends… what was I supposed to tell them?

"You can only tell other people you’ve left once you’re already there, sweetheart," my mother said, as if reading my mind. "For your own safety."

Not wanting to argue anymore and knowing I had no choice, I went to my room and packed all my bags, feeling bitterness fill my chest with every piece of clothing I folded away.

With what little time I had, I used my phone to search for as much information as I could about the lives of mafia princesses. And as absurd and unbelievable as it sounded, I discovered that it was real—and that women born into that world have no control over their own destinies.

The purpose of their lives is simply to bear children and submit to the will of mafiosos.

Not to mention arranged marriages. I wouldn’t even have the right to choose my own husband.

My body would no longer belong to me. It would belong to the New York mafia.

The mere thought made my stomach turn.

I was still a virgin, and I wanted to save that part of myself for someone special. I’d never been the most romantic or dreamy person in the world, but when it came to this, I was.

Because of my mother’s story—getting pregnant so young—I had always been terrified the same thing would happen to me. Her parents turned their backs on her, and she had to figure out how to raise me on her own, forced to grow up overnight.

Part of me admired her for being such a fighter, but another part of me didn’t want to make the same mistakes she had. I wanted to fall in love with a good guy and trust him before giving him my body.

I had always been more reserved because of that. Boys my age tried to get close to me in countless ways, but I never let myself trust them. I saw how they treated other girls, and I didn’t want to be just another name on their list.

I wanted more.

And I was not going to accept someone using me to make marriage deals and taking that freedom away from me.

I fought back tears and forced myself to think of some way out, but I failed miserably. The news had caught me so off guard that I could barely think straight.

When I finished packing, I stepped out of my room. My mother was already waiting in the hallway, car keys in hand, ready to drive me to the airport.

"I’m taking a cab," I said.

She stepped back, then crossed her arms and nodded, knowing I needed my space. Raquel Silva might have plenty of flaws, but she had always respected my choices.

Except now, my subconscious accused, and I swallowed hard.

Before I left the house, she grabbed a purse and handed it to me along with an address and a phone number.

"There are two thousand dollars in here. I know it’s not much, but you know the salon isn’t that profitable, and it was all I could exchange after finding out you were leaving. Maybe you won’t feel comfortable asking your father for anything, so use this if you need something. It’s not much, but it’ll do for an emergency," she said, and my throat burned with the tears I was trying to hold back. "Your father’s mansion address and his cell number are in here too, but in New York he’ll come pick you up himself."

As much as I hated the idea of getting involved in this absurd story, I took what she offered me. Knowing an address in the United States—even if it belonged to the last person I wanted to meet—was crucial.

I took a deep breath and used my photographic memory to memorize Charles Ricciardi’s address and phone number.

I hugged the purse she had given me because, despite everything, my mother knew me well enough to know that I would never feel comfortable asking a mafioso I had never met to buy basic things for me, like underwear or pads. Not to mention, the money would be useful if some emergency came up.

Or maybe, just maybe, if an opportunity to run appeared.

"And don’t even think about running away, Isabella. I’m serious." My mother’s voice cut through my thoughts as if she knew exactly what was going through my mind. "Your father is eager to meet you, but he’s already compromised a lot, and he is not a patient man. If you don’t arrive in New York as agreed, I don’t know what he’ll be capable of."

Raquel tried to hug me one last time, but I left without saying goodbye.

My heart bled as I walked away from the person I had loved most in my entire life, but disappointment still cut through me like a sharpened blade.

Maybe that’s love’s greatest problem: it makes us vulnerable. Because of it, we carry burdens we were never meant to bear.

I got into the cab and cried the entire way to the airport.

With every mile that brought me closer to my inevitable destination, my mother’s last words echoed louder in my head:

“Don’t think about running away.”

But that was exactly what I was planning to do.

I put on some light makeup to hide my tear-stained face and stare at my phone screen, seeing that it’s almost time for my flight.

I’ve never been especially religious or a regular churchgoer, but I’ve always had my faith, and holding on to that, I close my eyes and ask whatever higher power might be listening to help me find a way out.

I’m about to leave the bathroom when a female voice catches my attention.

"I couldn’t get the ticket to New York, amiga. I’m going to have to go to Chicago and figure things out there for a few days."

The girl smiles as she talks to someone on the phone.

"I’m not crazy. Okay, maybe I’m a little crazy. But what do I have to lose? My parents kicked me out, and there’s nothing keeping me in Brazil. I got the visa because of my college enrollment, but you know I want to drop out. Maybe this trip is my chance to show off my acting talents abroad, who knows. Maybe some agent will discover me and I’ll become super famous."

The girl keeps talking to her friend on the phone, but the moment I catch sight of her face in the mirror, my heart nearly skips a beat.

She looks so much like me.

I’m a few inches taller, but she has brown eyes and brown hair like mine, and our features are almost identical. She’s also wearing jeans and a black backpack; the only difference is that her shirt is white—the same color as the one I was wearing before I came in here.

My mouth falls open in shock because I remember learning in school that the odds of two people having the same basic facial appearance are one in one hundred thousand.

No, this is impossible.

Or maybe…

It’s a miracle.

"I have to hang up, my flight is at six-thirty," she continues. "Don’t worry, I’ll be fine."

The girl ends the call and finally looks at me in the bathroom mirror.

Her eyes widen, reflecting the same disbelief I felt seeing our reflections side by side.

"Wow, I like the necklace!" she says with a playful smile. "Are you my long-lost twin sister or something?"

My breathing turns uneven, and I fight to stay calm. I could strike up a conversation, pretend to be friendly, earn her trust before revealing what I need. But my survival instinct screams louder. Time is against me, and every second I waste is a threat.

I turn quickly, focusing on her face. The resemblance between us is unsettling—almost terrifying—but I can’t let myself dwell on it right now.

"It’s gold." My hand goes straight to the necklace around my neck, as if it could somehow give me the courage I need. The idea running through my head is absurd, but I don’t have time to overthink it. The only thing that matters right now is my freedom. "Do you want it? In exchange for an adventure?"

She seems adventurous. I need her to say yes. Everything depends on it.

The girl hesitates for a few seconds, but the smile she gives me makes me certain that someone up there heard my prayer.

"What do I have to do?"

I’m going to throw up.

I rush into the bathroom at the Chicago airport, barely managing to open the stall door before emptying the entire contents of my stomach into the toilet.

My body convulses, but every time I close my eyes, the news about the plane crash comes back to haunt me, over and over again.

The plane I was supposed to be on.

A problem on the flight from São Paulo to New York caused the aircraft to explode and crash into the ocean. No one survived.

No one.

The girl I spoke to hours ago, the one who agreed to swap passports and tickets with me… is dead.

It was supposed to be me.

I keep throwing up, my body trembling, the violent and overwhelming sensation of having nearly embraced death consuming me.

A few women come into the bathroom and ask if I need help, but I lock the stall and refuse to speak to anyone right now.

I need to be alone.

I don’t know how much time passes before I finally manage to stand up again.

Still numb, I flush the toilet and go to the sink to rinse my mouth and wash my face, but the reflection staring back at me in the mirror looks like a ghost.

The news about the plane crash must be spreading all over the world by now.

And that means my family thinks I’m dead.

"Bad day?"

A voice with a thick accent interrupts my thoughts. I turn and see a girl who looks about my age watching me.

"Something like that," I murmur, looking away as I open my backpack to take out my makeup bag.

I look at my reflection again, but something feels wrong. The sensation of living someone else’s life is suffocating.

She’s dead.

For a necklace, a ticket to New York, and the promise of an adventure, that girl agreed to trade places with me. She helped distract my father’s “disguised” security guards, who looked like human walls planted in the middle of the airport. Their intimidating stares gave the impression they could destroy anyone who dared hold eye contact with them for more than ten seconds.

She left the bathroom before I did, tied her hair the same way I wore mine, and the white shirt was enough to complete the disguise. The plan was simple: she would pretend to be me on the flight to New York while I stayed hidden in the bathroom until it was time to board the flight to Chicago, leaving half an hour later.

I knew it wouldn’t take long for my father to discover the truth, but at least I would have some freedom before he came to rip it away from me.

It was an absurd, ridiculous plan.

And it had worked.

But never, not even in my worst nightmares, did I imagine it would cost her life.

I start putting on makeup in a desperate attempt to pull myself together.

I’m on the verge of falling apart, but I can’t walk the streets of an unfamiliar country with a face that screams vulnerability.

Instinctively, I reach for my phone, but then I remember I smashed it in the São Paulo airport bathroom and threw the pieces in the trash so I couldn’t be tracked.

"Do you know what time it is?" I ask the girl beside me.

She answers, and I feel relieved to know it’s still early. I’ll have the whole day to figure out a solution before night falls and I’m left alone in a place I don’t know.

I thank her with a nod and turn my attention back to the mirror.

As I touch up my makeup, her phone rings. She answers and starts speaking in Spanish to a woman who, judging by the tone, must be her mother. The girl leaves the bathroom while talking, and I follow discreetly behind her.

Thanks to the Spanish classes I took, I can understand the conversation. She’s in Chicago looking for work and heading to a cheap inn, promising her mother she’ll save money and won’t go hungry.

A cheap inn.

Exactly what I need, considering all I have left are the two thousand dollars my mother gave me. And honestly, I have no idea how I’m supposed to get more money to survive.

As if my body has activated some kind of survival instinct, another insane idea hits me, and I start running until I reach the cab before she does. Still standing outside, I tell the driver the name of the inn the girl mentioned and pray she heard me. But when he asks for the address, my heart starts racing.

"I forgot."

"I know the address." The girl’s voice is quiet beside me, and I turn to see the surprise written all over her face. "I’m staying at that inn too."

"Do you want to split the ride?" I ask, with an innocence I absolutely do not have right now.

She hesitates for a few seconds, then sighs and nods.

"Okay, splitting the ride will save me a little," she says, and I nod back in relief. Before getting into the cab, she extends her hand and smiles. "María Hernandez."

I take her hand. The name Isabella almost slips from my lips, but I stop myself.

Everything has changed now. My life, my name, my identity.

"Milena Lima. Nice to meet you."

Then I get into the cab, leaving Isabella—and everything that belonged to my old life—behind.