The Don's Secret Pregnant Wife

I slumped in the corner of the bathroom, my eyes locked on the plastic wand in my trembling hand. Two lines.

I was pregnant.

In a manicured estate where the slightest misstep could get you chopped up and fed to the hounds, I was carrying the spawn of the underworld boss, Asher Vance.

Three months had passed, yet the visceral phantom touches of that night still burned my skin. He had been ambushed, dosed with some vile, black-market nerve hallucinogen. When he kicked open the heavy mahogany doors of his private lounge, I was on my knees, scrubbing a stain out of the Persian rug.

He was a feral beast. He grabbed the back of my collar, hauling me up. I tried to scream, but his calloused palm clamped down over my mouth, suffocating the sound as he mindlessly tore through my maid's uniform. In the suffocating darkness, I had nothing to anchor me but pure agony and a desperate need for air.

Right at the brutal end, his blistering lips brushed against the shell of my ear as he released a low, guttural growl.

"You're such a good girl."

Bang!

The sound of a heavy door slamming shut in the corridor yanked me back to reality. I jolted, frantically ripping off wads of toilet paper. I wrapped the pregnancy test in a thick, white cocoon and shoved it deep into the very bottom of the trash can, burying it under soiled refuse. Taking a shaky, lung-expanding breath, I grabbed my mop bucket and pushed the bathroom door open.

Moments later, I stood in the blind spot of the second-floor grand staircase, mindlessly running a dusting rag over the mahogany railing.

Down in the grand foyer, six or seven high-ranking capos stood in a semicircle. Every head was bowed. Not a single man dared to look at the figure holding court in the center of the room.

Asher sat casually on the leather chesterfield. His black dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal a network of jagged, pale scars across his forearms. He kept his eyes averted, meticulously wiping fresh blood from a hunting knife.

"Boss," his underboss, Dante, spoke from a cautious three paces away. "We've turned the city upside down three times over. The woman who trespassed in your lounge three months ago... we still can't find her. The security feeds were hacked beforehand. She didn't leave so much as half a fingerprint."

Asher's hands stilled. With a careless flick of his wrist, he tossed the bloody blade. It clattered harshly against the glass coffee table.

"Three fucking months, Dante," Asher growled, his voice a lethal rumble. "Some bitch crawled into my bed, slapped the Vance family name in the face, and then just evaporated into thin air right under your noses?"

Dante's knees folded instantly, hitting the marble floor with a sickening thud. "Give me one more week! Even if I have to excavate every sewer duct in this city, I'll drag her out!"

"Find her," Asher demanded, rising to his full, predatory height. "And I don't need her breathing." He delivered the order with ice-cold indifference. "Snap her neck, stuff her into a drum of wet cement, and sink her into the Hudson."

Smack.

The water-logged rag slipped from my trembling fingers. It plummeted through the gaps in the balustrade and slapped wetly against the first-floor marble.

Schlick-clack.

The synchronized sound of safeties disengaging echoed through the hall. In an instant, seven black muzzles swung up, dead reckoning on my position on the second floor.

My legs turned to water. I collapsed, dropping to my knees on the carpeted stairs. Asher slowly angled his chin up.

He stared at me. For three agonizing seconds.

"A moron who can't even hold a damn rag." He looked away, stepping over the mess as he strode toward the main doors. "Clean this up. And tighten the perimeter. That little rat couldn't have run far."

It wasn't until the heavy front doors slammed shut that the capos finally lowered their weapons. They dispersed without casting a second glance in my direction.

I sat paralyzed on the steps, drained of every ounce of adrenaline. If I had shown even a flicker of guilt just now, a bullet would have hollowed out my skull right then and there.

The brutal reality finally crashed over me. I had been scrubbing his floors for a year and a half, and he didn't even care enough to know my name. That night's loss of control was no erotic accident to him; it was a profound, unforgivable humiliation.

No. When the shift changed tonight, I had to sneak back to the maid's quarters, grab the cash stashed beneath my mattress, and vault the rear perimeter wall. I didn't care where I ended up—I just had to run. As far away as humanly possible.

Forcing my shaking legs to bear my weight, I stood up, grabbed my bucket, and hurried down the hidden servant corridors toward the basement.

I barely rounded the corner when a dark silhouette blocked my path. It was the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gale. Draped over her arm was a brand-new, still-packaged maid's uniform.

"Wipe that dead-girl look off your face, Elara," she snapped, shoving the plastic-wrapped garments hard into my chest. "Miss Valentina Rossi—the Rossi family heiress and the Boss's future fiancée—is moving into the estate in exactly ten minutes."

I froze, clutching the tightly tailored uniform to my chest.

"The Boss just issued a top-tier lockdown," Mrs. Gale continued, staring at me with hawkish coldness. "To ensure Miss Valentina's safety, the estate is on Code Red. For the next seven days, all staff will eat and sleep inside the main house. The gates are locked down with rotating passcodes. No one leaves."

She paused, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

"Anyone who dares step half a foot near the portico exits will be shot on sight."

My fingernails dug so hard into my palms they drew blood. My escape route had just been violently severed.

I looked down at the form-fitting dress in my hands. A cold drop of sweat slid down my temple. I was trapped. I was going to be forced to parade around in this tight uniform, carrying a ticking time bomb in my womb, walking on eggshells for seven endless days under the very noses of the tyrant who put a hit out on me—and his true queen.