Pregnant by my father's enemy

The shattered oath

My hand shook, the pregnancy test a death sentence in my grip, two pink lines burning my eyes in the dim bathroom of my family’s Sicilian estate. Pregnant—one word, my doom. Three days before my wedding to Matteo DeSantis, Papa’s chosen capo, but Matteo hadn’t touched me in five months, he was sent to Naples for the famiglia.

Tears blurred my vision, my breath ragged, chest tight like a vice.

Viktor Volkov’s ice-blue eyes haunted me, his hands claiming me, growling, “You’re mine, krasavitsa,” as he thrust into me that reckless night. I didn’t know he was the Bratva king, the monster who gunned down my mother, until weeks later when his photo stared at me from Papa’s study, cold and ruthless.

Matteo’s betrayal—a woman’s sultry moans on the phone, his pathetic lie, “I needed release”—drove me to that club, desperate to burn away the pain.

One night, and now Volkov’s child could destroy me. Naming him would be suicide; the Italians would tear me apart for carrying the enemy’s heir, a figlio illegitimo. A servant’s shadow flickered past the door, too quick, chilling my spine. Was someone watching, whispering my shame?

The door crashed open, my gasp sharp as the test clattered to the marble floor. Matteo loomed in the doorway, eyes narrowing, his broad frame filling the space.

“Emilia, what the—?” He froze, spotting the test, then lunged, snatching it before I could move. His face twisted with fury, veins bulging. “A pregnancy test?”

“Matteo, no—” My voice broke, hands scrambling, but he held it high, out of reach, his roar shaking the walls.

“Positive?” His voice was thunder, eyes wild. “I’ve been gone five months! Who’s the fu**ing father?”

“I don’t know!” I stammered, backing against the sink, my heart hammering so hard I thought it’d burst. I couldn’t say Volkov—the mafia’s war with the Bratva stole Mama, left her bleeding out in my arms. “It was a mistake, please, Matteo—”

“Don’t f*cking lie!” He grabbed my wrist, fingers bruising, yanking me so close his breath burned my face. “You f*cked someone else? Who? Tell me now!”

“Let go!” I twisted, crying, tears hot on my cheeks. “You screwed that wh*re! You don’t get to judge me!”

“That was nothing!” He shook me, the test clenched in his fist, his voice a snarl. “You’re mine, Emilia! Tell me who f*cked you, or I swear-” "Vincenzo has to hear this. I'm taking you to your father," he growled as he began to drag me.

“No!” My gown caught on my heels, stumbling as he dragged me toward the door, my pleas useless. “Matteo, Papa can’t know—”

“Move!”

He hauled me through the halls, my wrist screaming, to the ballroom where the pre-wedding gala buzzed with capos, Sicilian dons, and allies. Chandeliers gleamed, but Matteo’s voice cut sharper, a blade through the crowd.

“She’s pregnant!” He bellowed, slamming the test on Papa’s desk as capos swarmed the study, their eyes like wolves. “And it’s not mine!”