Pregnant by My Father's Enemy

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!” Gasps shattered the air, glasses smashing, shouts erupting. My face burned, shame exposed to the mafia’s elite, their whispers slicing my skin. Papa, Vincenzo Romano, silver-haired don, surged forward, eyes blazing like hellfire. “Emilia!” His voice was a whip. “Who did this? Speak, now!” “I don’t know!” I sobbed, hands guarding my stomach, trembling so hard my knees buckled. Volkov’s name would spark a war, slaughter my family. Matteo’s moans, that woman’s laugh, pushed me to that night. “It was one night, Papa, I didn’t know him!” “Liar!” Papa roared, seizing my throat, slamming me against the wall, his fingers crushing. “Name him, or I’ll choke it out of you!” “Papa, stop!” I clawed at his hand, gasping, legs shaking, vision spotting. The crowd’s whispers were knives, my brothers Luca and Marco frozen, their faces pale. Matteo lunged, fist raised, eyes crazed. “Tell us, you sl*t!” Luca tackled him, Marco pinning him as he thrashed, spitting curses. “You f*cking shamed me, Emilia!” “I can’t!” I cried, Papa’s grip tightening, air gone. “I’m begging you—” “Say it!” Papa’s fist cracked across my face, the slap echoing, ears ringing, pain exploding. “You’re no daughter of mine, and neither is that bastardo!” “No!” My hand flew to my stomach, voice raw, tears streaming. “You can’t take my child, Papa, please!” “Your child?” Marco sneered, stepping close, his voice dripping venom. “It’s a bastard, Emilia. You’re a Romano—you’re nothing now.” Matteo broke free, grabbing my shoulders, shaking me like a rag doll. “You’ll beg for my forgiveness, or I’ll make you suffer!” Luca shoved him back, fists flying, the room a chaos of shouts, capos surging, glasses shattering. “Enough!” Papa’s bellow silenced the storm, his gun drawn, eyes lethal. “Clinic tomorrow. The wedding’s on. This ends.” He glared at Matteo, voice icy. “You’ll marry her, DeSantis, or you’re dead.” Matteo’s eyes burned, love and hate colliding, his jaw tight. “I’ll do it,” he spat, voice low, vicious. “But she’ll pay for this, mark my words.” The crowd’s whispers stung like wasps, my gown torn, cheek throbbing, blood trickling from my lips. Luca lingered, his hand on my arm, voice low. “You’ve f*cked us all, Em. You had better fix this, or we’re done.” I stood, trembling, Volkov’s touch, a ghost on my skin, that night, a rebellion against Matteo’s lies. My child was my fight, but the Italians would never let it live. I’d protect it, even if my hands had to drip with blood. By dawn, my fate was sealed, Matteo dragging me to erase my shame. His Maserati roared from the estate, me in the passenger seat, face bruised, hands shaking, the clinic looming like a guillotine. Papa’s orders were clear: end the pregnancy, wipe out my sin. A knife to my throat silenced my voice, my heart screaming for my child. “You’re too quiet,” Matteo growled, gripping the wheel, knuckles white. “Dreaming of your lover, huh?” “Shut up,” I hissed, my voice quaking, tears threatening again. “You got what you wanted, Matteo. Leave me alone.” “Not enough,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “You humiliated me in front of everyone. That kid’s a disgrace, and you’re going to pay for it." “Pay?” I laughed, bitter, voice cracking. “You cheated first! You broke us, Matteo, not me!” “You’re mine!” he roared, slamming the dashboard, the car swerving. “You think you can fu*ck around and walk away? I’ll make you beg, Emilia, I swear it!” “Try it,” I spat, hands clutching my stomach, fear spiking. “Touch my child, and I’ll kill you myself.” His phone buzzed, cutting him off, his face tightening as he answered. “What? When?” A curse, low and vicious. “Get to the estate, now!” “What’s happening?” I asked, voice trembling, my gut twisting. Matteo’s voice was ice, eyes dead ahead. “The Russians hit us. Torched our warehouse, butchered our men.” My heart seized, hands shaking harder, Volkov’s name a poison in my mind. Why now? My secret, buried in terror, clawed its way up. His voice—“You’re mine”—echoed, fear drowning me. Was my child the target, or was this just another Bratva strike? We stormed into the study, Papa and capos waiting, a bloodied capo on his knees, clutching a box, his face gray. He opened it, revealing three severed fingers, one with Paolo’s Romano signet ring, blood dripping onto the floor, the stench hitting me like a fist. “Don!” the capo gasped, his voice shaking. "The Bratva hit at dawn. Burned the warehouse, killed Paolo, Rico, and Gino. They left this.” Papa snatched the box, face ashen, pulling out a bloodied note, his voice trembling as he read, “You touch my young blood, I wipe out your entire existence.” The room exploded; shouts, curses, guns drawn. Papa’s eyes snapped at me, raging a mask, his gun out, charging me. “Volkov!” he screamed, grabbing my throat, slamming me to the floor, the gun pressed to my forehead, his finger twitching. “You carry that Russian dog’s child? You’ve doomed us all!” “Papa, no!” I screamed, hands shielding my stomach, body shaking, tears choking me. “I didn’t know it was him! I swear, I swear!” “Liar!” Papa roared, strangling harder, voice a snarl, his eyes wild. “You let our enemy defile you? You’ve brought war to our door!” Luca and Marco lunged, wrestling the gun away, pinning Papa as he thrashed, cursing. “Don, stop!” Luca shouted, voice desperate. “We’ll fix this, we’ll find a way!” Matteo grabbed my arm, yanking me up, his face twisted with betrayal, spit flying. “Volkov? You f****d our enemy? You’ve killed us all, Emilia!” “I didn’t know!” I sobbed, my voice breaking, trembling like a leaf. “It was one night, I didn’t know who he was, I swear!” “You’re dead!” Papa broke free, lunging again, Marco barely holding him, his voice a howl. “You’ve betrayed us to the Bratva, you wh*re!” “I didn’t tell him!” I cried, collapsing, hands clutching my stomach, the fear choking me. “I kept it secret! I don’t know how he found out!” “You’ve brought hell on us, Emilia. You and that bastard child,” Matteo spat, his voice venomous, eyes burning with hate. Papa’s glare was lethal, his voice a hiss, gun still in hand. “That child’s our death. Volkov’s coming, and you’ve given him the weapon to destroy us.” My heart pounded, body quaking, Volkov’s words—“You touch my young blood, I wipe out your entire existence”—suffocating me. My secret was out, my child the spark to burn both empires. I whispered to my stomach, voice trembling, “I’ll protect you.” But Papa’s eyes promised murder, and the war had only just begun.