PREGNANT FOR THE MAFIA BOSS

PREGNANT FOR THE MAFIA BOSS: His Twins, His Revenge By Omoniyi Rose CHAPTER 1: THE WRONG CAR The rain in Queens didn't fall. It stabbed. Amara Johnson stood under the flickering light of a closed laundromat with one suitcase, a dead phone at 2%, and twelve dollars and forty cents in her Wells Fargo account. Tunde had just screamed at her, "Go back to Nigeria! You are expired visa girl, nobody wants you!" And left her on the curb at 11:17 PM. She ordered the cheapest Uber. Toyota Corolla. $9. What stopped in front of her was not a Toyota. It was a black Cadillac Escalade, blacked-out windows, engine humming like a beast. The license plate: NY - DON 1. The back window rolled down. He wasn't a driver. God, he wasn't. A man in his early thirties, white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tattoos crawling up his neck, a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His eyes were grey and dead and beautiful. Italian. Dangerous. The kind of face that never smiled. "You are not my car," Amara said, stepping back. He looked at her suitcase. Her shaking hands. Her wet braids. "Get in." "What? No. I ordered Toyota-" "Queens at 11 PM, Nigerian girl alone in rain with suitcase. You have two choices. Get in my car or die on this street. Your choice." His voice was low, accented, calm. That scared her more than shouting. Her phone died. The street was empty. A drunk man was walking towards her from the corner. She got in. The door locked with a THUNK. The smell inside was expensive — leather, cologne, gun oil. Two men in front, silent, suits, guns visible. "Where to?" he asked. "I... I don't have anywhere." He stared at her. For a long time. "Name?" "Amara." "Amara. I am Dante Moretti. You will stay in my guest house tonight. Tomorrow you leave. Understand?" She should have said no. Every instinct told her to say no. But she nodded. The penthouse on Central Park West wasn't a house. It was an empire. Marble, glass, city lights. The guest room was bigger than her entire apartment in Lagos. "Don't come out. Don't touch anything. Sleep," he ordered and left. At 2 AM, she came out to find water. He was in the kitchen, shirt off, back full of tattoos and bullet scars, drinking whiskey in the dark. "You couldn't sleep?" he asked without turning. "I..." He turned. And looked at her — really looked. At her oversized wet t-shirt, her bare legs, her lips. "How old are you?" he whispered. "Twenty-three." "Expired visa?" She flinched. "How did you-" "I know everything about everyone who enters my car." He walked closer. Slowly. He didn't touch her. He just caged her against the fridge with his arms. "You are very beautiful, Amara. Do you know that?" No man had ever looked at her like she was something precious and edible at the same time. "I should go back to room," she whispered. "You should," he said. His grey eyes dropped to her mouth. "But you won't." And she didn't. CHAPTER 2: ONE NIGHT He kissed her like a man who had never learned to be gentle. His hands — large, calloused, tattooed — held her face like she would break. He lifted her onto the kitchen counter and she gasped. "Dante, we can't-" "We can. Say yes or say no. Right now." The rain hit the glass. Her heart hit her chest. "Yes," she whispered. It was not soft. It was not romantic. It was desperate, hungry, two broken people finding heat in a cold city. He carried her to his bed, his master bedroom, and she forgot about Tunde, about her visa, about being broke. For one night, she was not invisible Nigerian girl. She was wanted. In the morning, she was gone before he woke up. She left no number. No name. Only the faint smell of coconut oil on his sheets. Dante Moretti woke up and his house was empty. For the first time in ten years, someone had left HIM. He touched the empty side of the bed. His jaw clenched. "Find her," he told his second-in-command, Luca. CHAPTER 3: TWO PINK LINES Two months later. Dayton, Ohio. Amara stared at the plastic stick in the dirty bathroom of a diner where she worked as a waitress. Two lines. Bright pink. Pregnant. She threw up. Then threw up again. Not from morning sickness. From terror. Whose? She knew whose. One night. One night with the mafia boss whose last name she only knew because she Googled him after and almost fainted. Dante Moretti — Don of the Moretti Family, most dangerous man in New York, wanted by FBI, on Forbes. She called a free clinic. The nurse smiled, "Twins! You have twins, honey. Strong heartbeat!" Twins. She bought a bus ticket to disappear deeper into Ohio. She would raise them alone. She would never tell him. Men like that didn't want babies. They wanted blood. She was wrong. At 7 months pregnant now, waddling, working double shifts, her belly huge with twins, someone knocked on her tiny apartment door. She opened it. Dante Moretti stood there in a black wool coat, snow on his shoulders, five armed men behind him, eyes red from no sleep, staring at her stomach like he had seen a ghost. His voice broke for the first time in his life. "So you were hiding from me, Amara? With MY babies?" CHAPTER 4: HIS GOLDEN CAGE "You can't just take me!" Amara screamed, backing away, one hand on her huge belly. Dante stepped inside. He didn't need to force. His presence filled the tiny one-bedroom apartment. Luca closed the door behind them, locking it. "I can. And I am," Dante said quietly. His grey eyes never left her stomach. "You are seven months pregnant with my children in a roach apartment with no heat. You work on your feet 12 hours. You think I will allow that?" "You don't own me!" "I own this building now. I bought it 10 minutes ago." He took off his coat. Under it, his suit was perfect, but his face was tired. "Pack. Or I pack you." Amara's water broke in fear — not real labor, just a small leak from stress. She gasped and grabbed the wall. Dante's entire mafia mask fell. In one second he was on his knees, hands on her belly, face white. "Hospital! Now! Luca, car!" "I'm fine! It's just stress!" she cried, but she was crying now. Seven months alone, no family, no mother, twins kicking violently. He lifted her. Easily. Like she weighed nothing, even with twins. He carried her to the Escalade, barking in Italian to his men. In the car, she tried to push him away. He held her hand against his chest. His heart was beating fast — too fast for a cold boss. "Don't," he whispered against her braids. "Don't fight me, Amara. Please. For them." That please. From a Don who never said please. She stopped fighting. The drive to New York was 8 hours. He didn't let go. He had a private doctor waiting at his Long Island fortress — a mansion with 20-foot walls, armed guards, cameras, and a medical wing. "Why?" she whispered as they passed the gates. "Why do you care? It was one night." He looked at her, hand on her belly feeling his sons kick. "Because in 30 years, no woman has ever left my bed and stayed in my head. For 3 months I searched every Nigerian girl named Amara in New York. Do you know how many there are? 412. I found you 412 times wrong until I found you right. They are my blood. You are my obsession now. I protect what's mine." He carried her into the mansion. Chanel maternity dresses. A nursery already built — two cribs, Italian wood, twins clothes worth more than her life. And guards at every door. "For protection," he said. "Russians attacked my shipment last week. They know about you. They will use you to kill me." "So I'm prisoner." "You are Queen in this house. But yes, you don't leave without me." That night she tried to lock the bedroom door. He knocked once. "Open." "No!" "Amara, if you don't open, I will break it. And I don't want to scare the babies." She opened. He stood there with a plate of jollof rice — real Nigerian jollof, not the American sweet one. "I asked my chef to learn. My housekeeper is Nigerian. Mama Joy. She will be with you." He set the food down and left. He didn't touch her. But at 3 AM, she woke up to find him asleep in the chair beside her bed, his hand on her belly, listening to his twins move. CHAPTER 5: THE HEARTBEAT The private doctor was a woman, Dr. Romano, gentle. "Let's hear them," she said, putting gel on Amara's huge dark belly. Dante stood behind, in a black shirt, arms crossed, trying to look cold. Trying. The first heartbeat filled the room. Thump-thump-thump-thump — fast, strong. Amara gasped and cried. First time hearing them. Second heartbeat. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Twins. Dante's arms dropped. His face — that stone, scarred, murderer's face — cracked. "Again," he whispered. Dr. Romano smiled and played it again. Dante Moretti, Don who killed 14 men with his hands, who never cried when his father died, put his big tattooed hand over his mouth and tears fell down his scar. "They're alive," he choked out in Italian. "They're alive inside you." Amara stared at him crying. This monster crying for her babies. He fell to his knees beside the bed, forehead on her belly, big shoulders shaking. "Mi dispiace... I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry you were alone. I'm sorry." She didn't know what to do. She hated him. She wanted him. She put her hand in his hair. For 10 minutes, the most dangerous man in New York cried on his pregnant Black queen's belly while his twins kicked his face. Dr. Romano left quietly. After, he wiped his face and stood, trying to recover his Don mask. "Their names," he said, voice hoarse. "If boys?" "I... I thought... David and Daniel." He nodded slowly. "David Dante Moretti. Daniel Dante Moretti. After my brother." He touched her cheek — softly, for the first time. "No one will ever hurt you three again. I will burn this city before someone touches you. Understand?" She understood. She was carrying the heirs of the Mafia empire. She was never going home. That night, the Russian attack came. Gunfire hit the gates. Alarms screamed. Dante ran out with a gun, shouting in Italian. Mama Joy pulled Amara into the panic room. "Don't fear, my daughter," Mama Joy said in Yoruba. "Your husband will kill them all." My husband. Amara held her belly as explosions shook the mansion. She was no longer just Amara Johnson, broke visa girl. She was Amara Moretti. The Mafia's Black Queen. And her twins hadn't even been born yet.