The Secret Pregnancy

Cold gel slicked across Sienna Vance’s slightly rounded stomach as the transducer glided over her skin. The thirty-something doctor beamed, tapping a tiny, flickering speck on the monitor. "It's official—you're expecting! Look right there, that's your little one."

Sienna’s entire reality caved in within a matter of seconds. Wide, tear-filled green eyes locked onto the grainy display as a wave of raw emotion crashed over her. A child. An actual heartbeat growing inside her womb. How could she possibly destroy it?

Five times she had walked through the doors of this clinic intending to terminate the pregnancy, and four times sheer terror had driven her to bolt before going through with it. Today, she had sworn she would finish it, yet the moment her gaze connected with that glowing screen, every ounce of her resolve evaporated. That was her child. Her own flesh and blood.

Noticing her silence, the middle-aged physician switched off the display, leaving the screen dark to Sienna's quiet dismay, and asked gently, "Are you sure you want to go ahead with the procedure?"

For a long stretch, Sienna couldn't force a single syllable past her lips. Her fingers twisted into the crisp examination sheet beneath her, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths as she fought to make an irreversible choice. Everything she had bled for flashed behind her eyes—the golden weight of her Best Newcomer trophy, the lucrative contracts waiting with elite fashion houses, the relentless years spent climbing the industry ladder. All that dazzling success suddenly felt like a distant daydream. A violent tremor ran through her frame as a humiliating memory ambushed her senses: the crushing grip of possessive arms pinning her down, the raw grunts and tangled moans bouncing off the walls of a backstage green room. She had been so blackout drunk that night that the man's face remained a total blank, a shameful blur she desperately wished she could scrub from her mind.

Yet as the phantom image of a baby’s tiny, helpless hands reaching up for her warmth pushed the darkness aside, the fog cleared. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered shut. She knew what mattered most. Unclenching her fingers from the wrinkled linen, she forced the broken words out in a fragile whisper. "No... I'm not... going through with the abortion..."

Hours later, after crying until her chest ached, Sienna dragged herself back to the family estate as dusk settled. Inside the grand foyer, her father, Arthur Vance, stood waiting with a warm, beaming expression. Lately, Sienna’s name had dominated the media, her commercial campaigns plastered across the state. Even though Arthur had always hoped his daughter would eventually take over the family enterprise, seeing her dominate the headlines filled him with undeniable paternal pride.

Numbness weighed down Sienna's limbs as she stepped across the threshold. Her gait faltered, her knuckles whitening around the strap of her handbag where the clinic's medical proof lay hidden. How was she supposed to look her father in the eye and confess she was carrying a complete stranger's baby? Worse, she hadn't even found the heart to tell him that Preston, the longtime boyfriend she had trusted with her life, had stabbed her in the back by sleeping with her best friend.

"Sienna! Come take a look at this! Even Mr. Sterling just sent word praising that new campaign you shot for his label!" Arthur called out, his face lighting up.

A thick, suffocating knot wedged in Sienna's throat, halting her mid-stride. Guilt twisted her features as she took in her father's pure joy, knowing that keeping this child meant the devastating truth would inevitably come crashing down on him.

Releasing a shaky breath, she forced her feet to move toward the sofa where Arthur sat, gathering every scrap of courage to lay her secrets bare. She came to a halt directly before him. Her glossed lips trembled, parting and sealing shut in agonizing hesitation. Just as she drew in the breath to speak, the estate’s elderly gatekeeper sprinted into the hallway, his face pale with sheer terror.

Without waiting for permission to speak, the old guard shouted between ragged gasps, "Sir! There... there's a mob of reporters swarming the front gates demanding to be let in! They... they're claiming the Young Miss is... pregnant! They're demanding she come out and explain herself!"

Across the city, agonized wails echoed off the concrete walls of a dimly lit chamber. Suspended upside down from the ceiling, a man hung swaying, his battered face swollen with dark bruises and fresh blood dripping from his split lip as pathetic whimpers tore from his throat.

"Let's hear it—just how close did you get to putting a ring on her finger?" Dante Di Marco, the newly crowned Don of the Italian Mafia Empire, had decided to handle this interrogation personally. One heavily inked hand rested casually against the armrest of his leather sofa, fresh tattoos visible against his skin as his merciless grey eyes bored into the dangling captive.

"Don... I swear... I never married her..." the hanging man sobbed, scrambling to make his voice sound believable despite knowing the inevitable price of treason. Crossing the syndicate carried only one sentence: death. For generations, the Di Marco bloodline had ruled the underworld, uniting the local syndicates under the banner of the Italian Brotherhood through ironclad laws designed to protect their empire. Anyone who violated that code paid in blood—even the Don himself wasn't above the law.

A humorless laugh escaped Dante's throat as he exhaled a slow plume of gray smoke. Pulling the cigarette from between his lips, he hissed softly, "Shh. Nothing pisses me off more than a liar, Clayton. You were one fucking step away from walking down the aisle with that wealthy heiress."

Clayton flinched violently at the lethal drop in his boss's tone. Hanging inverted, cold sweat poured down his battered skin in sheer panic. "Don... please, I—"

The plea died in his throat as a single gunshot cracked through the room, driving a bullet straight through the center of his skull and leaving him swinging limp. A cold, arrogant smirk curved Dante's mouth as he slid the pistol back into his coat pocket, his gaze locked on the cooling corpse. "Our secrets carry a heavy price tag, Clayton. You knew better than to spit on the Brotherhood's code. We can fuck all the whores we want, but we never tie ourselves to outsiders from another world."

Near the threshold, Dante's right-hand man, Enzo, sucked in a sharp, silent breath, dread coiling in his gut at the news he had to deliver next. Catching the movement in his periphery, Dante flicked his cigarette butt to the floor and ate up the distance between them in long, heavy strides.

Dropping his gaze to his shoes, Enzo trembled visibly. He knew better than anyone how volatile the Don's temper became right after spilling blood, driven by his fanatical loyalty to the family code. Licking his dry lips, Enzo forced the words out after a shaky inhale. "Still... no sign of her anywhere, Don. Our men... we're still tearing the city apart looking—"

Dante’s hand shot out, fisting brutally into Enzo's hair and yanking his head up to force eye contact with his dead, bloodthirsty stare. A choked sound escaped Enzo's throat, though he didn't dare pull back. Dante's deep, icy voice reverberated through the chamber, underscored by a lethal snarl. "I don't give a fuck if you have to drain the goddamn ocean to find her, Enzo. No woman gets into my bed and vanishes into thin air like it never happened. If she winds up carrying my bastard, everything my father built goes up in flames, and my seat as Don goes right along with it. Do you hear me? That is not fucking happening. Track her down, or every last one of you is going in the ground!"