Leaving Alaska

Enzo

The Bentley’s leather steering wheel glided smoothly beneath my palms as I navigated the descending mountain pass.

I was putting hard miles between myself and the serene sanctuary I had meticulously constructed. The luxury vehicle had cost a fortune, an expense I had easily justified to give Clara the absolute best. Now, the low hum of the finely tuned engine just mocked the quiet jazz filtering through the premium speakers.

The pristine Alaskan landscape blurred outside my window in streaks of green pine and brown earth. I steered us further down the twisting road, heading straight into the city and toward the private airstrip.

I was actively leaving the life I had built from scratch, and I was doing it with the absolute wrong woman sitting in the passenger seat.

Every detail of this world had been pieced together for Clara and me. Yet it only took a single phone call to shred that reality and pull me back into the violence.

*Your father has been killed.*

My mother’s frantic voice echoed in the tight confines of the car, replaying the exact words that had severed my future.

*We don’t know where your brother is. You have to come home.*

She had demanded I come home, completely unaware that I was currently driving away from the only place that felt like one.

"You know."

Bianca’s voice intruded on the silence, dragging my focus away from the winding asphalt.

"I never expected you to fall for such an innocent woman," she remarked.

She watched my profile from across the center console, waiting for a reaction. I kept my mouth firmly shut. Replying would only invite a conversation I had no patience to entertain. My vision remained locked on the treacherous mountain curves ahead.

"But now that you’re free," Bianca continued, refusing to let the silence hold.

She reached across the gap between us, sliding her hand over the leather armrest. Her manicured fingers settled lightly onto my knee. The gesture was practiced, entirely too intimate, and deeply unwelcome.

"We can be together again," she murmured, leaning slightly closer. "Like we were meant to."

I barely kept the steering wheel steady.

"Take your hand off me, Bianca," I ordered, my tone dropping into a hard growl.

Her fingers stalled halfway up my thigh, but she didn't retreat. The sheer heat of her touch felt like an invasive brand against my slacks, sending a wave of absolute revulsion straight through my system.

"I told you to take your hand off," I repeated, turning my head just enough to glare at her hand.

A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she finally pulled back her arm. She shifted in her leather passenger seat, turning her attention to the passing trees outside the window.

"I might not be from a Mafia family," Bianca said, directing her words to the thick glass. "But I know how it works. You don’t get to choose, Enzo. Not like normal people."

My grip tightened around the steering wheel until the leather actually creaked beneath my knuckles. She was entirely correct, and there was absolutely no point in arguing the facts. I was born into the Lucchese syndicate, a bloodline steeped in violence, extortion, and absolute loyalty.

I had walked away, severed my ties, and carved out a quiet existence, but the past had simply bided its time.

The Lucchese godfather was dead. The appointed heir had vanished without a trace.

The entire operation was vulnerable, bleeding out, and completely exposed to rival cartels hungry for territory. Someone had to step in, assume control, and protect my mother and sister from the impending fallout.

"Did she know?" Bianca asked, her voice dipping low to compete with the soft jazz music. "About who you really are?"

For the first time since she climbed into my car, I offered her a direct, honest answer.

"No. I never told her anything."

"And you thought you loved her," Bianca scoffed quietly, shaking her head. "You couldn’t even tell her the truth."

I stared at the road, an old memory surfacing rapidly to block out Bianca's judgment.

Clara had sat across from me in a dimly lit, five-star restaurant. She wore a fitted black sweater that highlighted the stark white-blonde of her hair and the bright blue of her eyes. She had leaned over the linen tablecloth, meeting my gaze and laying her darkest secret bare.

*My parents were killed when I was five,* she had told me, her voice steady. *They said it was a car accident, but I know the truth. Everybody knows the truth. Nobody will admit it.*

I had cautioned her about the danger of speaking truths, but she had trusted me with her history anyway.

*My father refused to treat a Mafia drug lord,* she had confessed.

The words had stopped my breathing cold inside my chest.

*The bastard needed surgery, and my father said no,* Clara had explained, her mouth pulling into a harsh, uncompromising line. *Three days later, my parents’ car went off a bridge.*

She hadn't shed a single tear while she recounted the tragedy. The grief had long since hardened into a fierce, blinding hatred that radiated clearly from her eyes. She sat there with her hands curled into tight fists, completely unaware that she was dining with the direct heir to a criminal empire.

I buried my identity permanently that exact night. I convinced myself I could outrun my bloodline and live as a civilian.

But with my father assassinated and my brother missing, I was the undisputed target. If the rival families discovered Clara’s existence, they would use her to break me. They would torture and murder her just for breathing the same air as a Lucchese.

I had to leave her behind to ensure she stayed alive.

"It’s for the best, Enzo," Bianca said, turning in her seat to flash a placating smile. "You’ll be back where you belong."

Those words landed like lead weights in the pit of my stomach.

A sudden, high-pitched siren pierced the thin mountain air, drowning out whatever I might have said in response. An ambulance rounded the steep curve ahead of us, its tires screeching against the asphalt as it sped recklessly up the mountain in the exact opposite direction.

Clara

Harsh, blinding white light flooded my entire field of vision.

I blinked rapidly against the ceiling, trying to clear the overpowering glare, but the stark brightness refused to fade. Sterile white ceiling panels, pale unblemished walls, and coarse white hospital sheets slowly came into sharp, undeniable focus.

I shifted my right arm and felt the sharp tug of medical tape. An IV needle was securely embedded in the back of my hand, a clear plastic tube connecting it to an electronic monitor chirping rhythmically near my left shoulder.

The hospital. I was lying in a hospital bed.

Fragmented pieces of the afternoon slammed back into my skull with terrifying speed.

The sudden, paralyzing spasm tearing through my lower abdomen. The sheer agony as my balance vanished and my knees gave out against the Mediterranean tile. The beautiful, manicured woman clinging intimately to Enzo’s arm as they walked right out the front door.

My hands flew directly to my stomach, pressing flat and hard against the coarse hospital blanket. A raw, visceral surge of maternal terror hijacked my breathing. Had the violent collapse destroyed the tiny life growing inside me?

The heavy door swung inward.

Owen Mercer walked into the room wearing his standard white medical coat. He was my closest colleague and my most trusted friend on the hospital staff, but his usually warm, easygoing demeanor was entirely absent.

"Owen, what's going on? Why am I here?" I demanded, my voice cracking on the desperate words.

He dragged a metal rolling chair across the tile floor and positioned it right next to the edge of my bed.

"Clara. I’m going to talk you through what happened," Owen instructed, his tone purely clinical and heavily measured. "I need you to keep breathing and stay calm for me, okay?"

The panic in my chest flared hotter, restricting my airways.

"What?" I pushed myself up slightly against the stiff pillows. "Owen, what happened? What aren't you telling me? Did I lose the baby?"

Owen let out a short, hollow exhale that sounded nothing like a genuine laugh.

"No, you didn't."

A massive wave of pure relief crashed through my nervous system, instantly easing the rigid tension gripping my spine.

"But that doesn't mean you should keep it," Owen added quietly.

The relief vanished in a heartbeat, completely replaced by an icy dread that settled heavy and cold in my gut.

"What do you mean?" I asked, staring hard at his face. "What does that mean?"

Owen ran a stressed hand nervously through his thick red curls, breaking his professional facade for a fraction of a second.

"The pregnancy is tenuous at best, Clara," he explained, looking me directly in the eyes. "Your uterine lining is dangerously thin. A spontaneous miscarriage at this stage could severely damage your uterus."

I stared at him, my years of extensive medical training actively fighting against the sheer, blinding panic clouding my brain.

"What does that mean?" I repeated, my voice lifting much higher than I intended.

"It could create permanent scarring," Owen said, his voice lowering with the gravity of the diagnosis. "It could make future pregnancies incredibly difficult."

The sheer, uncompromising weight of the diagnosis settled heavily over me in the quiet room.

"You're saying I might not be able to get pregnant again, if I try to keep this baby," I summarized bluntly.

He nodded grimly, confirming the absolute worst-case scenario.

"Terminating this pregnancy now would protect your body," Owen explained gently. "Without this child, your chances of getting pregnant safely in the future could drastically improve."

He was laying out the cold, undisputed medical reality. I was being asked to choose between this fragile, high-risk pregnancy and the potential for a healthy family down the line. A future family with a decent, honest man who wouldn't abandon me without a word in the middle of our own wedding reception.

Why should I risk my long-term health and my entire future to birth the child of a heartless liar?

I looked down at my hands, which were still resting protectively over my flat stomach. The logic was entirely sound, and the medical advice was textbook perfection, but my maternal instinct violently rejected the math without a single second of hesitation.

I lifted my chin and met Owen’s worried gaze head-on.

"I'm keeping the baby."