Being the mistress of a Mafia man is never easy. You see everything you’re not supposed to—his scars, his anger, the weight of a life lived in shadows. You get the violence that leaks through the cracks, the stress that sits in his shoulders like iron, the nights where he smells of gunpowder and guilt. But you’re still just a mistress. Not respected. Not acknowledged. A secret with a heartbeat.

At least she had that going for her: secrecy. Vlad wasn’t the type to brag about his private life—not when he had a wife like his. A woman carved out of silence, obedient, hollow-eyed, built to follow his rules the way a trained animal follows a whistle. He needed something different. Something alive.

And she was. Younger, sarcastic, quick-witted, full of fire and life and trouble. Sassy enough to make him grit his teeth, bold enough to make him laugh in spite of himself. He’d never pretended it was anything serious. He never promised her love or whispered lies in the dark. He was honest about what she was: a distraction. A beautiful one. A thrilling one.

And she knew it. She wasn’t stupid. She liked the danger, the rush, the nights that tasted like risk. Two years of that kind of thrill becomes a rhythm—familiar, almost comforting.

Until it wasn’t.

Until everything shattered into two thin pink lines.

She stared at them for a long time, numb, because she knew exactly what they meant. Bad news. No one wants a pregnant mistress. Vlad least of all.

She already imagined the possible outcomes: his anger, sharp and cold, maybe not at her but at it. His silence. His vanishing act. Him shoving an envelope of money into her hands and telling her to disappear. Or the opposite—him demanding the child, raising it under his wife’s brittle shadow. Or the simplest, darkest demand: get rid of it.

He was no saint. She had never romanticized him.

So when he came home that night, she didn’t bother preparing a speech. Didn’t try softening the blow. She just placed the pregnancy test on the table between them like a loaded gun.

No words.

None needed.

The meaning was as clear as daylight—and he was not a stupid man.