Seven Years in Hell: Escaping the Don

Two years after my release from the Moretti family's private psychiatric facility, I was pregnant again.

This time, I didn't make a sound.

After enduring ten months of violent physical rejection and an unanesthetized delivery in an underground clinic, I only had enough strength left to stare with dead eyes.

Even when my husband, Domenico Moretti, swaddled the newborn and lifted him from the bloody sheets without sparing me a single look, I didn't even blink.

Elena was Domenico's untouchable obsession. An accident had stripped her of the ability to bear children. I was chosen to take her place in the Moretti family for one reason: a functioning womb.

Clinging to the cold stone walls, I dragged my shaking body up from the underground clinic. Every step down the endless corridor tore my fresh stitches, warm blood seeping through my thin gown.

Swallowing the blinding pain, I stood before the heavy oak desk of Don Vincenzo, the family patriarch.

"Seven years, Don." My gaze bypassed the obsidian rosary in his hands, settling on his desk. "The contract is done. Let me go."

The clicking of his rosary ceased. The aging Don lifted his heavy eyelids, his gaze tracing my hollow cheeks.

"Don't resent Domenico," he said, his voice dry as dust. "Elena ruined her body to save his life. He takes the children only to give her a reason to keep living in this house."

"I wouldn't dare." I murmured to the floor tiles. "A deal is a deal. My time is up. I've repaid my debt, and now I want my freedom."

Deathly silence filled the study.

After a long moment, Vincenzo let out a heavy sigh. "Are you truly leaving? Three children of your own flesh and blood—can you really walk away from them so ruthlessly?"

A violent shudder snaked up my spine. A bitter, broken smile twisted my lips.

As if I had a choice.

Four years ago, on a storm-swept night, I nearly bled out delivering my second child, Mia.

Domenico, still in his rain-soaked suit, merely gave his men a tilt of his chin, gesturing for them to take the freshly cleaned infant away immediately.

I remember thrashing like a madwoman, fisting the blood-stained sheets as I screamed, "She's my child! Give her back!"

But Domenico only looked down at me, his gray-green eyes holding the mild irritation reserved for a disobedient pet.

"Elena's depression has been severe lately. She needs living flesh and blood to keep her company. You're her sister—why can't you be a little more sensible?" he murmured with chilling detachment. "Be good. Let go. We'll have other children."

"You already gave her Leo as her heir! Isn't that enough?!"

"She wants a daughter. The picture-perfect family."

That was the moment my sanity snapped.

That night, I bit through a guard's wrist, knocked over an IV stand, and fled into the downpour with sleeping Mia clutched to my chest.

Just as I was about to scale the estate gates, a child's voice sliced through the rain.

"Catch that crazy woman! She stole my sister!"

My blood froze in my veins. Whipping around, I saw my eldest son, two-year-old Leo. His young face—a miniature replica of Domenico's—was contorted with terror and utter disgust.

He was the one who had alerted the armed guards.

After that night, Domenico declared I had severe postpartum psychosis and locked me in the family's private asylum.

Tranquilizers. Leather restraints. The ominous hum of the electroshock machine. Volts of electricity tore through my brain until my resistance was completely pulverized.

Even now, the mere thought of my children conjured the phantom taste of charred copper in my clenched jaw.

I had learned the price of defiance.

A rare glint of pity flickered in Don Vincenzo's eyes. "When your father took the fatal fall for the family, I pushed back against the commission to let you marry Domenico to protect you. I never expected it would break you like this. Very well. I'll have the severance papers drawn up. Go to your room."

I dropped to one knee, pressing my lips to his heavy gold ring. Then, dragging my trembling legs, I made my way back to my bedroom.

Pushing the door open, I found Domenico awkwardly rocking the newborn by the window.

Yet, gazing at the bundle in his arms, the notoriously ruthless man wore a rare trace of tenderness.

Hearing the noise, he glanced up. "Elena already picked his name for the christening. Luca."

My nails dug into my palms. Ten months of agonizing gestation, sliced from my flesh, all to provide my noble sister with the fleeting amusement of naming him.

I swallowed the coppery taste in my throat. "The first time, you took Leo because Elena needed an heir. The second time, you took Mia because she wanted the 'perfect' set of a boy and a girl. What's the excuse this time?"

He casually adjusted his hold on the infant. "Elena says Leo has been acting out. She gets lonely and wants a docile baby for company."

He settled onto the sofa with Luca, his sharp gaze locking onto me. "I'm taking him to her room now. Do you want to kiss him goodbye?"

I noticed the familiar tensing of his broad shoulders.

He braced for impact, waiting for me to lunge at him in hysterical despair like I always did. I knew he had his carrot-and-stick routine ready to force me into submission.

But this time, I didn't step forward. I took a half-step back.

"No need," I said, lowering my gaze. "Elena will take good care of him."

Domenico frowned severely. Genuine bewilderment disrupted his icy calm.

"You carried him for ten months, and now you won't even look at him?" He ground his teeth together. "When did you become so utterly heartless?"

"Rest easy," I whispered, my voice fragile as glass. "I swear, I will never try to snatch a child away from my sister again."

Just the memory of the scorching sensation from the asylum made my body surrender on pure instinct. If I made another mistake, I truly wouldn't survive it.

Domenico parted his lips angrily, clearly intending to lash out, but his phone vibrated. Elena's exclusive ringtone.

Answering it, the frost in his eyes thawed instantly. Murmuring coaxing words, he strode toward the door with the baby.

As he crossed the threshold, he paused and glanced back. Perhaps my hollowed-out figure finally stirred a drop of pity in him.

His gaze softened, bestowing a magnanimous favor. "I promise, this is the last time. I'll let you keep the next one."

I didn't even raise my head.

Only when the heavy thud of the lock echoed did the cowardly numbness of seven years strip away. What replaced it was a deadly, ice-tempered stillness.

Reaching deep into the seam of my mattress, I retrieved a rigged communicator and fired off an encrypted directive to my loyalists in North America.

[Prep the jet. Extraction in seven days. I'm coming back to reclaim my seat.]

Domenico would never know this violently ravaged body was no longer capable of producing a "next one."

Seven years of enduring this hell were over. It was time to go.