My Womb, His Mistress's Heir

Seven months pregnant with the Gambino heir, anxiety was my constant companion. Sleepless one night, I found myself doomscrolling through an anonymous, members-only forum—the kind you need an exclusive invitation to join.

A popular post titled "[Would you let the mafia boss you love experience labor pains?]" caught my eye.

One reply, a mix of photos and text, had been voted to the top. The poster's handle was a simple "C."

[Of course! After my king went through a labor simulator, he swore he’d never put me through that pain. It’s fine, though. We’re about to have our baby anyway.]

Someone below questioned: [If you're not giving birth, where is the child coming from? How can an adopted child inherit the family business?]

"C" replied smugly: [His clueless wife has been trying to conceive for five years and finally got pregnant. I’m just borrowing her womb for my baby. Once the child is born, it’s all mine.]

[She's seven months along. The poor fool is still in the dark, with no idea whose child she’s actually carrying.]

Five years trying to conceive. Seven months pregnant. The parallels were chilling. I knew how hard it was to protect a child in a family built on lies and betrayal.

A cold fury coiled in my gut. How could anyone be so shameless?

I kept scrolling until a 4D ultrasound photo, paired with a close-up of a man's hand, made my blood run cold.

My breath hitched. The photo showed a man's hand. On his ring finger was the griffin-embossed ring I had personally designed for Vinny—a bespoke anniversary gift. There wasn't another one like it in all of New York.

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1

It all clicked into place. I’d never seen a hint of myself in the ultrasound photos, and I’d always felt a bizarre disconnect from the baby growing inside me.

I scrambled to "C's" profile and clicked on her most-liked post.

[Documenting the wild night he gave me.]

The photo only showed a man's broad back, but I still spotted a damning detail.

Three faint red scratches marred his bare back—marks I knew my own nails had left during a rare moment of intimacy the night before.

My heart seized as if gripped by an icy hand, the breath catching in my throat. I clutched my belly, gasping for air.

No wonder Vinny was so resistant whenever I mentioned attending prenatal birthing classes.

It turned out all his tenderness was being saved for another woman.

He knew childbirth could kill a woman.

So he was borrowing my body, my womb, to give his mistress an heir.

The comment section of this anonymous community had already exploded, with many insiders clearly watching the drama unfold.

[Upvote this! This has to be Gambino family drama! Is she seriously carrying a baby for some Bellini bastard?]

[Even if the child is born, it's impossible for it to be given to her. An illegitimate daughter can never be officially acknowledged.]

[I really feel for that Rossi girl. She’s already seven months along; for the sake of the family alliance, she’d never be able to bring herself to abort it.]

"C" shot back at the comments, her arrogance on full display.

[So what if she sees it? Her health is fragile, and she's seven months along. If she terminates now, she'll never be able to have children again.]

[No need for your concern. Vinny said she's quit her job to focus on the pregnancy. Once the baby's weaned, he'll get rid of her.]

[The divorce will be easy. She has this obsession with emotional fidelity. Add a little postpartum depression to the mix, and she’ll walk away on her own.]

The smug gloating practically leaped off the screen.

She was right. I demand absolute fidelity and cannot tolerate any betrayal, especially one born from such a dirty scheme.

The severe symptoms of my third trimester had already forced me to pause my work as an art restorer, a sacrifice that was causing me immense stress.

I was, indeed, a prime candidate for postpartum depression.

[Keep seething. The only reason she couldn’t get pregnant for five years was because I wasn’t done with him yet.]

[All those expensive, custom-made vitamins she was taking? Vinny swapped them for birth control pills.]

I yanked open the drawer and stared at the vitamin bottle from our family doctor.

Could it be true? Were they really just birth control?

Desperate, I called a man loyal to my father and had him rush the pills to a private lab for testing.

I stared intently at my phone screen, waiting for the latest reply to that post.

Perhaps it was dinnertime, as "C" went quiet.

No matter how viciously others cursed her, she didn't reappear.

I gently caressed my swollen abdomen.

For this heir of the Gambino family, I had endured countless shots to prevent miscarriage, and my feet were so swollen they couldn't fit into high heels.

I couldn't just give up on this baby because of some anonymous post.

My mind was a maelstrom, a hundred frantic thoughts crashing into one another.

Should I confront Vinny right now?

But I had no concrete evidence. He would just dismiss it as pregnancy-induced paranoia, or worse, turn it around and accuse me of distrusting the family.

Suddenly, a new update with a photo popped up under the post.

[Stop being so sour, everyone. My king just cooked me a feast. He’s taking time out of his busy schedule to eat with me, so he has no time for any of you.]

The table of food in the photo was exquisitely plated; one look and I knew it was Vinny's handiwork.

I dialed his number, but he declined my call again and again.

A message popped up on the encrypted communication app. It was Vinny.

Lena, I just finished negotiations with the dockworkers' union. I got you your favorite food.

Home in half an hour.

I stared at the antique clock on the wall, counting the time second by second.

Thirty minutes later, the sound of the keypad lock clicked outside the door.

"Lena, come and eat. It's all your favorite."

When I smelled the foreign perfume clinging to him and saw the takeout container in his hand, the life inside me seemed to recoil from the chill that enveloped my heart.