No Grave for the Donna

In the fifth year of my marriage to Julian Volkov, the Don of Chicago, I became pregnant.

Julian and I were ecstatic, but at five months, I suffered a miscarriage. My private doctor claimed it was a rare complication.

I couldn't bear the news and fainted. Even the ever-stoic Don shed tears, and I thought his devastation mirrored my own.

Until I accidentally overheard a conversation between him and his Consigliere.

"Don, why are you burying the toxicology report? Eleanora clearly ingested an alkaloid poison. Why aren't we hunting down whoever did this?" Cian's voice was tight with confusion.

"This ends here." Julian's voice was thick with suppressed anguish. "It was Scarlett. She… she accidentally mixed the poison into Eleanora’s supplements. She’s had severe psychological trauma since she took that bullet for me three years ago. She can’t tell the difference between those substances..."

"She was only trying to help, to make Eleanora stronger, to make me happy. But if the Elders find out, they will execute Scarlett for murdering the heir to the Volkov family."

Ever since Scarlett saved his life three years ago and moved into our home with a slew of so-called “aftereffects,” she had brazenly consumed our lives.

On stormy nights, she would slink into Julian’s bed wearing a translucent silk nightgown, crying that she was scared, forcing him to hold her all night while I was banished to the guest room.

He always said Scarlett was psychologically scarred, a fragile patient. He treated her as someone who needed protection and told me to be tolerant.

Fine. You love your Scarlett so much? Then I’ll grant your wish.

I picked up the encrypted satellite phone I hadn't touched in five years. "I regret it. I'm ready to come back and claim what is rightfully mine. Come and get me tomorrow."

But when I truly vanished, that once-invincible Don shattered his precious Scarlett with his own hands and begged me to return.

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1

Five months into my pregnancy, I suffered a miscarriage. My private doctor informed me it was a natural occurrence, the result of a rare complication.

My husband, Julian, clutched my hand, his face etched with grief, his voice hoarse. "Darling, we can try again. We'll have another one."

The news was too much. I fainted.

But when I awoke, I overheard a conversation through the slightly ajar door of my hospital room. It was Julian and his Consigliere, Cian.

"Don, why are you hiding the toxicology report from the doctor? Eleanora clearly ingested an alkaloid poison. Why aren't we hunting down whoever did this?" Cian’s voice was strained with confusion.

"We can't investigate." Julian's voice was thick with a pain he was trying to choke down. "It was Scarlett. She… she accidentally put the poison in Eleanora's supplements."

Cian drew a sharp breath. "Her? Is she insane?"

"She didn't mean it." Julian began speaking faster, trying to convince Cian—or maybe himself. "She hasn't been right since she took that bullet for me. Her mind is fragile now. You know this, Cian."

"She was just trying to help with the supplements today. She mixed up the poison with the nutrients. She thought it was something beneficial; she just wanted to make Eleanora better, to make me happy."

Listening to his absurd defense, I stared at the ceiling as hatred coiled in my gut.

That particular alkaloid poison was colorless and odorless, but its storage requirements were draconian. How could anyone mistake it for a nutritional supplement?

Cian clearly didn't buy it either. "Don, that's a hell of a stretch. That stuff—"

"Enough!" Julian snapped, his tone brutal. "If the Elders find out, they won't listen to a single excuse. They'll execute Scarlett for murdering the Volkov heir."

"She saved my life. If it wasn't for her, I'd be dead. I won't stand by and watch her die."

"This ends now. The official story is an accident, due to Eleanora’s health. As for the child… we can always have another."

We can always have another.

That single sentence snuffed out the last ember of warmth I held for him.

Scarlett saved his life. I understood his need to repay that debt, but was that reason enough to sacrifice me? To sacrifice our child?

On what grounds?

Ever since he brought Scarlett to the estate three years ago, our marriage had devolved into a three-person farce.

Using her "PTSD" as a shield, Scarlett had invaded every corner of our lives.

On stormy nights, she would climb into his bed wearing one of Julian’s silk shirts, the garment so large it slid off her shoulders, crying that she was scared and forcing him to hold her all night while I was banished to the guest room.

He always said Scarlett was psychologically scarred and emotionally unstable, a patient in need of care. He treated her like a wounded animal he had to protect and told me to tolerate her behavior.

When I was restoring a priceless classical oil painting, she would "accidentally" spill turpentine over it, destroying months of my work, then blink her wide, innocent eyes and claim she was only trying to help.

Julian would just pat her head with feigned helplessness, then turn to scowl at me. "She didn't mean it. Don't stoop to her level. It's just a painting."

Six months ago, on our wedding anniversary, Julian booked the finest restaurant in the city for us.

Scarlett suddenly had an "episode," smashing everything in her suite and cutting herself with the fragments.

Julian abandoned me without a second thought, rushing back to hold her until dawn.

I sat alone in that restaurant until it closed. He never sent a single text.

And I had tolerated it all.

I thought he loved me. I thought his feelings for Scarlett were merely gratitude and a sense of duty.

Even when she pushed things too far, he would hold me afterward, murmuring apologies, saying he couldn't turn his back on the woman who saved his life.

But my tolerance had finally snapped.

I forced myself to sit up, retrieving the encrypted satellite phone I hadn't used in five years.

Julian had no idea I was the sole heir to the Sterling Syndicate.

Five years ago, I had defied my family, insisting on marrying the then-unproven Julian Volkov.

My brother, Maximilian, had once jabbed a finger in my face, his voice laced with fury as he warned that love had blinded me and I would one day regret it.

I had believed with all my heart that Julian was a man who would die for me.

To prove my devotion, I cut all ties with my family. I stayed by his side in this city, helping him claw his way from nothing to the throne of Don.

It seemed Maximilian was right after all.

I was a complete and utter fool.

My trembling fingers dialed my brother's number.

The call connected on the first ring.

A commanding voice answered, laced with a tremor of contained excitement.

"Eleanora? Is that you?"

It was my brother, Maximilian, the current head of the Sterling Syndicate.

"You were right," I said, my voice flat and cold. "I regret it. I'm ready to come back. Come and get me tomorrow."